From the collection: Murder at Thompson Bog
Episode 2
Randy Turner had been in love with Dana since he first saw her in history class. When his folks moved to the city, he changed schools and Dana took up with Mike. Randy hadn't seen her since. Now he was lying beside her all sweaty and warm. He felt as if he had completed something, like he could strike an item off of a list and move on with his life, now that it was complete. He had wanted to bed her since junior year; now he had.
But the front door opening made them both sit up. They didn't look at each other, they jumped up in different directions. Randy scooped up his tighty-whities from the floor and put them on, then his shirt. He looked for his jeans, then remembered he had left them in the living room. He picked up his boots and one sock. The other one wasn't within his field of vision and he wasn't going to waste valuable time looking.
Dana had thrown on her cleaning shift and ran out to cut off her husband, closing the bedroom door behind her.
“You're all sweaty and I'm in the middle of cleaning our bathroom.” Dana said, pushing him away before he could smell another man's cologne on her. “Go on into the other shower and get cleaned up before you even try to kiss me.”
When the door closed and the shower could be heard running, Randy Turner came out of the bedroom with his boots in his hand. He grabbed the jeans from the back of the couch and pulled them on, trying not to make a noise or fall down. He barely got them zipped when Dana motioned to him from the front door.
“Go!” she whispered, and she pushed him out, closing the door behind him.
Randy Turner wasted no time running, barefoot and holding his boots, to his dusty gray Honda up on the road. He jumped in, pulled the visor down and caught his keys in his right hand. Randy pulled out into the lane, thankful that it was a quiet Saturday afternoon and not a busy weekday. He was hoping none of the neighbors had seen him leave. He wondered if anyone had witnessed their innocent meeting at the book store or the way they warmed up to each other at the coffee shop next door. He hoped none of Mike's friends observed one thing leading to another until they fell into bed, heaving and sweating, entwined like grapevines.
Randy Turner pulled the up to the curb in front of his small townhouse, turned off the engine and sat, staring out of the windshield. Once inside the house, he threw down his boots, flopped on the couch and reflected on the mess he had made of things. “But at least,” he thought, “I got out of there without getting caught.”
Still it didn't feel right. He didn't feel right. Even his pants didn't feel right. There was a lump in his jeans that didn't make sense. He felt the front pocket and found a set of keys ― truck keys, and a house key. Randy could feel the blood drain from his face. These were not his jeans!
When Mike came in, he had in a long, dusty case from the garage. In the case was a rifle. He was one of the few residents of Shady Point who did not have a firearm handy, but that changed now, he had his old rifle in the house. He opened a box of .22 shells, pulled the bolt, loaded a shell into the chamber and closed the bolt. Dana heard the sound. She shuddered to hear it.
“Sooner or later,” he said, calmly to the bedroom door, “you will tell me who he is. Then I'll kill him.”
The locksmith charged triple to come out on a Sunday. Mike didn't care.
“Double-key, I want to be able to lock the door from both sides,” he said.
“Sure, no problem,” replied the locksmith.
Mike sat in the large, central living room, with a glass of whiskey in his hand, keeping an eye on every door and window, in case the culprit should come back to speak to his wife. He doubted the man would show up at the door to return his wallet and keys.
“I'm sorry,” Mike imagined him saying, “I got your jeans by mistake when I was stumbling over myself getting out of your house after banging your wife.” Yeah, Mike could just imagine that apology going down.
“All done,” said the locksmith.
Mike stood by the door watching the locksmith drive away. He closed the door and locked it with his new key. “No one's getting in – or out – of this house now,” he thought.
“Harry,” Mike told his boss on Monday morning, “I'm taking some time. I've got leave coming, so I'm taking it.”
“Everything OK, Mike? Is Dana OK?”
“I'll get back to you on that.”
“Well if there's anything I can do...”
“Thanks, Harry. I'll let you know.”
Mike hung up the phone. The call was a courtesy to Harry; Mike didn't care about the job – not anymore. He still had on the same khaki pants and shirt. He had slept on the couch in them. He nibbled at snacks, but wasn't hungry. He hadn't drunk much of the whiskey, most of it was left. He wasn't drowning his sorrow, he was numb to it.
If he had thought about it, he would have wondered if Dana was hungry, but he didn't think about it. He didn't think about her at all.
