Something Phishy

Kathleen answered the phone on the second ring. “Fischer Detective Agency.”

“Hi, Kat Fish. I need your help.”

She allowed herself just a moment to cringe at the nickname she had always hated and then went right back to business. “Hi, Dad. What’s up?”

“My Twitter account has been hacked.”

“Holy mackerel! You’re on Twitter? Since when?”

“Ever since I got my iPhone. What difference does that make? Can you help me or not?”

Whatever floats your boat, she thought. “What exactly do you want me to do, Dad?”

“I want you to catch the bottom feeders that did this and school ‘em.”

“That’s a little beyond the beam of my usual work,” Kathleen replied sternly.

“Are you just angling for a compliment or is this really too big for you to tackle?”

Swallowing her pride, not to mention the hook, line, and sinker, Kathleen waded into the Twitter stream. She was surprised to find out what a large mouth her father had about his personal life. And there was definitely something fishy about some of the DMs from his account.

The messages included a link with a line intended to lure unsuspecting users into clicking through. It was a classic bait and switch scheme. The site would look like a Twitter page and ask them to log in. Giving their user name and password was a gaff that allowed the sharks to access their accounts. Then they were flooded with spam and porn.

Kathleen examined the IP addresses of all the phishing sites she could find, but soon realised that was casting too wide a net. Every clue was a red herring. It was a problem of scale. She was getting crabby and decided to lay a trap. She had to catch one of them in the act and reel them in. So she set up her own account, @Gata_Ichthys, and [god help her] started tweeting.

Hi. I’m a pisces. What’s your sign?

She watched the traffic through the site carefully. She was a little fish in a big pond though and had only a few nibbles — all of them small fry. After she uploaded a profile pic of a blowfish bikini the barracuda really started running. Those boobs. It didn’t take much longer before she got a bite. This was a big one, no doubt. And she was determined it would not be one to get away.

He DMed her, Hey QT, want to see my bonefish?

Click here if you want to be my chum, she replied and included a link. Then she quickly signed off. “No remora Mr. nice guy,” she bubbled.

Watching the network traffic like a hawkfish, she was elated to see him take the bait. The link introduced a worm into his system. Soon the ‘net would close around him and his computer would tank.

She dialed her father’s number.

“This is Gil,” he answered.

What, he has an iPhone and doesn’t understand caller ID? “Hi, Dad.”

“Kat Fish! How’s the case going?”

“Swimmingly. At least one of those slimy eels won’t be shocking anyone else.”

“That’s great, honey. I’m really proud of you.”

“Thanks, Dad. I’ll see you this weekend.”

Kathleen hung up the phone and closed the folder on her desk. In large letters she marked it,

Fin

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Spice of Life

Madeline shivered in the booth of the little diner. “Maybe eating somewhere new will break me out of this rut,” she mused to herself. “And this place looks so warm and cozy.” Besides, it was close to her office and had not been open long. It’s always good to support a local establishment.

The proprietor, Alphonse, a slight middle-aged man with a beatific smile, greeted her warmly. “How about some nice, hot soup to warm you up?”

“That sounds great,” Madeline smiled back.

“I’ll bring you something special,” Alphonse gave a little bow. “This is the only place in the world you can get it. My own creation.” He returned to the kitchen.

Madeline closed her eyes and massaged her temples. This case. This case had her mind in turmoil. No one she had talked to in any law enforcement agency anywhere had heard anything like it. And now it had happened for the third time. Three times in as many months.

Three times make it a serial, but serial what? Some madman is abducting young mothers with their infant children. He tortures the women — there’s no other word for it — by making them watch their child being murdered. He makes them watch. The bastard. But then, moments later returns the child unharmed.

No one knows how he’s making such a convincing display of the horror. Drugs? Hypnosis? CGI? The women all swear they saw their child die. It seems completely real. And then, perhaps most inexplicable of all, when the children are returned he collects the mother’s tears. And then he lets them go.

“Here’s your soup, ma’am,” Alphonse placed the steaming bowl on the table. “Careful, it’s piping hot.”

“Thank you,” Madeline stirred the hot liquid. “This is your own creation you said?”

“Oh yes. And very special. One of the ingredients is very hard to come by. This is only the third time I’ve been able to make it.”

