Storytime

Index

1. Last Stop Bar and Grill
2. Virtue or Vice
3. Testing 1..2
4. How to Write A Literary Masterpiece
5. Oh Tonight How We Shall Love
6. Too Soon, Too Late
7. The Eyes Have It
8. Melissa’s Story
9. Bill Collectors

    10) The Cloak

    11) What if it is just that simple?

     12) Stark

     13) Fairy tales can come true!

     14) A View Askew

1.  A Bedtime Story from Uncle Zack
2.  The Raydo Awards
3.  The Art of Lion Taming
4.  The Best Laid Plans
5.  A Treatise on Intellectualism versus Thuggery
6.  Yellowbelly
7.  The Last Train From Crazytown
8.  Johnny Gun And The Plot Contrivances
9.  Sea Cruise

Last Stop Bar and Grill

The name’s Gus. I own a gin joint on Manhattan’s west side called the Last Stop Bar and Grill. I gave it that name because it’s the last bar before the warehouse district. I was trying to be clever, you know, like Last Gas before Highway”. You can see why I never quit my day job.

Anyway, it’s a nice place and I spend my evenings tending bar for the factory and dock workers who stop in for a quick one after work. They’re good people mostly, rarely any trouble.

          The story I’m about to tell you took place late one Friday. It was the night Billy Ryan came in waving his arms and demanding everyone’s attention.

          With the T.V. muted and all eyes on him, Billy began.

          “With God as my witness,” he said, placing his right hand over his heart, “Today, I was nearly murdered.”

          A hush came over the bar. For people whose lives consist of one humdrum job after another, a life-threatening experience was definitely big news.

          “The day started out just like any other,” he continued, “I was working the early shift on dock eight. When break time came, I ran over to the bank to cash my check like I do every Friday. Just as I’m heading up the stairs, I hear what sounds like a car backfiring. I look up and there are these two guys backing out of the First National with guns drawn! Yeah, that’s right; I’m in the middle of a freakin’ bank robbery!”

          “Hey, I heard about that on the way over here,” one of the customers added.

          “See?” Billy said holding his arms out in an ‘I told you so’ gesture. “So as these clowns are trying to make their getaway, one turns and sees me standing a foot or so behind him!”

          The crowd was silent for a moment.

“So what did you do, Billy?” somebody asked.

          “I jumped him. I mean, what the hell, right? Either that or get shot. As we’re tumbling down the stairs the gun suddenly drops out of his hand. Seeing this, I go to town, start punching the hell out of him and then, just as I’m about to knock his ass into next week, I feel something cold and hard press up against my skull. It’s his partner’s .9mm.”

          “You must have dropped a brick in your shorts, pal,” someone commented.

          The crowd laughs.

          “Ha, ha, wise guy,” Billy says sarcastically. “Anyways… I’m about half a second from having my head air-conditioned when a police car comes screeching around the corner. As the gunman turns, I kick him square in the Wally Waywoes, if you know what I mean,” he says smiling. “And so, to make a long story short, the cops grab the two and take them away.”

          “Is there a reward?” one of the patrons asked.

          Billy shrugged. “Might be, but I don’t care. The point is, I looked Death himself in the face today and flipped him the bird!”

          Every eye in the bar was on him. In a working class joint like this, stopping an armed robber is only second to pulling kids out of a burning building or winning the lottery.

          His money was no good that night. Everybody was buying him drinks. I even gave him a couple on the house. Let’s face it, everybody loves a hero.

          The way I figure it, things probably would have been fine if he just took his bows and left it at that. But he didn’t, instead he regaled each new customer with his epic tale.

          You might be asking, “So what? So he brags a little, what’s the harm?”

          The harm, my friend, was that Billy Ryan was telling his story in my bar. A place often frequented by another one of my customers. A regular you might say. And the last thing I wanted was for him to hear Billy’s story.

          He had just finished telling his tale yet again when I brought him a drink.

          “Thanks, Gus,” he said. His hands were a little shaky. “I guess I’m bit on edge,” he said apologetically.