At nine, he showered in the guest bathroom. He heard Dana moving about the house. When he came out, he saw the bedroom door open; Dana was not in sight. Mike went into the bedroom, dressed in clean slacks and a shirt and left for the bank; without his wallet, there were arrangements to make.
Upon his return, Mike found Sheriff Willis waiting for him outside the house. Sheriff Willis had caught Mike and Dana necking after the prom a few years back, warned Mike not to drive drunk at his bachelor party and later, attended their wedding in his only fitting suit. Now he was at their door in his uniform.
“Dana tells me you've locked her in,” said Sheriff Willis.
“I locked the door to keep strangers out. If she was inside when I did it, then there you are.”
Mike took out his house key and went to the front door. He opened it to find Dana standing there in blue jeans, cloth shoes and a large, cable-knit sweater. She had been crying. She wore no makeup and her hair was pulled back into a hasty pony-tail. She looked terrified.
Sheriff Willis stepped through the door and looked from Mike to Dana.
“Doors open, Dana,” said Mike. “If you want to leave, no one's stopping you. There is one thing I'd like to know: the name of your lover.”
Dana turned pale as fear overcame embarrassment. Sheriff Willis looked from her to Mike, sizing up what he had to deal with. Dana ran past them out of the door, up the drive and onto the road.
“Let me talk with her. Maybe I can help you sort this out,” said Willis.
“If she won't tell me, I'll find out sooner or later,” said Mike, throwing the keys on the counter. “Until then, she can stay out there for all I care.”
“Mike, don't do anything hasty. Let this simmer some, you and Dana have a good thing going. Don't let one stupid mistake screw it up.”
Mike just looked at the sheriff with lowered eyes, tight lips and clenched fists. It was plain that the conversation was over.
All through the night, Mike's demons danced through his head, keeping him only half asleep. His jeans, his house, his wife; his anger. The man had taken his wallet and keys. He could steal his truck anytime, but he couldn't get into the house, not anymore. He could still get into his wife, though, wherever she was. So what! He didn't care anymore. He was cold and numb. Priorities had shifted.
Friday, August 7, 2009
Sunday, August 2, 2009
Health Care – Yes! Mental Parity – No!
Dear Mr. President,
What has not been mentioned in the debates about mental health, because there are those who don't want it mentioned for fear that we will realize that the wool is being pulled over our eyes, is Mental Health Parity. MHP (ask your doctor if heavy drugs are right for you) is the mistaken belief that a medical doctor and a psychiatrist are the same, that a broken leg and a feeling of depression are equal.
The medical health world has tests and cures. You check this, you see that, you drink this bottle, you're cured. The mental health world has no tests; there are only hunches, best guesses and things that certain chosen ones agree should be what a certain thing should be called. The names change. Schizophrenia is not Bi-Polar, but not quite. There are invented names, RLS – Restless Leg Syndrome, PPD, Postpartum Depression – which, incidentally, can be handled hundreds of ways which involve no drugs. I could go on, but you are the President and your time is valuable.
Two outlandish lies become glaringly obvious if you look closely, which is why mentioning it in the debates is frowned upon. One is that the whole end product of the mental health industry is to sell drugs, not to heal the sick. The end game is profit, not wellness. Water is more effective than Prozac, with no side effects. Chocolate is a better treatment for depression than any drug on the market. The second lie is that anything gets cured. As there are no tests, there is no test for a patient being well. When a student goes crazy from his medication and shoots his classroom pals, the doctors say he needed more medication or different medication, or he went off his medication – meaning you should take it for the rest of your life. There are plans in place to screen every new mother, every student, and to put those who have a disorder on drugs. There's a defiant disorder, like when your teen doesn't want to clean her room – if you want to sell drugs, everything's a disorder. The Big Pharma companies want every man, woman and child, even your pet, on drugs for life – at seven times the cost of any other country.
Psychiatrists admit that there is no cure and no way to test for a cure, just as there is no way to test for the disorder. It's all opinion and “what do we have to do to sell drugs?” So to place “Mental Health” on an equal par with “Physical Health” is like comparing apples and albatrosses. The drug companies and those who make a fortune dispensing their poisons are hoping it will pass with parity because then they can insist that people see a shrink and take the drugs. It will then be law that they have to take the drugs, that the average person will have to pay for the psychiatric research to find new and more serious mental disorders for which they just found the “cure” in the form of a new pill – that you can get for only a small king's ransom.
