otoh

I have done the maths and I am here to take a byte [pardon the pun] out of the this vampire nonsense. The solution was so simple, I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me sooner. You see, it has to do with that bit [no pun intended that time] about immortality. If vampires live forever, barring any unfortunate run-ins with the likes of Van Helsing [or a jilted ex-lover], then the number of vampires in the world must always be increasing.

I don’t know how often a vampire decides to “turn” one of his or her victims. Some of the popular literature might lead me to believe it is a rather common occurrence. I’m inclined to be more conservative though so I chose once per century as the average rate of getting tired of the conversations with the old partner. ["Remember that time when -- ?" I remember everything. "Did I ever tell you about --?" Yeah, dude. Only like about a billion times already.] Let’s face it, even really good friendships probably last less than half that long [and marriages even less, but that's another story. And a different sort of blood-sucker. Ahem.]

It doesn’t seem like such a lot at first. Start with one vampire. A hundred years or so later there are two. And then another hundred years there are three. And so on. But, here’s where the math gets a little tricky, the growth is actually exponential. Because I figure that every vampire is going to turn one of his or her victims at roughly the same rate. I mean, that makes sense, right? It can’t be just that one original vampire doing it all the time. If you were a vampire and suddenly one day the old bat brings home a new BFF, wouldn’t you go out in search of some new blood too [so to speak]?

So what would really happen is that the number of vampires increases from one to two to four to eight and so on. Every kid that ever fell for the old penny-a-day-for-a-month gag knows that exponents start to turn into really big numbers really fast. So the way I figure it, if vampires exist then pretty much everyone in the entire world, except for me of course, would be a vampire by now and that’s just — excuse me. There’s someone at my door insisting that I invite them in. I’ll be right back.

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“Evan, is it true?” asked Bob.

“Yup, I’m out of here.”

“But why?”

“Look, Chuckles the Clown here,” Evan rolled his eyes at the security guard that towered over him, “is only giving me one hour to clean out my desk. Come over tonight and I’ll fill you in.”

The security guard, who never enjoyed escorting employees — former employees — off the property, simply glared at him and said nothing.

…

Bob balanced a six pack on top of the pizza box and rang the bell. Evan opened the door and stood there with a distinctive glassy-eyed stare. Several empty cans littered the coffee table and floor. Bringing more beer suddenly seemed like a supremely stupid thing to do.

“Look,” Bob grabbed the six pack and held it behind his back and pushed the pizza box under his friend’s chin, “I brought your favorite meat-lover’s pizza. Let’s sit down and have a slice or three.”

“Sure. Come on in, buddy. Happy frikkin’ new year!”

Evan dropped into his La-Z-Boy while Bob cleared space on the coffee table. When they had both taken a few minutes to wolf down a slice Bob asked, “So, did they really fire you?”

“Technically, I resigned. But they made it clear they would fire me if I didn’t. They even had me date the resignation two weeks ago so it would look like I gave notice.”

“What the hell? I thought things were going great.”

“Apparently there were complaints from customers. Some said they thought I was making fun of them. Some said they were so put off by my attitude that they would never deal with the company again.”

“No way….”

“Way.”

“But did you explain why you were acting –”

“Yeah, right! Tell HR that some ghost appeared to me in a dream? They would have had hauled me off to the loony bin. No, it’s better this way. At least I leave with my dignity intact.”

“I guess so. I mean, is it?”

“Better? Sure”

“Well, no. I mean is your dignity intact? After all, you were acting in good faith. I’m sure those customer’s feathers could have been smoothed over.”

“Probably, but you know when your boss isn’t willing to back you up there’s not much point in fighting. I guess they figure it was too much of a PR hassle.”

“I suppose.”

“I read some of the customer complaints. The big guys just don’t have the balls to stand up to them. Or they really do think I’m wrong. In either case, I’m better off going somewhere else.”

“So what are you going to do? Where are you going to find another job in this economy?”

“I don’t know. I’ve got a little savings and the boss did slip me some severance pay off the books. I’ll just have to hit the bricks like everyone else.”

“And when they ask why you left your last job?”

Evan mulled it over for a minute. “I’ll tell them I had gone as far as I could with the company and the only way to advance in my career was to go somewhere else. That’s pretty much true.”

“But you won’t tell them about….?”

“The dream? Hell no. Besides, at this point I figure that’s about the worst advice I ever got in my entire life. I might never smile again.”

“Oh, dude… you know I’m your best friend and I’ll stand by you no matter what, but… well, to tell you the truth, I kind of liked you better after that dream.”

“And see what it got me?”

“Yeah, but except for, you know, getting fired, wasn’t it better for you too? I mean this might turn out to be one of those things that looks bad but turns out to be the best thing that ever happened to you.”

“Hmmpff.”

The two friends ate another slice of pizza in silence. But the words Evan had read kept ringing in his ears like taunting silver bells: “excessively cheerful… disgusting happiness… unfettered joy… out of touch with reality….”

…

In a cloaked ship orbiting overhead the aliens marked their experiment on Evan as an unqualified success.