          I leaned in and patted his shoulder. “No problem, kid. But uh… just a friendly bit of advice. You might want to give your story a rest for a while.”

          Billy became indignant. “What’s the matter, Gus,” he said, his Irish temper flaring. “Am I boring you or something?”

          I shook my head. “No, Billy, You did good today, real good but when you do something that makes you stand out in a crowd, well it… I don’t know how to put this, but it… attracts certain things.” I looked at him hard, trying to let him know how serious I was. “Things you don’t want paying attention to you.”

          Billy smirked and pulled back. “Geez, Gus, lighten up. It’s not like I’m full of shit or anything. It really did happen.”

          “I know it did, Bill,” I replied trying to smile, “but trust me on this one, kid. In this bar, it’s better to keep stories like that to yourself.”

          Having made my point, I left to tend to my other customers.

          Later that evening, after the place had emptied out, Billy came over, sat down and offered to buy me a drink. Since it was nearly closing time I accepted. Looking back, I probably shouldn’t have. I knew he had a head full of questions I didn’t want to answer, but I liked the kid and didn’t want to see him hurt.

          Now yes, it’s true that Billy had been drinking pretty good that night but he was far from drunk. There was a nervousness about him that burned off the alcohol as quick as he could knock it back. Whatever was bugging him, all the booze in the world wasn’t going to make it go away.

          Billy grabbed a hand full of beer nuts and shook some into his mouth. “Gus,” he said leaning in. “What did you mean there are certain ‘things’ I don’t want paying attention to me?”

          “It’s just talk, Billy,” I said, trying to steer him away from the topic.

          He wasn’t buying.

“Gus, you said there are ‘things’, and that’s the word you used, certain ‘things’ I don’t want paying attention to me. That’s a pretty strange comment. What did you mean?”

          “Nothing,” I replied, wiping the counter. “Let’s drop it.”

          His eyes ran up and down me like a laser scanner. I started to redden. I was always a lousy liar.

          “Gus,” he says, “There’s something I want to talk to you about.”

          “Sure.” I replied. “Go ahead.”

          Even though the place was empty, he looked both ways to make sure no one was listening in.

          “Over the last couple of days,” he said, “strange things have been happening. I told you about the bank robbery, but did you know that two days ago, while I’m working the dock, a 900-pound crate nearly fell on me? I was positive I had strapped it down tight, absolutely positive. When they brought over the forklift to pick it up I noticed the straps were gone! Gus, something can’t have straps on it one minute and no straps the next. It just ain’t possible. And there’s more.”

          He nervously rolled a bunch of beer nuts in his hand. “All my stuff has been disappearing. Like my car keys. I get home from work, put them on the table, ten minutes later when I come back, they ain’t there! So I check my jacket, my shirt pocket, damn near tear the place apart. Just when I’m about to give up, I glance back at the table and, sonovabitch, there they are! The same thing has been happening to my money, my wallet, even my cell phone. And…” he says almost whispering, “when this stuff happens I get this weird feeling that I ain’t alone. That some ‘thing’ is in the room with me.”

          My heart drops. I am talking to a dead man.

          He sees my expression. “You know something, don’t you?”

          It’s too late, I tell myself. This kid’s been marked, branded and put on the menu. No amount of laying low or playing it cool is going to get him off the hook.

          “Please, Gus, I need your help,” he said. “I think there’s something out there trying to kill me.” His voice was panicky, desperate.

          Have you ever found yourself in a situation where you know exactly what to say but if you open your mouth, you betray a long-standing confidence? And what’s worse, you know it won’t make any difference? Well, that was the situation I was in. Probably should have kept my yap shut, but I didn’t and instead did the stupidest thing possible. I told him about my special customer.

          I placed a bottle of scotch on the bar. “We’re going to need this.”

          His eyes brightened at the prospect of my help but I quickly laid down the law.

          “Listen, what I’m going to tell you I have never told anyone, ever. It probably won’t do no good but…”

          “Thank you, Gus,” Billy said, looking like a giant weight had been lifted from him.