In short, Health Plan? Yes! Mental Health Parity – No! Mental health, of which the great proliferation of drug ads on television is just a symptom, is one of the biggest frauds ever perpetrated on this country. If you give it legitimacy, you also give a death sentence for the sanity of this country.
Jon Batson
Raleigh, NC
What has not been mentioned in the debates about mental health, because there are those who don't want it mentioned for fear that we will realize that the wool is being pulled over our eyes, is Mental Health Parity. MHP (ask your doctor if heavy drugs are right for you) is the mistaken belief that a medical doctor and a psychiatrist are the same, that a broken leg and a feeling of depression are equal.
The medical health world has tests and cures. You check this, you see that, you drink this bottle, you're cured. The mental health world has no tests; there are only hunches, best guesses and things that certain chosen ones agree should be what a certain thing should be called. The names change. Schizophrenia is not Bi-Polar, but not quite. There are invented names, RLS – Restless Leg Syndrome, PPD, Postpartum Depression – which, incidentally, can be handled hundreds of ways which involve no drugs. I could go on, but you are the President and your time is valuable.
Two outlandish lies become glaringly obvious if you look closely, which is why mentioning it in the debates is frowned upon. One is that the whole end product of the mental health industry is to sell drugs, not to heal the sick. The end game is profit, not wellness. Water is more effective than Prozac, with no side effects. Chocolate is a better treatment for depression than any drug on the market. The second lie is that anything gets cured. As there are no tests, there is no test for a patient being well. When a student goes crazy from his medication and shoots his classroom pals, the doctors say he needed more medication or different medication, or he went off his medication – meaning you should take it for the rest of your life. There are plans in place to screen every new mother, every student, and to put those who have a disorder on drugs. There's a defiant disorder, like when your teen doesn't want to clean her room – if you want to sell drugs, everything's a disorder. The Big Pharma companies want every man, woman and child, even your pet, on drugs for life – at seven times the cost of any other country.
Psychiatrists admit that there is no cure and no way to test for a cure, just as there is no way to test for the disorder. It's all opinion and “what do we have to do to sell drugs?” So to place “Mental Health” on an equal par with “Physical Health” is like comparing apples and albatrosses. The drug companies and those who make a fortune dispensing their poisons are hoping it will pass with parity because then they can insist that people see a shrink and take the drugs. It will then be law that they have to take the drugs, that the average person will have to pay for the psychiatric research to find new and more serious mental disorders for which they just found the “cure” in the form of a new pill – that you can get for only a small king's ransom.
In short, Health Plan? Yes! Mental Health Parity – No! Mental health, of which the great proliferation of drug ads on television is just a symptom, is one of the biggest frauds ever perpetrated on this country. If you give it legitimacy, you also give a death sentence for the sanity of this country.
Jon Batson
Raleigh, NC
I hope he fails – and by 'he' I mean Rush.
I voted for the other guy. But say what you will, after the dust had settled, the other guy is not in the oval office. The guy who is now running things is my president and I will stand behind him. While I do not agree with everything he is doing and has done, I also don't have all the facts, so it's a moot point and not one I'm going to debate here. No, here my only point is that Rush Limbaugh said on radio for all to hear, “I hope he fails!” Well, I don't. For that and many other thoughtless statements, I hope Rush fails.
If President Obama fails, the implications will resound for decades to come, but it will also resound today for you and for me. If he fails, the economy fails, the major companies fail and an awful lot of minor companies will fail. I have held opinions that bailing out people who already get billion dollar bonuses is wrong. But I hope he proves me wrong. I hope he succeeds and the economy recovers. I hope we enter into an era of prosperity hitherto unknown and that everyone who, like me, voted for the other guy says to himself, “Boy! Was I wrong! The guy succeeded!”
So you might be saying that I sound like one of those “My president, right or wrong” guys. Perhaps that's what I've become. I want his decisions, his programs, his leadership to be spot-on the money each and every time. Sure, I've heard all the nay-sayers before and after the election, all the junk shooting around the Internet, all the “proof-positive” about this, that and the other – and if he screws up, there will be a lot of very smug people folding their arms and saying that they told us so. I hope they never get the chance. For one thing, I hate that! But I hope they never get the chance because I hope he doesn't screw up, I hope the economy recovers and we bring the troops home victorious and that the nations of the world will come to love us and a hundred other things that were impossible but a few months ago.
