For A Good Time (another Halloween trick or treat?)

FOR A GOOD TIME
by Tim McMullen

His quiescence was shattered by the piercing shrillness of hideous laughter. He lifted his head slowly, painstakingly; a quaking chill ascended his spine as he did so. When his eyes finally focused, he surveyed his surroundings in startled disbelief. The shrieks and cackles sliced through the dense, musty atmosphere and assaulted his already frayed nerve-endings. The acrid smell of smoke and human odor flared his nostrils in a most obscene manner. He squinted through the murky air to the walls around him.

Barely visible, the implements of destruction hung suspended from the walls and ceiling. A huge chain, each link fully as large as a human skull, had been attached to the wall at one end, while the other was fixed to a grotesque two-headed scythe sporting spade-shaped spikes at both ends. He shuddered as his gaze fell upon savage metal hooks which could shred a man's flesh like a plow in a field of jello. Then he saw the murderous wooden clubs that could mash a man to a bloody pulp. The wailings of the other victims pierced his groggy senses as he stared in slack-jawed wonderment. Wiping the sweat from his forehead with his forearm, he let the arm linger there in an attempt to block out the scene.

Wilton Fischler blinked his eyes rapidly, threw back his head, splayed his fleshy lips in a piscatorial grin, and liberated a resounding belch. Ducking his head sheepishly, he admitted to himself that he was more drunk than he had thought. After some moments of silent embarrassment, he surveyed the wavering room again.

It was nearly pitch dark, or so it seemed to him, with only the flicker of a few candles on distant tables. Given his present state of inebriation, it was understandable that the nautical paraphernalia strewn around the walls had taken on a different and much more ominous shape in his eyes. The anchor, the grappling irons, and the belaying pins had been drunkenly metamorphosed into the sinister and threatening instruments he had seen; hence, the torture-chamber effect.

"I guessh I better get outa' here while I shtill can!" he mumbled, scratching the thinning fringe of brownish hair at the back of his head with a vacant look. It had been a tough week; sales were way down, and, more particularly, he had "the horn." In fact, it was the old "manly urge" that had propelled him to this little bar on the wharf, but thus far his overtures had encountered firm rebukes and little else.

"To hell with 'em!" he murmered. His hand fell to his right pant leg, and he felt on the outside of his pocket for a moment; then, reassured, he patted the spot and said, "Who needs these broads, anyway?" He lowered his gaze to the table for a moment and then began lifting the empty glasses, bottles, and cocktail napkins that lay scattered on the table, obviously searching in vain. "It must be around here shumwhere," he insisted. "Here, little Billy-willy! Here, little bill."

Howls of laughter rose from the youngsters at the next booth.

"Wha' sho funny?" Wilton muttered as he rose to leave. He painstakingly pulled his wallet from the breast pocket of his shiny, blue, serge suit and carefully removed a twenty-dollar bill which he then place neatly and methodically on the table, exclaiming, "That should cover the damages, my dear,"· to no one in particular. He turned slowly and searched for the dull green light of the exit.

Upon turning his head, he found that the room, in a fit of uncooperativeness, had begun to spin around him in a most disorienting and disconcerting manner. He grabbed hold of the table in an attempt to steady his equilibrium back down to the familiar, easy rolling which he generally equated with such wet evenings.

Gradually, the walls began to assume a more reasonable shape, and the floor flattened itself into a semi-walkable surface. Wilton launched himself on a course which he hoped would lead him through the maze of tables and patrons toward the back of the place; once there, he counted on finding a rear exit. He had some trouble negotiating the path, and more than one table corner reached out to jostle him rudely; nevertheless, despite all of the pratfalls thrown at him by the unfriendly room, he eventually made his way to the rear of the establishment. Here he found himself confronted with the specter of a long, desolate hallway, illumined dingily by the glow of two red neon signs.

One sign had a quite familiar message; he read and comprehended it almost immediately. It said "M-E-N." Undaunted by the darkened hallway, he propelled himself toward the men's room. Upon reaching the door, however, he found that the second glowing sign was now readable. He gaped up at it in unequivocal astonishment. There, in bright, red-lit letters,was the word, "OMEN."