          “Yeah, well,” I replied, “don’t be so quick with the thanks until you’ve heard the whole story. Oh, and another thing, I’m not interested in your comments or opinions. I’ll talk; you draw your own conclusions. Agreed?”

          Billy quickly nodded.

          I poured us both a drink and began.

          “Years ago, there was a fire on the docks. It was a chemical fire and a real bad one. It was raining cats and dogs that night and the water was making it worse. Many people died, hundreds.

          “As usual, I was here tending bar. It was a slow night and I was thinking about closing early when this guy comes in wearing a black-hooded raincoat. I start over to ask his pleasure but he waves me off and points to my stock, ‘Whiskey’, he says.”

          “So I get him his drink and get lost, figuring that’s what he wants. Five minutes later he waves me over. As I’m filling his glass I get my first good look at this bird. Well, Billy, this guy had the whitest face I’d ever seen. Damn near transparent. And his hands! Geez, they were so bony they looked like claws. Really gave me the creeps. But my job is to serve booze so I finish pouring and am about to walk away when he starts to talk.”

          “‘Nice place you got here,'” he says, “‘very… nice.'”

          “Thanks,’ I reply. “‘Got a grill in the back if you’re hungry.'”

          “’No,’ he says, ‘I’ve already eaten.’”

          “He then smiles and looks around.”

          “‘Yes. Real nice. You know, I’ve been watching people come in here for quite some time and I’ve always wondered what the attraction was. Now I know.’”                                                                                                                                “Well, thank you very much,” I say grinning like a jackass. “By the way, my name is Gus,’ and with that I offer him my hand. He takes it.

          “’Nice to meet you, Gus,” he says. I wait for him to introduce himself but he returns to his drink.”

          Billy smirks. “He sounds like a mope to me.”

“Well, Billy, like I said, the bar’s empty so with nothing to do, I ask him what line of work he’s in.”

          The man points to his glass and I refill it. “‘That’s an interesting question, Gus.” he says. “‘I guess you could say I’m in the slaughterhouse business.’” He downs his drink then grabs my arm. I look him square in the eye to see what his angle is and Billy, let me tell you, that was a mistake!”

          “Why, what did he do?”

          “My friend, it wasn’t what he did. It was what I saw that scared me. It was his eyes. He had these cold gray eyes. The second I looked into them I got…  confused, kind of dizzy. I got this terrible feeling… Death… that’s what it felt like. I had to hold on to the counter to steady myself. Finally, I forced myself to look away and I notice he’s pointing to his glass. With a shaky hand, I refill it.

          “Then he lets go of my arm and smiles.  ‘I want to tell you a story, Gus,’ he says. ‘I’m usually not a sociable person but it appears your libations have put me in a talkative mood.'”

          “I tell him to go ahead.

          “He drains his glass then says to me, ‘imagine a race of people so advanced that traveling among the stars was as common as say… a man taking a ride across town. A place where need and want has long been abolished and all live in peace and prosperity.'”

          “All right,” I say.

          “‘But then, right in the middle of all this tranquility, something goes terribly wrong. Without warning, its sun begins to collapse. Millions die. Those lucky enough to survive, escape on the one remaining spaceship. All goes well for the first leg of their journey but then, disaster strikes. An explosion throws the craft off course and by the time the repairs are completed and they are able to drop out of hyper-drive, they are hopelessly and completely lost. Countless eons pass as they drift through one dead solar system after another. Finally, their supplies give out and for the first time in their long existence a hunger develops. Now, Gus, he says to me, understand that the hunger I speak of, although similar to what humans experience, is not the same thing. Humans consume matter and convert it to energy. The beings of which I speak of consume energy in its purest form.”

          “Got it, I replied and let him continue.

          “’By the time they discover your solar system and the planet Earth, he says, they are near death. They make an emergency landing hoping that its inhabitants are advanced enough to synthesize the energy they so desperately need. Sadly, the humans are barely out of their primitive stage. Mad with hunger and without sufficient fuel to travel anywhere else, the aliens succumb to despair.

