by Matt Drabble
During the first week of his new writing career the small town had never seen such an event as the one that had rolled into town. Every business was having their coffers swelled beyond measure and he had passed by Nan’s Diner on several occasions to see the kind waitress Susie beaming at him through the window. He had partaken of a few shakes when she was on duty, and most pleasingly shared a couple when she was off. He had promised to take her back to New York when he returned after the concert, especially now that he was the proud owner of the Yankees. His own personal wealth now made him one of the richest men in the world and he had started driving around town in the original Nightrider car. He knew that he had made a promise to help the world, but that could wait; after all wasn’t it about time he started to look after himself for a change?
His first week, after, of course his appropriate mourning period for his sins, had been a blast. Every bully that had ever picked on him was met with suitable vengeance. There was nothing too extreme as he had learnt his lesson with Alice and Dougray. No, just a little degradation and embarrassment. More than one Victoria Secrets model had knocked on his door and offered herself to him, as well as a slightly older and far more distinguished news anchor. Surprisingly his imagination had run dry a lot quicker than he had expected. Temptations of the flesh were fine, but they weren’t real and checking his bank account balance online was strangely numbing as they were just digits on a screen.
He was sitting on the cabin’s veranda that he’d had installed overnight as well as a few other improvements. Ferris had started to demand just how the hell it had happened, but Albert had written the man’s concerns away. It was far easier he had found, to avoid such questions; not to mention the fact that the man could have been a little more grateful considering how Albert had saved his business and the town. It was a little grating not to be getting the credit that he undoubtedly deserved. It was starting to feel like his job and marriage all over again. People walking all over him and taking him for granted. He had started to feel a frustration again at being perceived as a doormat. Even Susie had talked endlessly about the town being blessed by God and their miracles. He had felt like throttling her at times and screaming, “I’m your God you stupid woman, me, me, me!”
He looked up and saw Susie walking up the road to his lodge, her hand flapping away in greeting. His interest had surprisingly started to wane a little in Susie during the last couple of days and he was starting to regret offering her the chance to come with him. She was a sweet enough girl, but now that he had the world to choose from, was she really the best that he could do? He was pondering making some personality changes that he could make in Susie, perhaps a little physical overhaul.
“Hi sweetie,” she said pecking his cheek and his stomach knotted and he shoved a smile through his mouth and onto his lips.
“Hi,” he said.
“What’s the matter sourpuss?” she teased him and ruffled his new shoulder length hair.
“I’ve asked you not to do that!” He snapped.
“Sorry,” she said quietly. “I get the feeling that you’re always annoyed with me these days.”
These days! He thought angrily, I’ve only known her a couple of weeks and now it’s like we’re already married. “I’m going for a walk,” he said brusquely as he marched past her. Even her teary eyed expression was aggravating him.
He stormed down the steps and around to the rear of the cabin. On the way he almost knocked Keith Richards to the ground who was having a smoke.
“Whoa, easy man,” Keith slurred.
“Blow it out your ass Richards,” Albert barked, making a mental note to write the guitarist a particularly bad case of the trots over night.
He headed out into the fields beyond the lodge and drank in the peaceful air. It was quiet and empty here and he could think for a minute. The idea of having the whole world at your fingertips may seem like an endless orgy of delights, but he was finding that there was little pleasure to be had by making puppets dance. In fact he was starting to resent for the puppets for dancing for him.
Perhaps he would just write himself away on some tropical island paradise somewhere; a little slice of heaven where he could be alone without the pressure of being God, or at least a God.
“Well now what have we got here?” A gruff voice startled him from behind.
He turned to see a burly man dressed in camouflage fatigues emerge from the tree line. The beefy man looked vaguely familiar but Albert couldn’t quite place him; his memory was understandably spotty during the crazy past two weeks.
“Remember me you little faggot?” The man rumbled.
“Nope,” Albert said honestly.
“I told you that this town already had one Al and that we didn’t need another,” the man growled.
“Oh yeah that’s right. You’re the ape from the diner, Alberto isn’t it?” Albert said mockingly, after all when you’re a God what did you have to fear from redneck locals?
Alberto showed him exactly what by stepping forward and punching him hard in the face. Albert sank to his knees as his nose spouted blood through his fingers. “What the hell?” He exclaimed.
“That’s what smart mouths get,” Alberto said proudly as he hooked his thumbs into his belt loops.
“You ignorant fucking hillbilly!” Albert yelled.
Alberto stepped forward and booted him hard in the ribs. “And that’s what assholes get for double measure,” he grinned.
“You’re going to pay for that,” Albert grimaced from his fetal position on the wet grass.
“Oh and now we’re going to see just where making threats gets us,” Alberto smiled cruelly.
Albert cringed on the ground as the bigger man raised his foot again, only this time in a stamping motion. Just as Big Al brought his boot down Albert caught it in two hands and shoved as hard as he could backwards. Alberto staggered back and fell heavily but bruising only his pride. Albert leapt to his feet and ran back towards his cabin.
