Strange Tales for Cozy Nights 1

by Brian Bakos

  ***

  Kough settled into an isolated existence, a virtual stranger in his own home. Ann, who had barely spoken to him in months, became even more silent. Bob was absorbed in a demanding schedule of classes and shooting activities which left no room for the old father / son camaraderie.

  Family meals were a thing of the past; everyone now ate alone and at different times. They no longer seemed a family, just a trio of strangers living under the same roof.

  When he wasn’t out shooting or attending classes, Bob stayed in his room with music playing to cover any sound of his presence. He didn’t seem to have school friends any longer, as if he’d outgrown his peers.

  Ann kept to her own quarters as well, having moved out of the shared bedroom sometime before. Kough had almost gotten used to his isolation from her, but Bob’s aloofness caused him genuine pain.

  Just hang on, Frank, he told himself, things will get better soon.

  He tried to keep his mind fixed on the successes to come – the great infusion of prize money and endorsement cash, the fame, the respect.

  Most of the money would go into a trust fund for Bob, of course, but there’d be plenty left over to put the family back on its feet. The first thing Frank intended to do was shove the loan payment into Joey’s smug face. Then a new car, a better house, an elite school for Bob.

  And a new woman?

  This previously unthinkable idea was gaining more traction these days. Frank had always embraced traditional morality, but how much disrespect could he take? Sure, he might not be much to look at now, but with lots of money and advanced therapies from high-priced specialists, who could say?

  He put the subject out of his mind as being another ‘bridge to cross’ when the time came.

  Though he’d never said as much, Bob didn’t appear to want his father coming with him to the shooting range any longer. With this tacit admonition in mind, Frank limited his trips there to picking up and dropping off his son.

  When the district tournament try outs came, Kough’s eager desire to see Bob perform was similarly discouraged. He had to wait anxiously at home to find out the results second hand.

  Everything hinged on this tournament. The winner, besides receiving a good amount of cash, would move up to the far more lucrative regional contest. Then came the National Championship with its huge purse and vast potential for advertising and endorsement income. A new Rifle King would be crowned at the National – why not Robert Kough?

  If, on the other hand, Bob failed to place high in this first tournament, it would be at least another year before he could participate in another one. That meant another year of emotional and financial stress. Of course, if Bob did place among the top four at the district tournament and subsequently failed to go on and win – Kough preferred not to dwell on such melancholy possibilities.

  He began to take counsel of his fears: He’ll never make it. Ann was right, he’s just a boy!

  Then, with at violent mental wrench, he’d force himself back to an optimistic view. He was riding an emotional roller coaster of hope and dread; the trip was exhausting him . . .

  Bob returned from the trials and dropped a manila envelop into his father’s lap. Without comment, he headed to his room and shut himself in. Music issued through his door.

  Frank Kough fortified himself with a slug of beer and opened the envelop with trembling fingers . . . Bob had qualified!

  The sun abruptly came out again. A bright ray seemed to punch through the ceiling and illuminate him in his chair.

  Thank God! Thank God!

  Ann walked out that same day. With little to pack and nothing to say, her departure was swift. She was gone a few hours before Frank realized what had happened.

  Bob understood, though. Frank heard the boy crying in his bedroom that night, loud enough to overcome the music noise. He wanted to knock on the door, comfort his son, but he could think of absolutely nothing to say.

  He slumped down in his easy chair and took stock of the new situation.

  She’ll come around after the tournament, he told himself. It’s not easy to ignore success.

  But maybe she wouldn’t come back. Would it make any difference? Kough shrugged and flicked on the TV.

  4. Thrust for glory

  It was a bright, crisp day with winter not far off – prefect for shooting. The fair grounds still looked familiar. Frank glanced about them with pride, nostalgia, and concern.

  The whole place had been turned into a shooting gallery for the district tournament. One large section was given over to the stationary range with its targets set from fifty to three hundred meters. The mobile range, with its contraptions for moving targets about, took up another side of the grounds.

  In the center, where the amusement park had been, stood the obstacle range. Judging by the number of audience seats positioned around it, anyone could see that it was the main attraction. Frank Kough sighed deeply.

  Twenty-five years earlier, he’d been among the eager young men vying for fortune and glory here at the tournament. His dreams had died that day as it became obvious that his skills – so impressive in the lower ranks – were simply not adequate to compete on a professional level. He’d actually been booed!

  The terrible noise still echoed in his ears. He glanced suspiciously at some older members of the crowd. Had any of them been present that day – had they joined in the catcalls?

  Another side of the grounds was given over to refreshment and souvenir stands. The big item being hawked was the SHOOT EM UP! sweatshirt, available in various colors. The white with red splotches seemed the most popular. For an extra charge, you could have your initials stitched into the garment.

  A crowd milled around these stands now. The morning events on the stationary and mobile ranges were finished and an hour remained before the big events on the obstacle range.

  Frank had missed the earlier competitions due to an appalling series of delays. First, his alarm had failed to ring. He wondered if Bob might have switched it off. It seemed a not implausible explanation, considering how withdrawn and peculiar his son was acting lately.

  Then the damned car wouldn’t start ... again. Frank had been in a near panic. After an unconscionable delay, the guy from the garage finally showed up with a tow truck. The sunovabitch gave Frank all kinds of hell before he agreed to provide a loaner – a gasping wreck scarcely better than Frank’s vehicle.

  Now he was here in the milling crowd, uncertain of the situation and afraid to ask. He screwed up his courage and approached a man in a SHOOT EM UP! sweatshirt. The guy looked too young to have attended the tournament 25 years ago.

  “Excuse me,” Frank said, “I just got here. Can you tell me who the final qualifiers are?”

  “It’s Bert Daniels all the way,” the man answered. “He took Stationary and Mobile hands down at most ranges.”

  A second man in a sweatshirt and clutching a beer cup joined the conversation.

  “The other three guys did pretty good, too,” he said, “but it’s just Bert’s day. Ain’t nobody going to catch him.”

  “Well ... who are the other three?” Frank asked.

  “Couple guys named Riga and Kemp,” the first man replied, “and this kid, Bob Kough.”

  Frank trembled at this news. He gripped his cane hard, lest he topple over.

  “How did the Kough boy do?” he asked.

  “Pretty good,” the first man replied. “He even out pointed Daniels once or twice. Don’t look like the kid’s got the right stuff to beat him at Obstacles, though.”

  “Too bad he had to draw a hotshot like Daniels, being his first tournament, and all,” the man with the beer said.

  “Okay, thanks,” Kough said.

  He moved off so that the men could not see the powerful emotions playing across his face.

  Somehow, he’d never envisioned the mechanics of the contest; he’d only thought of getting the prize money once everything was over. But now came news that his son had
made it into the top four while the defeated mass of contestants were packing up their rifles and heading into oblivion! The washouts from the district tourneys seldom made successful comebacks, as Frank knew from experience.

  The strangers’ words had rattled him momentarily, but what value did they have? If those guys had any brains, they wouldn’t be wearing those jackass sweatshirts.

  Bob had the ‘right stuff’ to win, and anyone who didn’t agree with that was in for a surprise! Frank hurried to the obstacle range and got a front seat, right up against the thick Plexiglas shield.