           ‘Then, one of the ship’s crew happens upon two very strange facts. First, the inhabitants of Earth cannot see or hear them and second, the hunger subsides a little whenever humans are in close proximity.

          ‘Willing to investigate every possibility, the aliens do a series of tests. None are successful until one of the humans suddenly dies and his life force is released. It is at that moment the aliens discover that the human life force is virtually identical to the energy they need to survive.

          ‘Immediately, the starving aliens proceed to devastate the population. Kill tens of thousands. Fortunately, wiser heads prevail and mass feedings are stopped. Knowing that there must be a relationship between predator and prey, the aliens divide up the planet, with each group getting a certain area of their own to tend, much like your cattle ranches.

          “‘Over time, the aliens learn to graze. Taking small pieces out of the human life-force as the need arises.

          “’And, Gus,’” the old guy says to me, “’I’ll tell you a little secret. That is the real reason for what you call aging. It has nothing to do with the passage of time or gravity or some other such nonsense. In fact, if you check your more ancient books, like the Bible for instance, you’ll see that at one time humans lived for hundreds of years. The truth is, your deterioration is due to us slowly devouring your life-force, piece by piece over decades.”

          With eyes bulging, Billy asks, “Us slowly devouring your life-force!?”

           “Yeah, Billy, I figured that’s what he was trying to tell me all along, that he was one of those aliens.”

          “But you didn’t believe him, right?”

          I smiled. “Bill, if some pasty-faced old geezer with long bony fingers came into your bar and told you he was an alien that devoured human life-forces what would you do?”

          Billy shrugged. “I’d probably cut him off and tell him to hit the road. So… what did you do?”

          “Well, crazy or not the story is still pretty wild, right? And I just had to hear the rest of it, so, I says to the guy, ‘Okay, let’s say I buy into this, you know, the bit about humans being food to these aliens. My question is, every animal that I’ve ever read about has some kind of natural protection, some kind of sixth sense to warn it when it is in danger. How come we don’t?’”

          “‘Oh, but you do! the old guy says. Here’s how it works. Humans can’t see us unless we want them to. That’s why we can trick them into situations that cost them their lives. For example, take a man cleaning his gun. Does it regularly and is very careful. He removes the clip and checks the chamber. He believes the gun’s empty because I make it look that way. In reality the gun’s fully loaded. A minute later, he’s dead. Why? Because he didn’t listen to his instincts and chose to believe his eyes instead.’

          “So I say, wait a minute, you lost me. How can you make him see something that isn’t there?”

          “He points to his glass. I fill it with whiskey. “’Now watch’, he says.”

          He passes his hand over the glass and it disappears! “Nice trick,” I say, “but I’ve seen it before.”  He nods. The glass then reappears and the liquid has changed from brown to clear. Then the glass changes from a shot glass to a mixed drink glass. I’m impressed but tell him that any good magician could’ve done the same thing.

          “’He says it doesn’t matter. The point, Gus,’ he continues, ‘is I made you see what I wanted you to. Let me give you an example. Say I’m feeding on you and don’t want you to go anywhere. I pass my hand over something you need in order to leave and it disappears.’”

          “So, I says to him. ‘So you’re telling me the reason I got these wrinkles and the gray at my temples is because some alien has been chewing on me?”

          He smiles back. “I’m afraid so, but at least you can take heart that your life-force is rather average and uninteresting. You’ll be around for a long time.”

          “That struck me as odd. So I ask him what he meant.”

          “’Let me try to explain it in human terms,’ he says. ‘Our race, like yours, likes a celebratory meal now and then. And when those special occasions arise we choose the best of our stock for slaughter. Much like the way you pick out the best turkey or pig for your holiday meal.’”

          “Suddenly, it dawns on me. ‘Is that why so many of our best people die so young?’ I ask.”