Call me a cock-eyed optimist, but I want our President to succeed beyond our wildest expectations. May healthcare be easy, cheap and fun, yet rewarding for the practitioners. May the economy spur a new era of growth and well-being for all, with jobs and opportunities a-plenty. May art and music flourish, may other nations see the goodness in us and seek to emulate us, creating a world-wide prosperity boom. May there be peace on Earth, without everyone dying in order to achieve it. I hope he succeeds.
If President Obama fails, the implications will resound for decades to come, but it will also resound today for you and for me. If he fails, the economy fails, the major companies fail and an awful lot of minor companies will fail. I have held opinions that bailing out people who already get billion dollar bonuses is wrong. But I hope he proves me wrong. I hope he succeeds and the economy recovers. I hope we enter into an era of prosperity hitherto unknown and that everyone who, like me, voted for the other guy says to himself, “Boy! Was I wrong! The guy succeeded!”
So you might be saying that I sound like one of those “My president, right or wrong” guys. Perhaps that's what I've become. I want his decisions, his programs, his leadership to be spot-on the money each and every time. Sure, I've heard all the nay-sayers before and after the election, all the junk shooting around the Internet, all the “proof-positive” about this, that and the other – and if he screws up, there will be a lot of very smug people folding their arms and saying that they told us so. I hope they never get the chance. For one thing, I hate that! But I hope they never get the chance because I hope he doesn't screw up, I hope the economy recovers and we bring the troops home victorious and that the nations of the world will come to love us and a hundred other things that were impossible but a few months ago.
Call me a cock-eyed optimist, but I want our President to succeed beyond our wildest expectations. May healthcare be easy, cheap and fun, yet rewarding for the practitioners. May the economy spur a new era of growth and well-being for all, with jobs and opportunities a-plenty. May art and music flourish, may other nations see the goodness in us and seek to emulate us, creating a world-wide prosperity boom. May there be peace on Earth, without everyone dying in order to achieve it. I hope he succeeds.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
The Short Story Episodes Continue
It's nearly August and the long, hot summer continues. The economy is on everyone's mind. Some pundits say the recession is over, but we're not sure if we can survive the recovery.
Midnight Whistler Publishing marches on, and in future weeks will endeavor to bring you hopeful words from author Beverly Eakman and founder, Jon Batson - being me.
For now, let me say that the only thing you can really count on is you and your own ability to make things go right in spite of everything.
The short stories will continue, but not here. For that, please go to my personal blog, http://jonbatson.blogspot.com. The first episode of the next story, Scandal at Shady Point, is up today.
Midnight Whistler Publishing marches on, and in future weeks will endeavor to bring you hopeful words from author Beverly Eakman and founder, Jon Batson - being me.
For now, let me say that the only thing you can really count on is you and your own ability to make things go right in spite of everything.
The short stories will continue, but not here. For that, please go to my personal blog, http://jonbatson.blogspot.com. The first episode of the next story, Scandal at Shady Point, is up today.
Friday, July 24, 2009
Luna Nightmares
From the collection: Murder at Thompson Bog
Episode 7
At the arraignment, I plead guilty. A murmur was heard behind me. I didn't turn. I knew who was there. Alice was there. The kids were not. They were with their grandmother, Ted's mom, who was home crying.
The judge struck his gavel and the room got quiet. He spoke. I didn't hear it. I'm sure he said something, but I have no idea what he actually said. I knew more or less what he said, that I would be going away for 25 years to life for premeditated murder. Somehow, the fact that I had lost everything didn't hit me, either that or I just didn't care. I had lost most of it anyway.
The guard lead me from the table to the door off to one side. I couldn't help a last glance over my shoulder at Alice, standing to leave the courtroom. Her face was contorted with pain and she cried out to me, “Why?” The guard tugged at my arm and Alice turned to go through the large double doors. I replied, though she could not hear me, “Because I love you and the kids.”