Wilton felt the word register in his besotted brain slowly, as if some slug-footed insect had to transport the message from his eyes to his mind. When this torpid courier finally completed its commission, the import was clear: He, Wilton Fischler, was to be the recipient of some form of special warning. He readied himself by extending his left arm toward the door frame in an attempt to calm the almost convulsive trembling which wracked his unwilling body. Unfortunately, as his hand reached the door, his arm gave an involuntary lurch, said lurch being just sufficientt o swing open said door. Tumbling helplessly through the opening, he twisted instinctively so as to land in a sitting position. He sat, visibly jarred (pickled, as it were), staring at the luminous soothsayer flashing fierily in the distance.

After some moments, he perceived that its message was changing. First, the sign had gone out, leaving him in near darkness. It returned, however, displaying the same word as before, "OMEN." Then it blinked out, suddenly, only to reappear with a new image. He rubbed his eyes and read the new word carefully. Emblazoned in scarlet luminescence, it glowered ominously: "WOMEN!" Again it flashed and was gone. Finally, the full intent of the transmission was articulated as the sign began to change rapidly back and forth, from one word to the other, each pausing for a second and then giving way to its counterpart. Still he sat in the men's room doorway staring up at the gleaming edict. 

"OMEN" [pause] "WOMEN" [PAUSE] "OMEN"..."WOMEN"..."OMEN!"

After another thirty seconds, the message winked out and did not return. With its final flash, he felt his stupor subside significantly. A fierce spasm contracted his scrotum, threatening to retract his testicles permanently. Fischler jerked his knees toward his chest and fumbled helplessly at his pants.

"Oh, Jeez' ...Oh, Jeez'...Le'mme alone!" he cried. Only then did he realize exactly where he was sitting. He pulled himself up and staggered out of the doorway to the other side of the hall just as two young women emerged from the portal beneath the recently expired oracle. Standing on tiptoe with his back to the wall, Wilton pressed his behind and his sweaty, outstretched palms against the wall of the dingy hallway in an effort to escape the reach of the two approaching females.

"No! N-N-O-O-O! Huh-uh...Huh-uh…Huh-uh!" he shook his head as he chanted his terrified incantation in their direction.

As they passed, the blonde nymphet in the floral-fishnet stockings whispered to the vixen in the leatherette mini-skirt. Gales of giggles accompanied their return to the smoky bar. Frantically, Wilton plumbed the depths of his right front pocket. With a gasp of deliverance, he plucked the scrap from his pants, and with trembling hands he gingerly unfolded the paper and held it before him. It resembled the silhouette of a human bust, but Fischler, the Wary, knew better; it was, in fact, the center of one of those toilet seat covers, the useless part that trails down in the water and sucks the ring into the toilet when it's flushed.

There, in the middle of the oval, was the telephone number he had scrawled down off the restroom wall several hours earlier. In a flurry of frantic fingers and flying paper, he shredded the scatological memorandum and its now dreaded contents. Finally, flinging the confetti over his shoulder with cavalier flair, Wilton, the Wise, caromed past his extinguished savior and, braving the frigid blast of air which blew by him as he pushed the handle of the rear door, lurched confidently out into the brisk darkness of the expectant night.

©1985 Tim McMullen

All rights reserved

"Technical Difficulties"—A Short Story

TECHNICAL DIFFICULTIES

I'm scribbling this hastily in the linen closet; it's dark in here, with only the light which creeps in under the door, and I know that if they find me, it's all over. But, I may be the only one who knows, and there's nobody in here that I can talk to—nobody I can trust. They're not about to get me that way. So, my only hope—our only hope—is to get this to someone on the outside. Someone who can do something.

My name is ---------no, that doesn't matter—why make it easy for them? For the last six years I've worked security for a local corporation. But don't get me wrong, I'm not one of those law and order types. My job was to sit in front of a battery of monitors and check the corridors and the labs for unauthorized personnel. Only once in my six years did anything untoward occur, and that turned out to be a maintenance man who got off on the wrong floor.

The truth is, I took the job because I love the tube. I guess you could say I'm a video nut. As a kid I spent all my summers glued to the TV while the other kids were out playing. I watched everything: cartoons, game shows, soaps, talk shows, sit-com reruns. But most of all, I loved the old movies, and I watched them whenever they were on. It's a tragedy that they don't show those old black and whites anymore. Too old, I guess; too “phony” for today's kids.