As he ran he thought of every terrible thing that he was going to inflict on the bully. He was sick and tired with having to cower beneath the yoke of those bigger and stronger than he was. Natural selection was a crock, especially when he had his very own trump card sitting black and glistening in his cabin.
One of the first things that had had summoned was a state of the art safe with which to protect the typewriter. The last thing that he wanted to do was to lose his precious prize. He had started to end his day by writing a line on it that he woke in the morning to find it still locked safely away. He figured that as long as he wrote the line at night, the typewriter had to be there come morning.
He ran as fast as he could back through the cabin gap and around the corner. He was running full speed when rounded the corner and collided straight into the back of Mick Jagger. The singer barely had time to notice him before Albert sent him spinning out into the road. A huge lorry was struggling to back up along the narrow driveway and the lead singer of The Rolling Stones was sent careering into the road and disappeared under the massive wheels. People seemed to scream in all directions at once, but Albert kept running. He could fix this, he could fix anything.
He ran up the steps to his cabin, shrugging off the grasping hands of horrified onlookers as they sought to block his path. He reached the top of his steps just as Susie stepped out onto the veranda. Her hands were plastered to her face in terror at the scene below as a large pool of dark blood was spreading out from under the lorry.
“What did you do?” She gasped as he reached her.
He shoved her aside as he made for the sanctuary of his cabin and to correct the world that was descending into chaos around him. She made a second grab at him and he pushed her harder, much harder in his panic than he had intended. She stumbled backwards with her arms cartwheeling wildly. He reached for her but it was too little too late. Her legs caught against the low fence of the veranda and she was suddenly airborne. He heard but couldn’t look at the loud splat that she made as
she hit the concrete below.
He heard more screams as he shoved the door shut hard behind him as he ran into the cabin. Voices began yelling loudly and he heard Alberto’s louder than the others.
“I’ll get him,” the big man shouted as his heavy footsteps began pounding up the stairs.
Albert locked the door and ran across the room to open the safe. For a split second he feared that the typewriter would be gone; that he would be stuck in a nightmare that perhaps he deserved according to every fable. But the glossy black machine sat there waiting as always.
He had barely taken it out before Alberto’s large frame hit the door. Albert rushed over and threw his own weight against the door as Big Al hammered on it. He braced himself and tried to balance the typewriter on his lap whilst keeping the door shut.
Just then the big man on the other side must have taken a running jump at the door as the wooden frame bulked inwards and Albert lost control of the typewriter which spilled from his grasp and landed hard on the floor. His heart wrenched at the cracking sound that the machine made as it hit the ground. Desperately he grabbed for a nearby chair to prop under the door handle. All he needed was a couple of minutes to write himself out of this horrendous situation, if only he had the time.
He slid to the ground and arched his back against the door as Alberto’s voice was joined by others trying to get in.
“Gonna string you up boy,” Alberto screamed through the door. “Gonna get us a lynching going.”
Albert reached out his foot and tried to pull the typewriter whilst keeping his weight against the door. His foot caught the machine and then slipped. He quickly kicked off his boot and tried to use his toes to hook it. His face bulged with the unnatural effort and a slick sweat river ran down his back as he strained every fibre. He caught the machine again, slipped and then managed to jam a toe beyond the keys. He ignored the pain and roared in triumph as he dragged the typewriter back to him. He snatched it up into his lap and prayed that it hadn’t been too damaged when he’d dropped it. With terror in his heart he hit the first key and the reassuring clack of the key hitting the paper made his spirits soar.
He found that his anger towards Big Al ruled all and he decided to deal with him first. He had just been walking in the field minding his own business when the bully had struck and ruined everything like bullies did.
He had to write quickly as the gathered mob led by Alberto hammered against the door. Albert wrote a hard and painful death for the man full of sharp teeth and tearing claws. He wrote of a creature’s face that sent a man insane with a glance. He hammered away at the keys with every foul image that he could dredge from his warped imagination until the hammering outside went still.
He pulled himself to his feet as a single soft knock hit the door. There was no more angry mob raging outside and he opened the door wanting to see the mess that had been Alberto, before he set the rest of the world to rights.
The creatures gaze did indeed send him insane with but a glance. As his mind emptied of all reason and the teeth bit and the claws tore into his flesh he only caught a glimpse off the cabin floor.
The typewriter had indeed been damaged, only slightly, but ever so crucially. The letter “O” key had snapped off and was lying useless on the floor. Where Albert had typed “Alberto” the crucial letter “O” was missing from name leaving only “Albert”.
tale 7.
“recycling can be hazardous”
Duane Jones looked at the outside of the funeral home and his heart sank. It was bad enough that he was going to have to spend his summer working, but here of all places was almost too much to take.
Duane was 23 with a handsome face and a winning smile that made up for his lack of charm. He was around six feet two and athletically built, but also religious about his diet and exercise; it wasn’t easy looking this good. He had light blonde hair that fell back in waves and crystal blue eyes that twinkled on cue. His mother was a cold and distant trophy wife and his father never stopped going on about how the world wasn’t handed to him on a silver platter.