The sign on the wall by the dispensary says, “Now accepting test subjects for a new anti-depressant, Lunaxypryn. Sign up at the dispensary.”
“Unless I'm mistaken, that's pure Luna-C,” I mutter.
The sign-up sheet is on the table, a pen on a chain next to it. I pick up the pen. Before I can write, a hand reaches out and takes mine. It's an old man, short with wire glasses. His prison grays are starched stiff and look new, though I know he has been there a long time.
“They'll make you sign a waver. Last two tests they did every subject died. They covered it up, called it a construction accident. The first one wasn't pretty. The second was quieter, but those guys are still dead.”
I shrug my shoulders, as if 'so what'. The old guy lets go of my hand. He backs off, distancing himself from the crazy man who is putting his name on the paper of certain death.
I feel something I had not felt in a long time, a smile. I'm smiling. Ted and I engineered Luna-A, then Luna-B and finally Luna-C. Now I will get to see if it works or if it'll have similar results. Secretly I hope it will have the same result as Luna-A, so I will get to experience what Ted did in his last minute. I would like a painful and wretched death. But just as much I hope it's a Luna-B death, so I could just slip off quietly. Either way, I know that I have been the engineer of my own fate and that my nightmare will soon be over.
The End
Episode 7
At the arraignment, I plead guilty. A murmur was heard behind me. I didn't turn. I knew who was there. Alice was there. The kids were not. They were with their grandmother, Ted's mom, who was home crying.
The judge struck his gavel and the room got quiet. He spoke. I didn't hear it. I'm sure he said something, but I have no idea what he actually said. I knew more or less what he said, that I would be going away for 25 years to life for premeditated murder. Somehow, the fact that I had lost everything didn't hit me, either that or I just didn't care. I had lost most of it anyway.
The guard lead me from the table to the door off to one side. I couldn't help a last glance over my shoulder at Alice, standing to leave the courtroom. Her face was contorted with pain and she cried out to me, “Why?” The guard tugged at my arm and Alice turned to go through the large double doors. I replied, though she could not hear me, “Because I love you and the kids.”
The sign on the wall by the dispensary says, “Now accepting test subjects for a new anti-depressant, Lunaxypryn. Sign up at the dispensary.”
“Unless I'm mistaken, that's pure Luna-C,” I mutter.
The sign-up sheet is on the table, a pen on a chain next to it. I pick up the pen. Before I can write, a hand reaches out and takes mine. It's an old man, short with wire glasses. His prison grays are starched stiff and look new, though I know he has been there a long time.
“They'll make you sign a waver. Last two tests they did every subject died. They covered it up, called it a construction accident. The first one wasn't pretty. The second was quieter, but those guys are still dead.”
I shrug my shoulders, as if 'so what'. The old guy lets go of my hand. He backs off, distancing himself from the crazy man who is putting his name on the paper of certain death.
I feel something I had not felt in a long time, a smile. I'm smiling. Ted and I engineered Luna-A, then Luna-B and finally Luna-C. Now I will get to see if it works or if it'll have similar results. Secretly I hope it will have the same result as Luna-A, so I will get to experience what Ted did in his last minute. I would like a painful and wretched death. But just as much I hope it's a Luna-B death, so I could just slip off quietly. Either way, I know that I have been the engineer of my own fate and that my nightmare will soon be over.
The End
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Luna Nightmares
From the collection: Murder at Thompson Bog
Episode 6
Ted opened the door, “Phil? What's up?”
“You know,” I was thinking fast but talking slow, I hadn't thought this through. “I'm just perplexed by this whole thing and I thought, you know, that we have, you know,” I realized that I had said 'you know' three times in a sentence. “that we don't spend any down-time together. We used to do that, and I thought it would be a good idea ...” My eyes fell on a cut-glass decanter of Scotch on the counter, “... if we could just have a drink together...” I looked at Ted, an innocent smile crossing my face. Ted just looked back at me. It seemed like an hour, but it was only a few seconds before he spoke.
“Sure, Phil, it's a little early for me, but I have no plans, so why not. I'll get us a glass.” Ted took out two short glasses with heavy, cut-glass bottoms. They were part of the set with the decanter. He poured two of what I knew to be first class Scotch and added water from a bottle in the fridge. As he opened the fridge door to return the bottle to the shelf inside, I emptied the pink envelope into Ted's glass. I watched the few tiny crystals disappear into the Scotch.