Anyway, that's why I got the job, because it seemed the perfect way to get paid for doing what I like to do best. On the night shift, after all the offices and labs have been closed and everyone's gone home, we hook the front hall monitor up to a TV tuner. The higher-ups know about it, and nobody cares. Anyway, about a year ago, I began to notice something peculiar.

Have you ever been sitting in a theatre watching a movie when words come out, but the person who is supposed to be speaking didn't open their lips? That's called “voicing over.” They didn't used to do it much, but they do it on everything nowadays.

It's very subtle. Most of the time you never even notice, but once in a while a careless cut might throw out the sync and the voice won't fit the lips. Sometimes the levels are wrong, creating a disparity between the different voices. Other times the actors on the screen aren't talking at all, but they're far away, and they figured you wouldn't notice a few extra words.

But, I did! Then, it got worse. Even programs that were supposed to be live began to look dubbed. They're very good. It takes a practiced eye to catch them. Usually, they're only a fraction of a millisecond off. But they're off! Even the news reporters aren't really live anymore.

It all fell into place about three months ago, though, when I was home watching the President on TV.

“We all know that the best defense is a good offense,” he said, “And so I am instituting a new program that will show the world, both our enemies and our allies, that we will not stand still and watch our world be imperiled by evil, Godless monsters.” He frowned, to show that he meant business, then he smiled and continued. “Therefore, in order to fight these VICIOUS, GOD-FORSAKEN HOOLIGANS, the following steps will be taken....”

Well, you know all about the steps. The whole world does. But, you see, I was watching the President. They tried to pull back from him and show the the flag and the Oval Office, but I saw it! The President was over-dubbed! The words that we were hearing were not the words that he was speaking.

I couldn't even begin to fathom the implications of that truth. I still don't have it all worked out, but at the time, I about flipped. I burst out of my place and took the stairs to Leo and Melanie's apartment three at a time. Melanie came to the door; Leo was still sitting in front of the set.

“Well,?” I said, “Did you see it?”

“Sure,” he said, “but it wasn't all that exciting to come running up here about! Besides, I've seen it before a million times. It is a kick, though, when Lucy starts stuffin' those candies down her blouse.” Melanie started giggling and Leo laughed hard.

“NO!” I shouted, “I mean the President's speech. Didn't you see the President just now? His 'Cleansing the World' speech?”

“Oh, no,” said Melanie. “We always catch him on the Eleven O'clock News.”

“But they don't show the whole speech on the news!” I said.

“No, but they show you the important parts, and they tell you what he said,” Leo answered and then frowned. “What the hell is all this about, anyway?”

“That wasn't the President speaking!” I said, raising my voice. Suddenly, I thought of all the speeches that I'd seen on the news: The anchor smiling sincerely and summarizing what some person said, while a picture of the speaker is superimposed on the background. Maybe they let you hear a few words by the speaker—rarely more than a sentence—before switching to a new story. You don't really get ANY of the speech!

“What the Hell are you talking about?” Leo said.

Old Leo can get pretty testy, but I was surprised at such an antagonistic tone.

“Yes, Scott, Darling,” Melanie chimed in cheerfully. “Whatever are you talking about?”

But this time I was watching. She was over by the wet bar fixing a vodka water. She had her back partially turned from me; nevertheless, when she spoke, her voice level sounded slightly off, and I could've sworn that the voice started before her lips began to move. Oh, they're very good, as I've said, but I saw.

“Oh...I...uh...was just joking,” I stammered. “I mean, it was a great speech ... Better than usual, I mean.”

“They're always great,” Melanie said, but she was looking at me queerly, almost suspiciously. Leo wore the same puzzled but accusing look.

“Hey, you okay, Buddy?” he asked. His eyes showed concern, but his lips were off. Nearly imperceptible, I'll grant you, but off!

Needless to say, I got out of there post haste. I've tried not to raise their suspicions, but now I realize they must be everywhere. The desk sergeant, the doctor, most of the nurses: they're all a part of it. The terrible thing is, I don't know how they can tell us from them. Some of them are so good that you'd never notice if you weren't really watching, and, of course, watching is a dead giveaway.

