Red Rain: Over 40 Bestselling Stories
Page 23
“Can I ask one question?”
“Shoot, Mad Dog.”
“So what you’re telling me is there’re not going to be any Spanish gals prancing about in their little skirts...?”
* * *
“Har har! Did you see that, Virginia?”
“Vince...my name is Vince.”
“Whatever. The ball bounced right off his forehead—wow, I heard the smack from here! He’s going to have a bruise right between his eyes, maybe we should call him Cyclops Chris!”
“It’s called a mis-hit and they will play it over.”
“It’s also called the most exciting thing that has happened so far. Are these matches always this boring?”
“It’s only one to nothing, Mad Dog. The match has just begun.”
“Maybe so, but in football, there would have been a helmet rolling around by now, and in the least there would be a half dozen guys with blood running down the front of their jerseys. Is there any blood in tennisball?”
“Racquetball, and yes, racquetball does have its fair share of injuries, especially with two athletes playing in so confined a space and both opponents literally rubbing elbows. And those rackets can be deadly weapons, as well. One mis-hit, and those rackets can open a wound that will need stitches.”
“Really? Hoo Hoo! Maybe we can see some of that!”
* * *
“Oh, God, yes! Vance, did you see that? He walked right over here and puked his guts out! That poor lady’s going to need a new pair of shoes. Why didn’t you tell me there was going to be some projectile puking?”
“He’s sick, Mad Dog. The word is that Chris ‘The Fish’ Johnson has a bit of the stomach flu.”
“And he’s still playing?”
“Apparently so.”
“You know, Vickie, I used to be a coach in the NFL, and let me tell you, I couldn’t pay my guys to play with the flu, especially the quarterbacks—what wusses. Now, this Chris character impresses me. He’s out there prancing around with his tennis racquet, waving it all about like a goddamned twink, and all the while he’s playing sick. Got to hand it to him. Granted, he’s not banging heads with other players in a real sport like football. But guts like that impress me, and when I say guts—”
“Yes, I know Mad Dog. We can all see what was in his guts from here.”
“Looks like he had a bit of corn from last night. Har! Har!”
* * *
“Why is that Jake character arguing?”
“He feels that Chris was in his way, and that he did not get a good view of the ball.”
“So why didn’t Jake give the sick guy a good shove in the back, or is that considered clipping?”
“I’m not sure what it’s called in racquetball, but I do know it’s not allowed.”
“What about sacking?”
“Sacking?”
“Yeah, say for instance Jake is serving the ball between those two lines and, say, he’s just standing there like a goddam statue. Could Chris run over and lay a good one on Jake—”
“Lay a good one?”
“Sack, tackle, annihilate. Now, could Chris do something like that?”
“No.”
“And if he does?”
“He just wouldn’t, Mad Dog! There’s no sacking, tackling or annihilating in racquetball. Both players try to avoid the other player, and if they do make contact it’s only by accident. Only rarely do players purposefully and wrongfully hit other players.”
“Oh, really...tell me about it, Valerie....”
* * *
“Did you see where my cap went?”
“Cap?”
“You know, the cap to my...um, drink.”
“No, I didn’t see where your cap went—”
“There. Some kid behind us has it. Hey kid—that’s my cap. Do not stick it in your mouth! Damn! Young lady, do you not have any control over this little beast?”
“Mad Dog, we’ll be back on the air in ten seconds.”
“Not until I get my cap back from this little troll....Son-of-a-whore! Look what you made me do! Now it’s all spilled and wasted. Lady, you and that demon spawn of yours owe me three dollars.”
“Go to hell, mister!”
“I’ll see you there, and your rotten kid as well!”
* * *
“Those guys can really wallop that little blue ball. Is that hard to do?”
“It takes a years of practice.”
“And tell me again why they aren’t using the fuzzy yellow balls?”
“Because this is not tennis, this is racquetball, and there aren’t going to be any robust Spanish gals prancing about in their little skirts.”