Third time. She turned her gaze from Alphonse’s inscrutable smile to the wall behind him where the diner specials were neatly printed in colored chalk. In cheery, yellow script she read:

Soup du jour: larmes de joie

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Note: Long-time readers may recognize this as a piece I published before I joined the Friday Flash Fiction group. I have made some changes improvements to the previous version.

Hunger Strike

It started when the decapitated head of lettuce in my salad screamed. The carrots were skinned alive. The artichoke hearts beat softly while the flesh of the tomatoes bled onto the carnage. The celery began stalking me. Then I was served a severed ear of corn. Soon, the eyes of the potatoes were watching me. I may never eat again….

Silent Consent

Robert expected stony silence. “Sir, I should have come to you sooner. I’m in love with your daughter. I’ve come to ask you for her hand in marriage.” Katie stepped closer and he put his arm around her.

“I promise to take good care of her, sir. I’ll do anything to make her happy.”

“He does make me happy, Daddy,” Katie added. “And when he told me he wanted to come talk to you today… well, I knew this was right.”

“I know we only met the one time,” Robert continued, “and I regret we didn’t get to know each other better. Katie and I have known each other a long time though. We didn’t make this decision quickly or lightly.

“I have a good job and I own my house — well, me and the bank do — and it’s close by. I’m not wanting to take her away from you and the rest of the family. I love her more than anything and we want to spend the rest of our lives together. We both really want your consent, sir.”

He faced Katie and wiped a tear from her cheek. “Anything else?”

“No. Thank you so much for doing this.” And with that they turned from her father’s grave and walked hand-in-hand to start their life together.

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Bedridden

Margaret Mayfield squinted in the early morning sunshine streaming through her window. “You there!” she called to a young man in the hallway, “Come here and pull the curtains for me.”

David Roderick, new to the nursing staff at Merok House assisted living facility, entered the room. With fewer than two dozen residents he had learned their names, if not their medical histories, before starting his first shift. “Good morning, Mrs. Mayfield. That sun is awfully bright today, isn’t it?”

The old woman appraised his physique as he pulled the curtains to and then blinked several times as her eyes slowly adjusted to the diminished light. “Yes, and it really shows my age I hear. Call me Maggie. You another doctor?”

“No ma’am, I’m a nurse. My name is David.”

“A nurse? Are you gay?”

David was temporarily flummoxed. Before he could reply, Maggie burst into a loud peel of laughter. “I’m just teasing you, David. Now, don’t ever call me ma’am again, okay? I just told you, it’s Maggie.”

“Okay Maggie, you have quite the saucy tongue, don’t you?”

“Are you making a pass at me now?”

“Oh, no ma’ -aggie,” he corrected himself.

Again her laughter surrounded him. “Hee hee, I’m going to have fun with you, dear. Not as much fun as if I were fifty years younger, but still….” And she laughed some more.

“So that’s how it’s going to be? I guess I need to stay on my toes around you, Maggie.”

“You could stay on my toes, but I’d probably just kick you in the head.”

This time David laughed. “Okay, Maggie, I don’t know what that means.”

“As long as you laugh at all of my jokes, it doesn’t matter. But I was just thinking of a young man I knew a long time ago. You remind me of him. Do you play football? Or pool?”

“Yeah, both actually. That’s some kind of coincidence! He was someone special to you?”

“Special? Yes. We met at a music festival — I don’t suppose you’ve ever heard of Beaulieu? — and I was his first….” Maggie stopped and stared into the distance as if she could see back in time. Suddenly she looked at David again and continued. “I was the proverbial older woman, but I made enough of an impression that he wrote a song about me.”

“Is that right? Anything I would have heard?”

“Probably well before your time, I’m afraid. We’ll save the rest of that story for another day.”

“Okay, Maggie. Do you need anything else right now?”

“No, thank you David. I look forward to talking to you later.”

“Me too, Maggie.” And with that he left, wondering if the poor old dear was demented while Maggie hummed a tune he recognized but couldn’t quite place….

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No Child of Mine

“No child of mine — ”

“Momma, please,” Samantha protested.

“Just look at what you’re wearing,” her mother continued. “Those bright colors… you’re not fit to be seen in public like that. And those shoes. How can you even walk in those?”