So I don't watch their lips, except on the sly. And I don't talk to anybody. I figure that's the most likely way for them to recognize us, and like I said, they're not going get me if I can help it.

I'm going to try to hide this letter in the outgoing laundry and hope that it gets to someone on the outside. I can't give my name or where the asylum is because they could find me. If you're not one of them, though, you've got to warn people. And remember, WATCH THEIR LIPS!

From the short story collection, So, It's All Done With Mirrors; That's No Reflection on You

©1985 Tim McMullen

All rights reserved

The Attack - A Short Story

I was inspired to post this today by a great little video of a kid playing imaginary games and the video maker (I am assuming that it was his father) using video magic to enhance the results of his game. 

The story came, in part, from a line in my song, "Michael," and from a wonderful story I stumbled upon years later by Roald Dahl, called "The Wish." Another story with a similar premise (it was once the second part of this story) is entitled "Crack-up." Both are from my collection of short stories, So It's All Done With Mirrors, That's No Reflection on You!

THE ATTACK

A Short Story by Tim McMullen

“YAH-YAH-YAH-YAH-YAH!” The shrill whoop pierced the afternoon haze; like deer put to flight, six Indians shot from the scrub brush and circled the fortress, their banshee cries echoing across the dying summer grass. 

Within the beleaguered outpost an uneasy silence reigned. The courageous, but weary, faces looked anxiously around, trying to conceive of some idea, some plan, that might halt the onrushing doom. 

“Well, Joe, we may be done for,” whispered the captain, “but we're gonna' take a few of them with us.” He motioned for them to step closer. “Look, here's the plan.” 

“You, too, Runt! Listen up!” Joe spat the words out cruelly at their diminutive companion. Then all three knelt down and huddled together; one whispered orders; the others nodded assent. 

After a sinister quiet of several minutes, it came. 

“YI—YI—YI—YI—YIEEEEE!” 

Over the ankle deep grass they ran, raising their dreadful yowling to the waning day as they descended upon the enemy fort. 

“YAH-YAH-YAH!” came the harrowing howl, “YI-YI-YI-YI-YI-EEE!" 

The captain motioned silence to his companions, bade them wait for the right moment, and then prepared himself. He crouched down and made as if to check his ammunition. Reassured, he held himself ready and waited. The little fellow saw Joe grimace disdainfully in his direction; it was Joe's way of visually reaffirming his often-repeated conviction that the Runt was a worthless liability. 

When the Indians were within ten feet of the outer wall, the Captain gave his men the sign. All three sprang as one. Lifting his part of the roof aside, "the Runt" raised his hand and bellowed. 

"P—KEW! P—KEW! P—KEW!" the sound rang out. 

A wave of pride and relief swept through the young soldier as a surprised Indian clasped his hands to his chest and begrudgingly fell dead before him. As he ducked beneath the safety of his covering, he realized that he had seen two more Indians fall, one each for Joe and the Captain. The sun, he knew, was on their side now; the Indians would probably not try another attack before sundown. 

Suddenly, with God-like intervention, it was over. 

"JOHN—NY! RA—ALPH!" rang the cry. 

"AW...!" cursed one of the dead Indians. "Okay!" he shouted as he rose and headed toward the porch of the yard four doors down. Ralph, or "Joe," as he was known to his cavalry buddies, emerged from the lawn chair and tree branch fort and shot a frustrated frown in the direction that his younger brother had taken. 

The Indian braves and the clever cavalrymen began to drag reluctantly off to their respective homes. Quickly then, the plains and hills of the Indian badlands succumbed to the curbs, lawns and driveways of a suburban afternoon. 

Steven, "the Runt," began to fold up his father's lemon-colored lawn chairs. His flaxen hair floated about his four-year-old face in wispy curls. Heaving a work-laden sigh, he pushed his hair back with an exaggerated sweep of his arm like a longshoreman wiping a sweaty brow. The delicate pallor of his broad forehead made his skin seem almost transparent while the acute angle of his chin completed his elfin triangle a face. 