* * *
“Wow, Vince, that was some dive! Reminded me of a wide receiver going for a Hail Mary.”
“Yes, Mad Dog, that was a truly spectacular play by The Fish. Unfortunately it appears that by diving he might have re-upset his stomach, because—”
“There she blows! Har Har, that, my friend, is the definition of projectile vomiting—some of the best I’ve ever seen! By the way, what’s the score and who’s winning?”
“They have both won one a game each, and they are now playing the third game—”
“Which shall act as a tie breaker. Am I right?”
“That you are, Mad Dog. The Fish is up eleven to nine in a game to fifteen points.”
“So it’s coming down to the wire?”
“Yes, Mad Dog. Now, Chris just served a difficult drive into the right corner—”
“A serve that appears to be giving The Rake problems all day. At least I think it has, as The Rake hasn’t been raking them in as well as he probably should.”
“This is true, Mad Dog. The Fish is known for his deceptive serve, and before one knows it he’s serving a hard drive past your backhand.”
“It seems one would almost need a sort of sixth sense to predict where his serve might be going.”
“Very perceptive, Mad Dog.”
“This sport really isn’t that bad. Sort of weird, sort of polite. I still say, as I’ve mentioned earlier, that if you added some helmets and pads, put up a goal post somewhere and threw in a football, that you might really have something here.”
“Once again, on behalf of the racquetball community, I thank you for your suggestion, Mad Dog, but people enjoy the sport as it is.”
“Suit yourself.”
After the match
“Well, Vince Pretty—”
“Purdy.”
“Vince Purdy. This is my favorite bar, The Wino. Everyone here knows my name and I only end up paying for my beer about half the time, as there’s usually some fool fan who does the honors and picks up my rather large nightly tab. But tonight, the beer is on me. By the way that was quite a game. Came right down to the wire. Oh yes, mention to your racquetball superiors that a two minute warning may really enhance the game both strategically and numerically. I didn’t think The Fish was going to do it, but he really held himself together until the end. What a finish, and I especially liked how he capped his victory by launching puke like a geyser in Yellowstone.”
“I thought you would. Hey, Mad Dog?”
“Shoot.”
“Now that the game’s over and we’re off the air, what did you really think of the sport?”
“Well, if someone lacks skill in a real sport, say football, then racquetball wouldn’t be a bad way to waste your time.”
“I’d say coming from you that that’s a compliment. By the way, the initial reaction thus far of our telecast was favorable. The word is that you added color, and I mean a lot of color, that the sport of racquetball has lacked for some time. The head honchos at ESPN 5 want us to do another tournament next week in Vegas.”
“Free drinks, bosomy cocktail waitresses, gambling, and ping pong. I’m there.”
The End
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Behind the Shower Curtain
“J-J-Just whatever you decide, God, please don’t bla
me Jacob.”
OH, I WON’T.
“I-I mean, it’s not his fault.”
I KNOW THAT.
“I guess it’s all my fault that this has happened. I really can’t believe this is how it has ended for me.”
IT DEFINITELY RANKS WITH THE BEST OF THEM.
“It was supposed to be funny, you know? A gag.”
LOOK AT HIM.
“Where?”
LOOK DOWN BETWEEN YOUR FEET, YOU SHOULD HAVE A CLEAR SHOT OF WHAT’S HAPPENING BELOW AT THIS VERY MOMENT. NOW, DOES HE LOOK HAPPY?
“No.”
DO YOU LOOK HAPPY?
“Yuck! No. All that blood....”
SO WHAT WENT WRONG?
“It didn’t turn out very funny.”
OBVIOUSLY.
“I didn’t know he was so terrified of the shower curtain.”
YOU’RE NOT TELLING THE COMPLETE TRUTH.
“Okay, so he was terrified of it, but I didn’t know it was to the point where he carried a baseball bat each night when he pissed—peed—um, sorry.”
POTTIED.
“When he pottied.”
HE’S EIGHT YEARS OLD AND HE’S NOW KILLED HIS SISTER. DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH THERAPY IT’S GOING TO TAKE TO STRAIGHTEN HIM OUT?