“Here's to a successful test and a popular product,” I said, lifting my glass.
“I'll drink to that,” responded Ted, drinking half the glass in a gulp. I drank as well, looking around for something to take the attention off of the glass, just in case there was a taste.
“Have you redone the kitchen?”
“Nope. It's the same as the last time you were here.”
“Hmm! That was Thanksgiving...” I realized that I had brought up a memory of Carol and decided to stop there. “Well, I must have forgotten what it looked like, you keep it so nice, it looks new.” I smiled, taking another sip.
Ted finished his drink on that cue. We stood there regarding each other. Then Ted got a look on his face; he stiffened, moving his hand to his belly. His face questioned what he felt, then the answer was written in his eyes. Ted looked straight at me. His mouth opened. I expected him to ask, 'What have you done?' but he didn't, he just gagged and his eyes lost focus.
Ted convulsed and fell on the floor, writhing out of control. I stepped back, giving him room to flail against the floor and cabinets. He spat up some ugly, colorless gunk and jerked to a stop. His arms and legs, hands and feet were all at right angles; his fingers splayed. Ted spasmed once, twice, a third time and then released across the floor, completely limp. The eyes were open.
Standing there, watching my friend of so many years, I couldn't help but feel that this was the right thing to do. In his front pocket, I pulled the paper, torn from the pad at work, with a corner missing. It said, “I love you and the kids.” It was exactly like my dream, only it was Ted on the floor, not his wife and kids. I reached into his shirt pocket and took out the blue envelope.
“Ted? Are you home?” sang Alice, coming in the front door. I ran to stop her from coming into the kitchen. She was surprised to see me. “Phil! Uh, how nice to see you. You haven't visited in a while. Where's Ted?”
“Alice, you've got to go upstairs.”
“What are you talking about?” Alice gave a shallow laugh, then became afraid. “What's going on? Where's Ted?”
“Alice, just go upstairs now. Everything will be all right, but I need you to go upstairs right now.” A noise at the door revealed my worst fear, the kids were with her. “Alice, go upstairs and take the kids. Please!”
“Phil, you're scaring me.”
“Go! Now!” I cried.
“Tyler, Spencer, come with mommy.” Alice reached her hands for her children and lead them upstairs, her face pale, her eyes wide with fright.
There was only one thing for me to do; go to the phone and dial 911.
“911 Operator,” said a male voice.
“I've just killed my best friend,” I told him.
Episode 6
Ted opened the door, “Phil? What's up?”
“You know,” I was thinking fast but talking slow, I hadn't thought this through. “I'm just perplexed by this whole thing and I thought, you know, that we have, you know,” I realized that I had said 'you know' three times in a sentence. “that we don't spend any down-time together. We used to do that, and I thought it would be a good idea ...” My eyes fell on a cut-glass decanter of Scotch on the counter, “... if we could just have a drink together...” I looked at Ted, an innocent smile crossing my face. Ted just looked back at me. It seemed like an hour, but it was only a few seconds before he spoke.
“Sure, Phil, it's a little early for me, but I have no plans, so why not. I'll get us a glass.” Ted took out two short glasses with heavy, cut-glass bottoms. They were part of the set with the decanter. He poured two of what I knew to be first class Scotch and added water from a bottle in the fridge. As he opened the fridge door to return the bottle to the shelf inside, I emptied the pink envelope into Ted's glass. I watched the few tiny crystals disappear into the Scotch.
“Here's to a successful test and a popular product,” I said, lifting my glass.
“I'll drink to that,” responded Ted, drinking half the glass in a gulp. I drank as well, looking around for something to take the attention off of the glass, just in case there was a taste.
“Have you redone the kitchen?”
“Nope. It's the same as the last time you were here.”
“Hmm! That was Thanksgiving...” I realized that I had brought up a memory of Carol and decided to stop there. “Well, I must have forgotten what it looked like, you keep it so nice, it looks new.” I smiled, taking another sip.
Ted finished his drink on that cue. We stood there regarding each other. Then Ted got a look on his face; he stiffened, moving his hand to his belly. His face questioned what he felt, then the answer was written in his eyes. Ted looked straight at me. His mouth opened. I expected him to ask, 'What have you done?' but he didn't, he just gagged and his eyes lost focus.