He jerked hard on a branch that was tangled in one of the folding chairs; the knobby bark jabbed sharply into his palm, and he let go with a yelp. The force of his tug and his unexpected release sent him sprawling backward toward the curb. A yip like an injured and terrified puppy escaped his lips, and he plopped ignominiously in the grass. 

He had often watched proudly as his brother Anthony, "The Captain," led the other kids in Cowboys 'n' Indians or Follow-the-leader. Because he was the youngest, and small for his age, little Stevie would bring up the rear. He chased and trailed after them as they trampled through an obstacle course of fences, bushes, planters, sprinklers, and other outdoor paraphernalia. But invariably, when the pack came to dance at the curb's edge, Steven suddenly ceased the chase. 

It was only when he got close to the curb, and even then, it was only occasionally, that he felt the change. Inexplicably and without warning, the asphalt and concrete of the little cul-de-sac would surge and stretch and swirl until the cliff and the sea appeared. The houses were gone, the cars were gone, and the laughter and the shrieks of the others were submerged and drowned by the growling roar of the crashing waves against the cliff face. 

Whenever the change happened, he would hurl himself back and cling to the ground. If any of the children noticed his reaction, especially Ralph, who perpetually tormented him when Anthony wasn't around, they would sing out, "Scaredy Cat! Scaredy cat! Runty is a Scaredy Cat!" This chant broke the spell of the ocean, and he listened shamefacedly to their jeers and laughter. 

Now, as he lay sprawled on his back, he heard someone shout, "The cliff! Watch out for the cliff! Don't fall in the ocean!" 

He tensed, but he breathed a sigh of relief when he realized that they were teasing. There was nothing but curb and gutter and cars and houses as he looked toward the street. 

"AW, he's a 'fraidy cat! He won't come to the cliff and look down…he's afraid!" taunted Ralph, still angry at being called in. 

"No, he's not!" Steven heard Anthony say. "He's my brother, and he's not afraid. He'll do it. I'll betcha'!" 

"Yeah, how much?" said Ralph. 

"Five puries and a cat's eye, okay?" 

"Okay!" 

"C'mon, Stevie!" said Anthony coaxingly. "Tightrope walk the curb." 

Steven looked at his older brother who stood in the driveway motioning for him to cross. He had never discussed the cliff with anyone, not even Anthony. 

"C'mo-o-on, Ste-e-v-e-e," goaded Ralph, wiggling his finger in an exaggerated "come-on" sign. 

Stevie looked around. All the other kids had gone in except for Ralph and Anthony. He looked back at his brother and then down at the curb. Reassured, he said, “Sure!” He wasn't about to lose Anthony's marbles if he could help it. 

He came to the curb slowly. Hesitantly, he placed his right foot near the curb and looked down. He saw some foil from a gum wrapper and some dry grass clippings in the gutter. There was a trickle of water left over from their running through the sprinklers earlier in the day. With his eyes forward, he confidently walked the distance of the curb from driveway to driveway. 

Having completed his ordeal, he beamed proudly, not only because he had shown Ralph that he wasn't chicken, but also because he had added six great marbles to his brother's collection. 

"Good boy!" said Anthony patting him on the head. "Told you, Ralph!"

Anthony laughed, put the marbles in his pocket, and ran toward the house. Ralph shrugged his shoulders and turned to follow. Reaching back, he gave Stevie, the cause of his defeat, a little shove. 

The shove, coming so unexpectedly, startled Stevie and sent him hurling toward the curb. In that instant, the old fear raged through him. He tried to stop his momentum by throwing his arms out and grabbing at the air. Below him, the churning ocean crashed, and the sea spray spattered his face and arms. 

Hovering on the edge of the cliff, he tried to scream but could only gasp. His fingers clawed madly. Ever so slowly, ever so desperately, he felt himself going over. With one final effort, he twisted his body and grabbed for Ralph, who stood laughing at his childish terror. His frantic grab at Ralph's sleeve allowed Steven to right himself, but the tug upset Ralph's balance. In an alarmingly comical aerial ballet, Ralph somersaulted forward, flailing and shrieking in rage and despair. 