“...sorry.”
OBVIOUSLY THAT IS MY PROBLEM NOW, AND NOT YOURS. YOU HAVE YOUR OWN CONCERNS. TELL ME WHAT HAPPENED.
“Er, well, Jacob...”
GREAT NAME.
“I agree. Er, Jacob and I, I guess, had a pretty average brother/sister relationship. We could hate each other one moment and the next moment beat-up a friend for saying something bad about the other. He’s two years younger than me, and, uh, sometimes I take advantage of that because I am—was—bigger than he is. He’s not afraid of me anymore, though, and lately he’s been putting up a better fight. But do I need to say this? Don’t you already know all of this?”
ALL OF IT.
“Then why do I have to tell you what happened?”
YOU ARE BORDERLINE, CYNTHIA. THAT IS ALL YOU NEED TO KNOW. I OBVIOUSLY DO THINGS THAT YOU CAN’T POSSIBLY UNDERSTAND.
“Obviously. But what if I just told you I know it was all my fault and that I’m really sorry for doing it?”
THEN I WOULD SAY APOLOGY EXCEPTED, AND TO PLEASE CONTINUE.
“Gotcha. Okay, let’s see...oh yeah. Well, we play—used to play—gags on each other all the time. One of his favorites lately was to put a cup of water on top of a door and wait for me to open it. He never did the joke right and it used to fall on the wrong side of the door—still, he had me to the point where I was walking around the house staring up as if I was looking for the Second Coming. Sorry, bad choice of words. By the way, when is it coming?”
DECEMBER 21ST, 2012.
“Really? Wow. I thought no one was supposed to know that, not even your son.”
AS OF RIGHT NOW YOU ARE NO ONE.
“Oh. A technicality. Interesting.”
CONTINUE!
“Yes, Sir. Now, Jacob’s never told anyone just how much he’s afraid of the shower curtain—or, rather, what’s behind the shower curtain. It’s just that I happen to know. I used to wonder why every time Jacob went to the bathroom I’d hear the shower curtain scrape open—thrown open, actually. Then I caught on, finally, that he was looking behind the curtain, making sure that nothing was going to jump out at him while he was going potty.
“It occurred to me that this would be the perfect gag. I was going to scare the...marbles out of him.
“Now, I knew that Jacob always got up and pottied in the middle of the night because I would have to clean the urine off the seat in the morning. He was probably so scared in the middle of the night that he just opened the flood gates in the general vicinity of the toilet and then ran back to bed and under his covers.
“And so last night—or was it just a couple hours ago?—I left my bed around midnight and crawled into the bathtub with a blanket, closing the shower curtain behind me.
“Let me tell you about cold, God! My skin was so numb I was getting sick, I think. It was also impossible getting comfortable in that thing. Why my mother loves to lay in it for hours at a time I’ll never know. Anyway, I somehow managed to fall asleep...and was literally shocked awake when the light suddenly turned on.
“From the back of the tub, I peeked through the curtain and saw him standing in the doorway. He was looking down the hall—not in the bathroom—probably making sure that nothing was going to come and get him from that direction. From my angle, all I could see was from his stomach up. I decided then that I’d better get up and get ready to scare the bejesus out of him. Sorry, is that a bad word?”
YES.
“Sorry, anyway...I saw the fear in his eyes. The poor guy was really spooked. I couldn’t believe it but I actually started feeling bad for the snot face.”
EASY.
“Sorry. Anyway, I started thinking that I couldn’t kick a man when he’s down, especially my own brother. I realized it would definitely not be funny to scare the shi—-crap out of him, so I decided right then and there that I wasn’t going to do it. And that’s the honest truth.”
I LIKE HONEST.
“I bet. So, yeah, I knew I was stuck. How was I going to not scare him at this point? The slightest sound or movement was gonna send the little fart face through the ceiling. Oops, sorry.”
SIGH.