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Note: I trust that this restores the faith in my cynicism that some of you thought had slipped away in my Christmas Spirit flash. Happy frikkin’ new year everyone! ~Tim

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Mike is dead.

Michael yanked open his front door and found the street deserted; there was no sign of whoever might have dropped the note through the mail slot. He examined the page. The text was standard laser printer quality. Times New Roman. The paper was cheap white bond that could have come from any office supply store. He dropped the note in the trash, assuming it was some sort of prank, and resumed getting ready for work.

The next morning another sheet fell through the mail slot and skittered across the floor. This time the same brief message was followed by a map and directions. The starting point was his house. The ending point was called Wabasha Street Caves located across the river near St. Paul’s Downtown Airport, Holman Field. At the bottom was another line of text: Tommy Gun Trouble Friday 7:00.

Friday morning there was no note through the mail slot, but when Michael got in his car to go to work he found a duplicate of the map along with two tickets for the Tommy Gun Trouble Murder Mystery Show on the passenger seat. He knew the vehicle had been locked and the alarm set. He was at a loss to explain how the items got there, but his curiosity was overriding his fear.

While his car warmed up he called his wife. “Let’s go out tonight.”

In its checkered past the Wabasha Street Caves housed mobsters and speakeasies. Now the site specializes in historical tours, weddings, conventions, dances, and other events. Just after Michael and his wife were seated in the ballroom a tall, middle-aged man in a tour guide’s uniform approached.

“Excuse me, sir,” he said to Michael, “there’s a message for you at the cave entrance. If you’ll follow me, please.” Michael excused himself and followed.

“Who’s the message from?” he inquired. But his guide just grinned back at him and quickened his pace. At the cave entrance the guide glanced back again and then entered a small side tunnel. Michael hesitated only a moment and then hurried in pursuit, spurred on by unbridled curiosity. Twice he lost sight of the guide and then spied him again as the distance between them increased. The third time the guide moved out of sight Michael stopped, determined to give up the chase and return to his wife. This is beyond ridiculous, he thought.

Just then he heard a loud whisper. “Psssst. Over here.” A light flickered just around the next bend. Slowly, he moved deeper into the cave once more. When he rounded the bend he found a flashlight and a pocketknife on a small ledge along with another note. Like the first one he had received this one said simply, “Mike is dead.”

Just then there was a terrible crash as the cave ceiling collapsed behind him, trapping him in total darkness.

…

John was perched on his porcelain throne when a single sheet of paper slid under the door. “Who’s there?” he called. There shouldn’t be anyone else in the house. Unnerved, he finished his business quickly and retrieved the page. His breathing became labored and his face paled as he shifted his gaze from the note to his reflection in the bathroom mirror.

“Who’s there?” he called again.

There was a soft rustling noise on the other side of the door and a quiet voice called back.

“It’s Jonathan.”

His body trembled as he read the brief but ominous message printed in neat laser text on the cheap paper.

John is dead.

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Note: Michael and John both posted pieces recently with the opening line, “Tim is dead.” This is my revenge.
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My morning ablution starts early, way before dawn. I have a daily ritual to prepare myself. I cleanse my body and clear my mind. I breakfast and suit up.

Every morning is a promise of possibilities. Every day that I survive is a blessing. I know what prolonged exposure can do. I’ve seen colleagues reduced to empty shells. I’ve smelled the flames and seen the charred remains. It’s not pretty.

A few of us meet to review our plans before we deploy. We keep the atmosphere light. We are all hope and commitment. Desperately so. There is no such thing as too much preparation. And yet, flexibility is key. Expect the unexpected. Be ready to make a 90 [or sometimes 180] degree turn at a moment’s notice. Never assume that just because you have a good plan that all will go according to plan. Never dare to believe in the myth of the “perfect” plan.

At last we synchronize watches and I move to my post. At a signal we begin in unison.

“Good morning, class. I’m your teacher….”

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It was straight up midnight and I woke with a start. Was it a dream? A nightmare? Maybe a bit of both?

I had scheduled my #FridayFlash to auto-publish, but I had a nagging feeling that something was not quite right. It took a few minutes to boot up the computer and log in. At exactly 13 minutes into the witching hour I opened up otoh, but it was blank. Then suddenly, my Twitter page opened — or something that sort of looked like my Twitter page.
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Note: While you are here, can I impose on you for a few moments to respond to my “Writing for Snob’s” post? Thanks!

There are still some surprises left in the world. I don’t think anyone expected we would find a spider that makes the Goliath Birdeater Tarantula, previously believed to be the world’s largest spider, look tiny in comparison. Where else but in the Amazon, in itself a name that denotes a grand scale? And I’m quite certain that no one expected the Humongous Tapirtrapper Tarantula to be quite so tasty.