When questioned later, little Steven, staring intently at the gum wrapper and the grass clippings in the gutter, admitted truthfully that he really had no idea where Ralph was. Then he shrugged his shoulders and smiled. 

©1985 Tim McMullen

All Rights Reserved

Another Short Story From the Past For the Present

Anteater

A short story by Tim McMullen

As he reached out, he envisioned the scattered fragments of appendages; however, when he turned the sponge over, he saw nothing but a mere black speck on the blue surface. He held the sponge under the stream of the faucet and watched the remains swirl down the sink drain.

Tom Jenkins had always felt uncomfortable when he killed an insect. A sad, queasy feeling tremored from his stomach to his throat, and he often apologized aloud.

“Sorry, buddy,” he would say, “but you just wouldn't listen to reason!”

In fact, he often did try to reason with them; that is, he gave them a chance by trying to herd them out of the room. Spiders were the easiest: He just picked them up by their web or got them to crawl on a kleenex, and then he walked them outside. And flies could usually be coaxed out the door merely by his waving his hands and blocking their flight.

“No, really! Thomas tries to rehabilitate them and give them a college education,” his ex-wife would chortle to friends as she lashed out to swat a fly or squish a spider.

Now he just stood there with the water streaming down the drain. After turning off the water and wringing out the sponge, he heard the drone of the clock radio from the bedroom. He used the radio's “snooze bar” mechanism to indicate the time in ten-minute increments.

“And now, here's Joanna with an environmental update….”

“The President,” the radio bubbled in buoyant feminine tones, “obviously elated over his latest tactical triumph, said,

'Industry must be given a chance to fulfill their responsibilities without a bunch of uninfor….’”

“Must be 6:20,” Jenkins mumbled to himself, and he hurried off to tap the button.

Ten minutes later, standing in front of the bathroom mirror, he reflexively caught his nose between his thumb and forefinger and pinched his nostrils closed.

“Damn! The stench of that dump is getting worse,” he muttered.

When he and Anita had moved into this new housing complex, they had been unaware that a dump was situated nearby, if you could call over four miles away “nearby.” Then, about three years ago, he and his neighbors had begun to notice a pungent though not unpleasant odor, a smell resembling strong orange blossoms, wafting sporadically through the air. Eventually, someone had linked the smell to the dump, and the mystery had been solved. The smell was no longer orange blossoms, however. Tom experienced a sudden olfactory deja vu: he remembered a blast of dank, musty air gasping past him as he opened the ragged, rotted, wooden door of an old shed on his grandmother's farm. He had never gagged before, and he staggered; a sour, fetid stench flared his nostrils, and he fled from the shed and the sight of the dead cat's rotting carcass.

This morning, the malodorous miasma from the dump was a cross between that decomposing cat and one of those portable chemical toilets after it's been sitting in the hot sun for several days. He'd have to call Ted from the Tenant's Association about the outcome of their last meeting. He almost wished that he had been there. They had really pressured him to join them in their campaign against the refuse reclamation operation.

“C'mon, Tom, you're the perfect person,” Ted Rainer, the association president, had pleaded.

“Yeah, Tom,” added Jill Benton, peering out through glasses whose lenses grotesquely magnified her mottled hazel eyes. “You're a lawyer. You can talk to the people from the government and make 'em understand how bad it is.”

“Yes…yes…well, I'd like to help,” he had stammered, “but I… I…just don't have the time right now.”

It was true. His caseload was quite heavy right now, and it would be hard for him to squeeze the extra time, but that wasn't the real reason. The fact was that he just wasn't a joiner. Besides, what did he know about it? People took it for granted, “Oh, you're a lawyer? Well, can you tell me about…my dog, my aunt, my boss, my doctor, my leg, my food, my car, my landlord, my fishing pole, my dump?” Tom laughed at his list. He was only a junior public defender. What did he know about dumps or dog food? Nevertheless, the stench from the refuse disposal site was getting more odious; there was certainly no doubt about that. Maybe he really should call Ted and find out how things were going.

The traffic report clicked on as he cut a swath through the lather on his right cheek. He listened for a moment to the banter of the deejay and the copter pilot. Reassured that there were no major pileups on the freeway, he walked briskly to the bedroom.