          “He slaps his hand on the bar.  ‘Now you’re getting it. You see, we crave the most vibrant and courageous. Those whose life force is teeming with energy, with power, with life! You on the other hand, well…’

          “I ignored the comment not caring if it was an insult or not. ‘Didn’t you just say that those who follow their instincts can avoid being… how do I say it?  Dinner?’”

          “He nods. ’That’s right. For some reason and we don’t quite know why, the best of your race are also the most adept at avoiding us. They downplay their accomplishments, avoid the spotlight, share the glory and take the blame for the failures. They never brag or stand out. Such behavior makes it almost impossible to track them. They are, like the saying goes, Wolves in sheep’s clothing. Ahh, but once we’re able to single one out. The hunt begins.’”

          “He finishes his drink, places his glass on the bar and says. ’I can’t tell you how much I’ve enjoyed our little talk, you’ve done me a great service today and I’m a man who remembers his friends.’”

          With that he stands up, smiles and disappears right before my eyes.

          “Whoa, Gus,” Billy says. “Disappears? No kidding?”

          “No kidding.”

          “Wow! That is wild. How old were you when this happened?”

          I ran my hand through my hair. “Ah, Billy,” I said shrugging. “The best I can figure is about 46 or 47.

          Billy’s eyebrows bunched up and he eyed me close. “Wait a minute. You don’t look a day over fifty, if that. So just when was this fire? You know, the one that was going on the night that guy stopped in.”

          I didn’t answer, but I could see Billy’s drink-laden eyes were clearing fast. He was beginning to put the pieces together.

“And there’s something else,” Billy says, “I’ve been working the docks for six years now and I don’t remember any fire. My old man worked them for twenty-five and he never mentioned any fire, at least not one that killed hundreds of people. So what’s going on here? You pulling my leg? ‘Cause if you are I don’t think it’s funny!”

          Every word is true. I tell him.

          Billy starts rubbing his face. “But, Gus, the docks are lousy with sprinklers, extinguishers, and CO2 canisters. The fire station is only three blocks away. The fire boats, five minutes at best.”

          I could see we were just about there. I think he’s beginning to see it too.

          Billy starts absentmindedly tapping the bar. “And with all that equipment, a major fire is nearly impossible. In fact, the only real fire the docks had was over 100 years ago.

          “It was 1894 to be exact.” I said.

          Billy nodded. “Yeah, and that’s what I mean, there hasn’t…”

          He stops. His eyes get all wide.

          “Yes, Billy,” I say calmly. “That’s the fire I’m talking about.” 

          Billy jumped to his feet. “What are you, freakin’ nuts?” Are you telling me this all happened over a hundred years ago? His face turns beet red. “You son of a…!” he says, shaking his head in anger. “All this time you’ve been yanking my chain? I come to you for help and you give some crap about invisible alien vampires?”

          He gets up and storms toward the door. “Billy!” I shout after him. “Don’t go outside. There’s more. There’s something else I have to tell you. Listen! He never feeds in here. None of them do. I’m living proof. You’re safe as long as you stay in here!”

          It was too late. Before I could say another word he was out and into the street. I ran after him. I had almost made it out the door when I heard a truck’s horn and tires screech. There was an unmistakable thud.

          I shook my head, went back inside and took my place behind the bar. I pulled down the whiskey bottle, filled the glass and put it in its usual spot.

          He smiled when he came in and saw the drink waiting for him.

          ‘Thanks, Gus,’ he says rubbing his bony hands together. He downs the whiskey in one gulp. ‘What do you say we make the next one a double. I do so enjoy strong drink after a hearty meal.’”

          Like I said, my name is Gus. I’m the bartender at the Last Stop Bar and Grill. Stop in anytime you need a drink, some pleasant conversation… or a place to hide.

Virtue and Vice

“So what do you say I shoot this clown and get it over with?” Jayce asked. He was waving his gun at the man on the ground, a man bound hand and foot by duct tape. His mouth was taped as well but he had somehow managed to lick or chew it off. Didn’t matter though, we were in an abandoned barn, miles from anywhere.

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