“You’re right, Momma. The shoes aren’t designed for comfort. They’re part of the overall look. And I’m not out in public that much — ”

“And that god-awful wig. What’s wrong with your real hair?”

“Nothing Momma.”

“And you must have a ton of make-up on your face. Do you paint that on with a roller? You have such a pretty face, it’s a shame to cover it up like that.”

Samantha’s frown could not hide her quivering lower lip.

“It’s just not decent I tell you. It’s disgraceful.”

Tears welled up in Samantha’s eyes.

“Go scrub that stuff off and change in to proper clothes. No child of mine is going to be a damn clown.”

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photo by steenslag

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A Good Book for School

Miss Loretta Bunker come to us one January and took over teachin’ duties from Missus Hutton who had slipped on the ice Christmas Eve and broke her hip. Now, we knew Miss Loretta hailed from up in Jefferson County and they just did things different up there than we do here in Gapville. Anyhow, for a teacher it seemed she shore did need more schoolin’ her own self.

She seemed to have the air let outa her the next mornin’ though. Seems Mary Louise was the only one t’bring one in and it sat there all by its lonesome on that shelf all week. It was a little worse for wear, but it was leather-bound quality and a good book for shore. It was King James version of course….

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The End of Fred and Ginger

“So there IS someone else!” Ginger spits the words at me.

Seeing her lovely face all red and blotchy cuts me to the core. “Sweetheart, you know it’s not –”

“Don’t you dare call me ‘Sweetheart’ you bastard! My name is Ginger. Got it? Ginger! Not Linda. Not Julie. Not Suzanne. Ginger!”

I never tried to hide the fact that I changed their names when I edited pieces for publication. I never expected her to get upset over it though. “OK. Ginger. See, those are just pseudonyms. It’s still you in all those stories. After all, actors don’t use their real names when they play a character.”

“Hah! Actors! I knew you would bring that up. Just because people picture Astaire and Rogers when they see our names. Is that our fault? You’re the writer here. You thought this would be a good idea. It’s your fault. Yours!”

“I know Ginger, of course it’s not your fault. It’s mine. And I take full responsibility. But more than one reader has complained that these names pull them out of my — YOUR stories.”

“We don’t even look like them,” Fred adds. “In fact, we work hard to look different every week! Besides, we let you post that creepy animation a couple weeks ago. THAT was embarrassing.”

He had me there. That was embarrassing. “But, that’s part of the problem. I know you look different every week. You’re my little changelings, taking on the appearance of the characters in each story. To me, you ARE different. Not everyone can see that.”

“Pffft. If you were a better writer they might.”

Ouch! “And then,” I blunder on even with that knife in my heart, “people see Fred and Ginger two weeks in a row and think we’re continuing the same story. Do you know how hard it is to get someone back for a third week after that? They don’t need to come here to get confused.”

“See! It’s YOU, Tim. You made this mess. You said names weren’t important. I think you were just being lazy. And now you say you’re done with us?”

“I’m not done with you. You’ll still be in the drafts I write. It’s just… I need to change your names before I publish the stories.”

“Careful, folks,” Ginger waves both hands above her head, “he has an eraser and he’s not afraid to use it! Go ahead, make that stupid ‘getting rubbed out’ joke. You know you’re dying to….”

I can feel my face getting red. I’ve been pwned and punned in a single stroke. I never expected this to be so difficult… archive the old stuff, tap a few keys, a global search and replace. Now my characters are copping an attitude? What do they want from me?

“You know,” Fred chimes in, “we’ve tried to be everything for you — friends, siblings, lovers, spouses. Hell, we’ve KILLED and DIED for you. How can you just write us off like this?”

I look at them both. “I know. And I don’t want you to think I’m ungrateful. It’s just… I guess I always knew it would come to this someday. In order to grow, I need to move on.”

I move the cursor to highlight their names. My hand hovers over the delete key.

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[Note: Learn more about Fred and Ginger here. ~Tim]

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The Day of the Wedding

Fred shook with anticipation as he entered the bedroom. The wind that constantly blew in across the rocky coastline of his village rattled the windows. Or was that his teeth rattling? He had been granted one wish and this was it.