Ted convulsed and fell on the floor, writhing out of control. I stepped back, giving him room to flail against the floor and cabinets. He spat up some ugly, colorless gunk and jerked to a stop. His arms and legs, hands and feet were all at right angles; his fingers splayed. Ted spasmed once, twice, a third time and then released across the floor, completely limp. The eyes were open.
Standing there, watching my friend of so many years, I couldn't help but feel that this was the right thing to do. In his front pocket, I pulled the paper, torn from the pad at work, with a corner missing. It said, “I love you and the kids.” It was exactly like my dream, only it was Ted on the floor, not his wife and kids. I reached into his shirt pocket and took out the blue envelope.
“Ted? Are you home?” sang Alice, coming in the front door. I ran to stop her from coming into the kitchen. She was surprised to see me. “Phil! Uh, how nice to see you. You haven't visited in a while. Where's Ted?”
“Alice, you've got to go upstairs.”
“What are you talking about?” Alice gave a shallow laugh, then became afraid. “What's going on? Where's Ted?”
“Alice, just go upstairs now. Everything will be all right, but I need you to go upstairs right now.” A noise at the door revealed my worst fear, the kids were with her. “Alice, go upstairs and take the kids. Please!”
“Phil, you're scaring me.”
“Go! Now!” I cried.
“Tyler, Spencer, come with mommy.” Alice reached her hands for her children and lead them upstairs, her face pale, her eyes wide with fright.
There was only one thing for me to do; go to the phone and dial 911.
“911 Operator,” said a male voice.
“I've just killed my best friend,” I told him.
Luna Nightmares
From the collection: Murder at Thompson Bog
Episode 6
Ted opened the door, “Phil? What's up?”
“You know,” I was thinking fast but talking slow, I hadn't thought this through. “I'm just perplexed by this whole thing and I thought, you know, that we have, you know,” I realized that I had said 'you know' three times in a sentence. “that we don't spend any down-time together. We used to do that, and I thought it would be a good idea ...” My eyes fell on a cut-glass decanter of Scotch on the counter, “... if we could just have a drink together...” I looked at Ted, an innocent smile crossing my face. Ted just looked back at me. It seemed like an hour, but it was only a few seconds before he spoke.
“Sure, Phil, it's a little early for me, but I have no plans, so why not. I'll get us a glass.” Ted took out two short glasses with heavy, cut-glass bottoms. They were part of the set with the decanter. He poured two of what I knew to be first class Scotch and added water from a bottle in the fridge. As he opened the fridge door to return the bottle to the shelf inside, I emptied the pink envelope into Ted's glass. I watched the few tiny crystals disappear into the Scotch.
“Here's to a successful test and a popular product,” I said, lifting my glass.
“I'll drink to that,” responded Ted, drinking half the glass in a gulp. I drank as well, looking around for something to take the attention off of the glass, just in case there was a taste.
“Have you redone the kitchen?”
“Nope. It's the same as the last time you were here.”
“Hmm! That was Thanksgiving...” I realized that I had brought up a memory of Carol and decided to stop there. “Well, I must have forgotten what it looked like, you keep it so nice, it looks new.” I smiled, taking another sip.
Ted finished his drink on that cue. We stood there regarding each other. Then Ted got a look on his face; he stiffened, moving his hand to his belly. His face questioned what he felt, then the answer was written in his eyes. Ted looked straight at me. His mouth opened. I expected him to ask, 'What have you done?' but he didn't, he just gagged and his eyes lost focus.
Ted convulsed and fell on the floor, writhing out of control. I stepped back, giving him room to flail against the floor and cabinets. He spat up some ugly, colorless gunk and jerked to a stop. His arms and legs, hands and feet were all at right angles; his fingers splayed. Ted spasmed once, twice, a third time and then released across the floor, completely limp. The eyes were open.
Standing there, watching my friend of so many years, I couldn't help but feel that this was the right thing to do. In his front pocket, I pulled the paper, torn from the pad at work, with a corner missing. It said, “I love you and the kids.” It was exactly like my dream, only it was Ted on the floor, not his wife and kids. I reached into his shirt pocket and took out the blue envelope.
