tag:spearpointpub.com,2005:/blogs/heart-beat-hill?p=1Heart Beat Hill2024-03-08T19:41:42-07:00spearpointpub.comfalsetag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/73642102024-03-08T19:41:42-07:002024-03-08T19:41:42-07:00Almost Home - By Brian Law<p><span lang="EN">He sat quietly with the group around the big table in the back of the cafe where they met for breakfast twice a week. He was retired LAPD just like them. They’d all taken their pensions and had fled the liberal disaster engulfing California for a conservative enclave in northern Idaho. And they all shared the stories of their careers with each other over breakfast twice a week, but with no one else. Some of the details were pretty rough.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">He knew he could trust these people with the story he had decided to tell them. He had never told this story to anyone. He wasn’t in the story, but his father, a career cop in upstate New York, was, and it was his father who revealed what happened during a late night interrogation of a burglary suspect.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“So, my Dad has this guy cold, right? He was arrested coming out of an apartment building. He had burglary tools, jewelry, cash, coins, whatever, on him. And this was his third strike. So, he was going away forever unless he could cut a deal,” he told the group around the table. “My Dad was the interrogating officer. Tape recorder running, he asks the perp what he’s got to offer. Now just imagine this really old guy who’s up against dying in prison.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">He paused and then asked half-jokingly, “Any of you guys registered Democrats, by any chance?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">They all shook their heads in unison and as the table erupted in laughter, somebody muttered, “Are you frickin’ kidding?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">So, he continued. “My Dad says the perp tells him a story about when he was younger, much younger, before his first prison stretch. He was working as a part-time chauffeur for rich folks in Manhattan. So, like, when a regular chauffeur got sick or something, he’d fill in. And one Sunday, back in mid-June 1946, he gets a call. A man and wife in Canada need somebody to drive them back to Manhattan. Their regular driver has taken sick. So, his company sends this part-timer up.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">The waitress came around and poured more coffee, and he stopped telling his story until she was finished and had left. With their cups filled, the group urges him on. “So, he gets to the hotel in Canada where the couple was staying and sees that the wife is obviously pregnant. Seems the husband is a bit of an asshole but that comes with the job, and he’s told they have to get back across the border pronto. Which is shorthand for ‘you need to break the speed limit, dumbo’, which he understands completely.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“So, they set off , speeding like they were in the Indianapolis 500. And they get about ten minutes from the border and the wife begins to pop. And the asshole husband tells him to pull over, which he does. And they both help deliver the baby in the backseat of the limo. But, in Canada. They never made it to the border.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">There was silence around the table. They all knew that there was more, much more to this story. So, they waited.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">He smiled as he knew he had them just where he wanted them. They had been telling stories about murderers, rapists, drug dealers, kidnappers, but none of them had ever told a story about how Donald Trump’s mother gave birth to him in the back of a limousine on the wrong side of the border!<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“Oh, shit!” came the unanimous response to this revelation. “Trump was born in Canada?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">He shrugged and confessed, “That’s the story this guy told my Dad. And he went on to give details about how they arranged for the newborn to be smuggled into the States and how they got the birth certificate jiggered, and all that. The whole deal.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">One of the group asked, “When was this interrogation, anyway?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“1968.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“So the perp was trying to leverage his information about the old man, Trump’s father, into a deal. Donald Trump was still in college at the time and not a national figure yet, right?” one of the group said.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“Exactly, so my father told him he’d get him a sentencing recommendation, which he did. And my father was smart enough to turn off the tape recorder for most of the interrogation. Anyway, the chauffeur died in prison in 1973. But my father had taken detailed notes, which he kept.” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">He paused again and then added, “And which I now have.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">The group looked at each other. One of them, a retired Captain, took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes for a moment, and then unapologetically said, “Well, come on, it’s Canada. It’s not frickin’ Kenya!”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">The group burst into laughter, ordered more coffee, and waited for the next story.