He sat on the edge of the bed and took a few deep breaths. His anticipation was palpable. The door opened and Ginger stepped inside. Fred rose to meet her. He reached out his hand and he could feel the blood rushing out of his brain when she interlaced her fingers with his. Tentatively at first, he kissed her, then hungrily, passionately. Gently, she broke their embrace to lead him to the bed.

They looked deeply into each other’s eyes while she removed all of their clothing. Taking his hand again, she pulled him onto the bed. He knew that she had experience and willingly let her take control. She lead him to pleasures he had never even imagined.

In the morning, Fred awoke alone. Today was the big day. The day of the wedding. He had the honor of representing his village. The path was lined with well-wishers as he strode toward the sea. His family and closest friends were waiting by the altar on a precipice high above the crashing surf. The wind whipped in from the cold water and it filled him with pride.

At the altar he embraced his parents and wiped the tears from his mother’s face. He turned and looked back at his village. He half-hoped to see Ginger, but he knew that by tradition she would be out of sight. Musicians struck up the wedding march. The wind howled in response and brought a salty spray over the wedding party. The sea was angry and needed to be calmed. The survival of the village was at stake. The village was offering her a husband. Fred stepped onto the altar and leapt to the water below.

[Note: Learn more about Fred and Ginger here. ~Tim]

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Lost in Space

Fred — that was the persona he had adopted on earth — floated in microgravity at the controls of his ship far above the blue planet. He knew he should shift back to his normal appearance and enter stasis for the long journey home. Instead, he adjusted his trajectory so that he hovered directly over a particular city in the southern United States. He hummed to himself and then softly sang, “Long distance information, give me Memphis, Tennessee….”

Observe and report. That was his mission. He didn’t even have to visit the surface of the planet. But he always did. Even the planets that were completely devoid of life, he thought, warranted at least a cursory personal appearance. Just so he could say he did. And he had a portfolio full of souvenir images for proof. The planets with life though, those were risky. He had to avoid interacting as much as possible and certainly wasn’t allowed to interfere. He had never counted on meeting Ginger.

While he knew that physics made it impossible, her eyes seemed to shine and twinkle with a light that came from within. Her voice was low and sweet with a musical quality to it. Music, human music, that was something else he had never counted on. He sought it out at every turn and that’s how he had met Ginger. There were musicians right out on the street here every day and night. He couldn’t believe how indifferent most of the humans were to what they were hearing. But some vocalized in tune with mechanical devices while others gyrated their bodies to the tempo. Ginger did both.

“Staring and slack-jawed” was the way she later told him he had appeared. She had said hello and reached out her hand for him to join her in the gyrations then laughed when she saw the look of panic on his face. She thought he was just too shy to dance with her. His first impulse was to turn away, get lost in the crowd and return immediately to his ship. But something kept him rooted to the spot. He had seen similar actions by humans so he tightened a couple face muscles that pulled the ends of his oral orifice upward and rotated his head laterally back and forth a couple times. And he kept staring, though he managed to tighten those jaw muscles.

Somehow, Ginger had found this endearing and when the band took a break she came over and talked to him. She used a lot of words he didn’t fully understand — they didn’t seem to match the dictionary definitions he had studied. But the sound of her voice mixed with the scent of jasmine that radiated from her body still hot from her recent activity. Fred was mesmerized. Even though his body wasn’t really human, he thought he felt an unmistakable attraction, a desire for his body to be close to hers. He had observed mating rituals across half the galaxy and he had never felt anything like this.

Fred suddenly realized he had gone way beyond just observing, that even this innocent interaction with Ginger might have far-reaching effects. Mumbling what he hoped was an acceptable excuse he left abruptly. “I hope I see you again,” she had called after him. “I’ll be here tomorrow night.” Nothing in what he knew about magnetism or gravity or nuclear forces could explain the drag he felt on his body as he forced himself away from her.

And now he hovered. How odd, he thought, that indecision stills weighs heavily even in microgravity. The longer he stayed in human form the more desperately he wanted to stay on earth and seek out more time with Ginger. If he returned home as he knew he should he certainly would never again be trusted to go off-world. He could not orbit here indefinitely, he had to make a choice. Then he realized… of course, there is only one choice….

So, dear readers, I am curious. What choice do you think “Fred” made? Did he stay on earth, return home, or realize that he had another option? Please leave a comment.

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[Note: Learn more about Fred and Ginger here. ~Tim]