His father was a self-made millionaire who owned a whole slew of properties, both domestic and commercial around the city. As far as Duane was concerned his father should have worked hard so that he didn’t have to. Summers were meant for beaches and bikinis, as most of his friends were currently finding out whilst he was stuck suffering in the sweltering city heat.
He had been aghast when his father had first dropped the bombshell that his summer was gone, but further shocked at his choice of position for him. His father owned a handful of bars and restaurants that Duane could see the benefits of working in, but he had been stuck with the funeral home. Apparently the old guy that had been running the place had managed to up and die at the most inconvenient time for Duane. His father had been too damn cheap to find a replacement and had instead stuck Duane with the place for the summer. At first Duane had been determined to show his father just what a poor choice the man had made, however, his father had soon made it abundantly clear that if he failed, his inheritance would disappear just as quickly.
“Huntsacker Funeral Home” was an old and run down business on the outskirts of town. The surrounding community had once been thriving but now the streets were deserted and dog shit scarred the sidewalks.
The building itself was still in reasonable shape and there was a small chapel and a large burial ground behind. The idea being that it was a one stop shop for the more needy residents of the area. According to his father the books were firmly in the red and Duane’s job was to turn the place around and show his father that he had some worth.
He looked up and down the empty street and crossed the road to his summer home with anger in his heart.
The door opened with a soft swoosh and he heard a buzzer sound somewhere out the back. As if by magic a small elderly man appeared as smoothly as though he was on casters.
“Good morning young sir,” the man said quietly. “How can I be of assistance at this difficult time for you?”
“You Hardman?” Duane asked looked around the showroom.
“Do I know you?” The old man asked.
“You’re gonna. I’m your new boss, at least for the summer or until I can figure a way out of this shithole,” Duane answered looking at the man for the first time.
Karl Hardman was the old fart that ran the place, and had presumably been running it into the ground. He was the only full time employee and worked as both a mortician and an ordained minister capable of performing the funerals. The man was supposed to be in his sixties but to Duane’s 23 year old eyes he looked about the same age as Moses himself. Hardman was shortish at around five feet five. He had a thin white dusting of hair and his face looked like a leather saddlebag left out in the sun too long. His shoulders were slightly sloped and he wore an old black suit that had seen better days. There was a slight glint from his hands as he absently twirled a small coin between his fingers.
“Oh you must be young Duane, your father told me that you were coming,” Hardman said gently as he extended a hand in welcome.
“Let’s get one thing straight right off the bat,” Duane snapped. “My name is Mr. Jones, not Duane, not kid or sonny or anything else, got it?
Hardman’s head bobbed up and down slowly whilst his expression remained a poker face.
“Now my father has had to send me down here to try and sort out the mess that you’ve been making of our business,” Duane continued as he started to walk around the funeral home’s outer lobby. “Now I don’t appreciate having to take time out of my busy schedule to waste down here, but we are going to sort this place out as quickly as possible, ok?”
“Yes sir Mr. Jones, I’m real lucky to have you here,” Hardman replied and Duane found it hard to know if the old man was mocking him or not.
The outer lobby of the funeral home was tasteful, if a little dated. The floor was thickly carpeted in a dark brown and the walls were a dark velvety red. There was a deep dark oak rece
ption desk and respectful down lighting. There was one large double door that led back into an open viewing room. Duane followed his nose and headed towards the back.
“Shall I give you a tour Mr. Jones?” Hardman asked, but Duane had already left the lobby.
The viewing room was dark and oppressive. The walls and carpet were a deep blood red and thick curtains blocked any natural light from the windows. There was a wide archway at the front of the room with drapes pulled across. Chairs were set out in neat rows for the mourners and Duane felt like he could feel the grief and sorrow that had soaked into the building’s walls over the years. He felt another stab of anger at the thought of his friends sunning themselves on golden sands whilst he was stuck here.
The drapes that covered the small staging area fluttered slightly and caught his eye. He wondered if the place had a current guest on show behind the drapes. His mind was suddenly split between unease and curiosity.
He had never seen a dead body before or even been to a funeral. When he was 12 he had seen Tommy Delphey jump into Rosewater Reservoir trying to impress some girl and he had got his foot caught on some tree roots. A couple of guys from the football team had jumped in and pulled Tommy out. Duane remembered Tommy’s face being pale and ghostly white as some girl who had been on a lifeguard course performed CPR. Duane had watched in fascination as Tommy’s chest had suddenly exploded into life as he spewed reservoir water out of his lungs and his face turned pink again. It was as close to death as he had ever been and he remembered being fascinated by the thin fragile line that we all walk.
“This is our viewing and service room,” Hardman made him jump from behind.
“No shit,” Duane said irritably, annoyed at being spooked by the old man. “I guessed that it wasn’t for showing movies on a Friday night.”
Hardman only nodded and smiled.