“…that although the bill had passed unanimously during last year's reelection campaign, a majority of the committee's members, after some aggressive lobbying from industry, reversed its vote and killed the bill. “

“Business as usual, I see,” Tom Jenkins observed cynically. “Somebody unhappy about something, I'll bet.” His hands dripping water and his face full of lather, he nudged the snooze alarm with an elbow and went back to the bathroom.

That sad, queasy sensation swept over him again as he gazed from the sink to the windowsill. A line of black writhed back and forth in random movement.

“Jeez! Where the hell did you come from?” he muttered.

He reached out instinctively with his hand to sweep the inch-thick line of ants into the sink. Then, thinking better of it, he grabbed a washcloth from the rack in the shower, soaked it in the tub faucet, and then went for them.

In a second or two he had cleared the windowsill. It was easy to spot the doomed vermin as they broke rank and scampered across the muted pink tile and the dusty rose calico of the wallpaper. As he rinsed the little, brittle, black bodies into the sink, he pondered whether it was more merciful to wash them down with hot water or cold water. If they were still alive, would the hot water scald them? Maybe, with cold water, they could survive in the pipes? The thought pleased him. He didn't necessarily want them dead ...he just wanted them out of his house!

“This is ridiculous, fellas!” he said, wiping the final remnants from the basin. “What the hell has gotten into them?” he wondered aloud as he rinsed the remaining lather from his face.

He was sitting on the side of bed putting on his left shoe when the radio sounded again:

“We're in your corner,” sang the jingle, “We're on your side...”

“Uh-huh,” Tom grunted sarcastically.

“We know what you need, and we make it with pride!” the chorus tittered.

“Well, this is what I need!” he said, reaching over and pushing the bar to silence the ad.

His liberal, socioeconomic sensibilities had been slightly appalled when these giant corporate conglomerates had first begun to advertise.

“Another fine product from your friends at 'Whateveritis'” or “Remember us? We're 'Whoeverweare!’”

“Talk about 'antitrust,'“ he had quipped to George Sherman while watching an ad on security's little T.V. during a recess. “How can one company own tractors, chewing gum, textiles, sanitary napkins, canned fruit, plastic containers ...?”

By this time, however, he was no longer alarmed at their diversity; nevertheless, the absurd incongruities were still amusing. Pretty soon the whole country would be run by an oil company, a soft drink conglomerate, and an insurance company.

With his “Haveaniceday” coffee mug in his right hand and his suit coat draped over his left, he glanced at himself in the full length mirror on the back of the closet door. He was meeting with the department head to talk about a promotion, so he had dressed carefully. Some of the guys in the department were too casual… some were downright slovenly. If this promotion didn't come through, he had actually contemplated going over to the D.A.'s office. At least those fellows took their appearance seriously. He set the cup on the dresser and slipped on the coat. This was his blue Brooks Bros.; he had bought it two years ago and had used it only for special occasions like today. The coat hung well, and it still looked new.

With eyes closed slightly, he waggled his head back and forth at the neck, craning it forward and tipping it back. A little stiff, but not too bad. Stepping closer, he examined his face. Although he'd been careful, he did find a bit of dried shaving cream just behind his right ear. As he picked at the crusty, white flecks, he noticed that the hair around his ears was beginning to edge closer; it had only been two weeks since his last haircut, but it just might be time for another. Finally satisfied with his inspection, he picked up his coffee cup, flipped off the bedroom light, and walked down the narrow hall.

With his finger still on the hall light switch, he edged sideways into the kitchen; then, he flicked the hall light, pulled the door shut, and turned.

“H-O-O-O-L-L-Y-Y SHIT!” he sang out loudly.

The cup fell from his hand and bounced across the floor; the coffee splashed, but Tom barely noticed it. The entire kitchen was black. The light from the overhead kitchen lamp was muted, but the morning sun filtered through the drawn curtains. His first impulse was to turn and run; instead, he vaulted the window and threw the curtains open. Pulling away, he clapped his palms together and then examined them in the roseate light of the window.

Ants. Although legs and heads had been mashed together on his palms, the remains of the carcasses were identifiable, and some were still moving. One large black ant flailed his forelegs frantically in an apparent effort to drag his crushed body out of danger. His demonstrative antennae fluttered wildly in some secret ant semaphore. Feeling slightly nauseated, Tom wiped his palms on his suit pants.