“I felt horrible knowing he was going to get scared and there was really no way to stop it. Even if I whispered his name and told him it was me—from the moment of that first syllable he would literally crap his pants like grandma used to do.
REMEBER WHO YOU’RE TALKING TO, YOUNG LADY.
Er, sorry. Anyway, I got to my feet as quietly as I could, and I don’t think he heard me. I peeked out the back of the curtain again and saw that he was studying the front of the shower curtain where the spout was. And when he began reaching for the curtain, I saw the baseball bat.
“And then....well, then I got scared for myself. The way his eyes looked I knew he was going to swing away no matter who he found—and that who just so happened to be me. That look in his eyes was a deep fear—the kind of look I imagine most people have just after they pull themselves out of a nightmare.
“And so Jacob reached for the curtain and raised the bat to his shoulders—
“And I shouted his name—
“And he screamed like a monkey with his balls on fire—sorry. But the scream...that’s what I remember most. I don’t think he even recognized me. His eyes were wide and wild. Hell—heck—I barely recognized him. I guess that’s what happens when your worst nightmare comes true.
“The next instant the bat jumped off his shoulders—and at me. I raised my hands to ward off the blow, and managed to block that first swing—but he smashed my fingers good. Real good, and it hurt like heck! The worst pain in my life. But what scared the shit out of me—sorry, but I think that’s what really happened—was that I knew that the pain was going to get even worse—because he was going to swing again, automatically, reflexively, instinctively....
“Jacob was still screaming like a baboon with his nards in a vice. He had to have awakened the entire house, the whole neighborhood. It was the worst sound...a sound I will never forget.
“And swing he did. Down the bat came again, and before it hit me, I screamed myself, and that’s the last thought I remember having. It was lights out. I really don’t remember much pain from that second swing. I felt myself floating, then saw myself lying in the bathtub...saw a steady stream of blood going down the drain straight from my head....
“Then I saw a bright light before me, and here I am—hey, what’s this?”
A SORT OF DVD OF YOUR LIFE. OR, MORE ACCURATELY, EVERY TIME YOU CURSED.
“What do I do with it?”
YOU WRITE A PARAGRAPH DESCRIBING THE PROPER WAY YOU SHOULD HAVE HANDLED IT—AND NO FAST FORWARDING.
“So I made it!? God? God?”
BARELY.
The En
d
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Nature’s Assassins
They always come when you’re asleep.
They know you’re asleep, because you’re part of nature too.
In a world where chip refers to computers and the word gay rarely carries joy; in a world so damn modern it’s hard too imagine that these little green guys are a part of it.
They’re little and they’re green, and we’ll call them Nature’s agents.
Or, more appropriately, Nature’s assassins.
With only a sliver of a fingernail moon shining above, four mysterious creatures cross the residential street under the protection of darkness, for the nearby streetlight was momentarily out (though city workers will later discover a small rock-like pine cone sitting in the lamp’s metal dish and chalk it up as another vandalism).
These four beings, as they scurried across the asphalt, emitted a curious noise. It was not the patter of small feet that could be heard, but something that sounded more like the rustling of leaves.
You see, these four entities were of the plantae species. These four entities, according to their DNA structure, were never meant to walk. They were meant only to soak-in water and sunshine and to spread their long green arms. They are commonly called spider plants, and twenty minutes ago those four plants pushed themselves up and out of Mrs. Henderson’s garden. The sleeping Mrs. Henderson was spared the sight of her spider plants’ sudden mutiny from her garden.
A gust of wind swept down the street and gave the four spider plants a boost on the rear, and they tumbled over the curb and each other like kids suddenly freed at recess.
The house before them was dark and silent, with its single resident, Ralph Emery, sleeping peacefully; and that was due partly because on this day his company had just won a major court case.
His company, Pacific Plastics, had just been awarded the legal rights to dump their contaminated waste into the Mississippi River. It had been a very publicized fight with the conservationist, and Mr. Emery had not won many friends. More important, he lost one very influential one.