We in the “civilized” world would still be ignorant of the beast, and its culinary possibilities, were it not for recent incidental contact with one of the extant indigenous tribes. Brazil has the largest number of “lost tribes” of anyplace on earth. Some of these tribes have apparently been hunting and eating the spider for countless generations. Their favorite method is to chop off the legs, scrape off the hairs — which are really more like short spikes — and roast the body over an open flame. Then a glaze of guava or papaya is applied. It is served on a stone slab and carved into pie-shaped sections. The fangs are a particular delicacy and give the diner an experience similar to that of Japanese Fugu.

Just this week the five-star Restaurante de Roda Raiada opened in Rio de Janeiro with two Humongous Tapirtrapper Tarantula-based recipes at the top of their menu: Coxinha Aranha and Empanada Aranha. The spider meat is shredded, spiced, and encased in dough before it is fried or baked. Purists, however, complain that both dishes taste too much like anaconda.

I have developed what I think is a deliciously simple recipe for Humongous Tapirtrapper Tarantula and dumplings. The hairs are burned off with a blow torch and then the whole spider is boiled in a large pot with my special blend of vegetables and spices. The dumplings are steamed on top. Sure, it’s not exactly a traditional South American dish and I don’t claim that it tastes like chicken, but everyone gets a drumstick.

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What are the odds? I’ve always hated when people say that. Most of us have no real appreciation for matters of chance. We believe that things we want are much more likely to happen than they really are and things we don’t want are less likely. I didn’t wake up today feeling lucky. Or unlucky.

Odds of winning Powerball Grand Prize: 1 in 195,249,054. Odds of being struck by lightning in the United States in any single year: 1 in 700,000.

She has the softest brown eyes I’ve ever seen. We met in the grocery store when she hit me with her shopping cart. I’ll always wonder whether she did that on purpose, but I flatter myself at the thought. Anyway, we chatted a bit while a good size bruise formed on my leg. We made plans to meet later for coffee. I kept thinking, “Things like this just don’t happen to me.”

I know what you’re thinking, punk. You’re thinking “did he fire six shots or only five?” Now to tell you the truth I forgot myself in all this excitement. But being this is a .44 Magnum, the most powerful handgun in the world and will blow your head clean off, you’ve gotta ask yourself a question: “Do I feel lucky?” Well, do ya, punk? ~Dirty Harry

I went on about my business for the rest of the afternoon with a bit more bounce in my step tempered by the pain of that bruise which was turning the most brilliant colors. Sure, we were just meeting for coffee, but that doesn’t stop a guy from considering whether there are more intimate possibilities. What? It could happen.

Star light, star bright,
first star I see tonight,
I wish I may, I wish I might,
Oh darn, it’s a satellite

Little did I know, just about then a 6.5 ton satellite was tumbling out of orbit. As it entered the atmosphere it began breaking apart and burning. Much of it disintegrated, but pieces scattered over a swath several miles wide and a few hundred miles long. One of those pieces hit me right in the head. Who would ever have thought that a burning chunk of space debris would be the last thing to go through my mind? At least I gained some notoriety in death that I never did in life.

According to NASA, the chance of a piece of UARS debris hitting anybody anywhere in the world: 1 in 3,200.

So twice in one day my life took a wholly unexpected turn. How often does that happen? I’m going to miss that coffee date. Here’s the funny thing though. Don’t ask me how I know this, but had I lived she would have broken my heart. I sure dodged that bullet.

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Notes: The lovely and talented [and a little bit scary sometimes, but in a good way] R.L. Treadway asked me to write a post about being a black sheep. [My first ever officially solicited guest post!] That’s up today on her site.

My #FridayFlash for today is Web Dogz, my contribution to the Writer’s Pets Contest on the FridayFlash.org site. You have until 31 August to enter. Entries are limited to 250 words. You must be registered on the FFDO website and join the contest group. All the details are on this page. [And if you don't have a pet of your own, feel free to write about my pups.]

Web Dogz

Chrome the Wonder Dog and her faithful sidekick, Luò the Poofy Pup, sat and surveyed their domain. “What have you girls been up to?” I asked.

“Oh, you know,” Chrome said in her usual, understated way, “same old, same old. Saving the World Wide Web.” Then she yawned, turned around three times and curled up for a nap.

“Woof,” added Luò.

“Wait,” I cried, “don’t fall asleep without telling me that story. How, exactly, did you save the World Wide Web and who or what did you save it from?”

“Geez, don’t get your boxers in a bunch.” Chrome rested her chin on her paws and peered at me through half-closed eyes.

“Woof,” added Luò.

“Please, go on,” I said.

“It’s nothing,” said Chrome. “We do this all the time… surf the web, search for problems, then fix them. This time we found some trolls on Google+ and we chased them off.”

“Well,” I hesitated, “as much as I appreciate that I can just block the trolls. I’m not sure that you chasing them counts as ‘saving the World Wide Web’ does it?”

“Really?” Chrome’s eyes narrowed to slits. “You don’t think so?”

I admit, I was afraid, but I stood my ground. “Yeah, on the Internet, no one can tell you’re a dog. I don’t think I believe your story at all.”

“Hrumph, see if I bother protecting you any more.” And with that she closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep.

“Woof,” added Luò.

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