Now the walls caught his attention. The kitchen was a writhing mass of ants. They were everywhere and on everything. The refrigerator and the stove, once white, were no longer distinguishable from what had been yellow walls and cabinets: Everything was black and moving.

Already, he could feel them on his legs and in his shoes. He kicked at the floor with his foot as if to cut a path through the ants, but to little effect. He ran to the window and tried to slam it closed. Instantly, his hands were again covered in the wriggling, tickling things. He felt them flooding up his sleeves. Thrashing furiously and beating at his arms, he sprang to the service porch and looked for a way to fight them off. The porch, if anything, was even deeper in ants. After a moment of heightened alarm, he grabbed a broom and a giant can of insect spray. Both objects were covered in ants.

Pulling the lid off the can, he aimed the nozzle at the windowsill, and holding it only a few inches from the ants, he sprayed.

At first, the mist blew a space in the advancing horde, and he actually saw a few of them swim for a moment and then stop moving. Instantly, however, the empty space was filled with new recruits. Rather than deterring them, the dead bodies merely served as steppingstones over the poison-drenched sill, and the monsters swarmed in by the thousands. Dropping the empty can, Tom Jenkins swatted at his neck and arms; and then, he brushed at his face with both hands as if washing with ant lather.

He grabbed at the black, ant-covered broom; whirling around, he swept at the floor in wild, exaggerated movements. He found that by brushing back and forth as rapidly as he was able, he could keep clear about a three-foot circle. If he could hold his own for just a minute, he reasoned, the ants would get wind of the danger and halt their advance. Now that he had overcome his initial shock, he entered the battle in earnest. He got a rhythm going.

One/two/three/four/five/six/strokes at the floor, then one/two at the cabinets. One/two/three/four/five/six—one/two—one/two/three/four/five/six—one/two! He gained confidence every moment; the ants were faltering. He increased his circle of unoccupied territory to nearly four feet, and one of the cupboard doors was nearly clear.

Stepping backward to increase his attack, he inadvertently placed his foot on the dropped coffee mug, and the jolt sent him sprawling. Instantly, he felt a terrible pain, and he realized that he had cracked his head against the corner of the stove. He felt the warm ooze at the side of his head, and he slumped to the floor.

“NO!” he screamed, but when he opened his mouth, he felt the dirty little things crawling allover his lips and tongue. He spat, “Phah! Phah!” and sealed his lips tightly. He could feel several of the ants wriggling between his lips as he crushed them closed.

Only half-conscious, he made feeble attempts to stop the ants' advance. Like the cup and the appliances, he was now completely submerged in the crawling sea of ants. As they poured into his ear canal, they made a sound like horses on sandpaper roller skates. He opened his eyes for an instant then blinked them closed, but it was too late. Ants streamed across his eyeballs, and the room grew dark. He tried blinking rapidly—he rubbed at his eyes with his fists—but the ants were too much.

His head throbbed mercilessly, and it felt sticky somewhere. One of the advance guard entered his left nostril; Jenkins snorted furiously, but more ants followed instantly. He could feel their progress: waving their little legs and antennae about, they lurched forward, tentatively, into his nasal passages. Breathing had become almost impossible. He snuffed, and then gagged as several ants were sucked up into his sinuses. He opened his mouth to gasp for breath and then involuntarily swallowed a mouthful of the crawling invaders.

No longer able to move, he felt them scurrying across his eyeballs, scrambling into his nose and down his throat, scrabbling deep into his ear. Then, through the sound of their continuous onslaught and his own stertorous breathing, he heard the click of the radio.

“Next up...an alarming report on honey-bees, but first….”

“We're in your corner,” sang the jingle, “We're on your si....”

©1985 Tim McMullen

All Rights Reserved

What Kind of Love Song?

This is my latest video (and my latest song). It is another attempt at an annual birthday song for my wife Carolyn. Some others, including "A Pretty Good Start" and "365" can be found on my new playlist at YouTube called Tim McMullen's Love Songs. It includes several of my annual anniversary songs, too.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JojYzRrvmwM