“Ted? Are you home?” sang Alice, coming in the front door. I ran to stop her from coming into the kitchen. She was surprised to see me. “Phil! Uh, how nice to see you. You haven't visited in a while. Where's Ted?”
“Alice, you've got to go upstairs.”
“What are you talking about?” Alice gave a shallow laugh, then became afraid. “What's going on? Where's Ted?”
“Alice, just go upstairs now. Everything will be all right, but I need you to go upstairs right now.” A noise at the door revealed my worst fear, the kids were with her. “Alice, go upstairs and take the kids. Please!”
“Phil, you're scaring me.”
“Go! Now!” I cried.
“Tyler, Spencer, come with mommy.” Alice reached her hands for her children and lead them upstairs, her face pale, her eyes wide with fright.
There was only one thing for me to do; go to the phone and dial 911.
“911 Operator,” said a male voice.
“I've just killed my best friend,” I told him.
Episode 6
Ted opened the door, “Phil? What's up?”
“You know,” I was thinking fast but talking slow, I hadn't thought this through. “I'm just perplexed by this whole thing and I thought, you know, that we have, you know,” I realized that I had said 'you know' three times in a sentence. “that we don't spend any down-time together. We used to do that, and I thought it would be a good idea ...” My eyes fell on a cut-glass decanter of Scotch on the counter, “... if we could just have a drink together...” I looked at Ted, an innocent smile crossing my face. Ted just looked back at me. It seemed like an hour, but it was only a few seconds before he spoke.
“Sure, Phil, it's a little early for me, but I have no plans, so why not. I'll get us a glass.” Ted took out two short glasses with heavy, cut-glass bottoms. They were part of the set with the decanter. He poured two of what I knew to be first class Scotch and added water from a bottle in the fridge. As he opened the fridge door to return the bottle to the shelf inside, I emptied the pink envelope into Ted's glass. I watched the few tiny crystals disappear into the Scotch.
“Here's to a successful test and a popular product,” I said, lifting my glass.
“I'll drink to that,” responded Ted, drinking half the glass in a gulp. I drank as well, looking around for something to take the attention off of the glass, just in case there was a taste.
“Have you redone the kitchen?”
“Nope. It's the same as the last time you were here.”
“Hmm! That was Thanksgiving...” I realized that I had brought up a memory of Carol and decided to stop there. “Well, I must have forgotten what it looked like, you keep it so nice, it looks new.” I smiled, taking another sip.
Ted finished his drink on that cue. We stood there regarding each other. Then Ted got a look on his face; he stiffened, moving his hand to his belly. His face questioned what he felt, then the answer was written in his eyes. Ted looked straight at me. His mouth opened. I expected him to ask, 'What have you done?' but he didn't, he just gagged and his eyes lost focus.
Ted convulsed and fell on the floor, writhing out of control. I stepped back, giving him room to flail against the floor and cabinets. He spat up some ugly, colorless gunk and jerked to a stop. His arms and legs, hands and feet were all at right angles; his fingers splayed. Ted spasmed once, twice, a third time and then released across the floor, completely limp. The eyes were open.
Standing there, watching my friend of so many years, I couldn't help but feel that this was the right thing to do. In his front pocket, I pulled the paper, torn from the pad at work, with a corner missing. It said, “I love you and the kids.” It was exactly like my dream, only it was Ted on the floor, not his wife and kids. I reached into his shirt pocket and took out the blue envelope.
“Ted? Are you home?” sang Alice, coming in the front door. I ran to stop her from coming into the kitchen. She was surprised to see me. “Phil! Uh, how nice to see you. You haven't visited in a while. Where's Ted?”
“Alice, you've got to go upstairs.”
“What are you talking about?” Alice gave a shallow laugh, then became afraid. “What's going on? Where's Ted?”
“Alice, just go upstairs now. Everything will be all right, but I need you to go upstairs right now.” A noise at the door revealed my worst fear, the kids were with her. “Alice, go upstairs and take the kids. Please!”
“Phil, you're scaring me.”
“Go! Now!” I cried.
“Tyler, Spencer, come with mommy.” Alice reached her hands for her children and lead them upstairs, her face pale, her eyes wide with fright.
There was only one thing for me to do; go to the phone and dial 911.
“911 Operator,” said a male voice.
“I've just killed my best friend,” I told him.
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