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">End <o:p></o:p></span></p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/73642092024-03-08T19:40:27-07:002024-03-08T19:40:27-07:00Life Before Breakfast - By Brian Law<p><span lang="EN">She peered at the old worn road marker, turned to him and said, “I think this is it.” There was some uncharacteristic doubt in her voice as she reached over, put her hand on his right forearm and squeezed.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">He took a deep breath and turned into the narrow lane that led uphill into the darkness of the surrounding trees. The only light was from their car’s headlights and he quickly felt that they might be making a mistake. But she shook her head and told him to keep going, but to watch for wildlife. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">Since moving from Boston to a small town in the hills of rural North Carolina recently, they had tried to fit in with the locals, but without much success until things changed last Sunday. At church they had met a young couple who seemed friendly and who invited them to their home for a small get together. “It’s just a group of friends who get together each week at a different house,” they were told. “Just some finger food, some drinks, and great conversation. Oh, and wear your dancing shoes!”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">As he inched his way up the lane, he could hear music filtering through the woods from up ahead. She heard it too and as they navigated a turn they both could see the house up ahead, well lit, with the silhouettes of party goers outlined against the window coverings. A half dozen cars were parked nearby and they assumed they were probably the last to arrive.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">He stopped well short of the driveway, turned off the headlights, and turned to look at her. “You still want to go in? Last chance to back out,” he said, hoping she’d tell him to turn around and head home.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“Let’s do it,” she urged as she told him to go ahead and park the car with the others. As he did, she kept her gaze fixed on the silhouettes. There was just something about their movements that bothered her . . . but she let it go as he parked the car and they both got out.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">There was a short path to the front steps and as they approached, she stopped him and pointed to a sign next to a stand post. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">They both moved closer and together read the sign. “Put one on and come on in,” it read. In a box on the stand post were two masks, both black molded leather with cloth ties. Pirate masks, she thought.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“OOh,” she said, showing some relief for the first time, “This is starting to look like something I can get into.” She reached in and grabbed hers and put it on, giggling a bit. “Go ahead. This will be fun,” she urged as she handed him the other one.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">Following her lead, he removed his glasses and put on the mask. As he did, he stared back at her, and for some mysterious reason, felt urges he’d suppressed for years. “Yeah, okay, let’s go in,” he replied, grasping her hand in his and heading for the front steps. They both bounded up towards the front door, willfully abandoning their previous reluctance.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">No one answered the door, but that probably was because the music was loud and it was clear the party was in full swing. Smiling broadly, they went in, stood together just inside the door and were immediately amazed at what they saw before them.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">The unclothed group of couples turned their heads as one towards the newcomers, the music softly pulsing in the background. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">The two they had met at Church earlier in the week stood up, shameless in their nakedness, and beckoned, “You’ve brought your sister. Good. Welcome to our community!”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">She turned towards her brother, squeezed his hand again, smiled seductively, and then began to unbutton her blouse.</span><br><br><span lang="EN"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">End</span></p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/73418022024-01-28T10:24:27-07:002024-01-28T10:24:27-07:00Last Leaf of Fall - By Brian Law<p><span lang="EN">They walked slowly, hunched against the wind, saying little. It was like this every day at about the same time. It was their daily walk together on the sidewalks near their cottage in the retirement village. The weather was changing now so they met few of their remaining neighbors. Those they saw waved from windows but didn’t venture out. Too cold, too windy.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">As they turned and saw their cottage down the street, he remarked, “Have you noticed what’s happening to our little tree in front, Marge?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">She shook her head and muttered, “No, what?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“It’s got one leaf left. One lonely little leaf. It’s not giving up. Shoulda dropped weeks ago,” he replied.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“Well, there’s always one last leaf, Jim. That’s how it works, right? Then the darkness of Winter and the bloom of Spring.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">He nodded as they neared their cottage and stopped. He pointed to the tree and said, “But this one’s holding on. See, it hasn’t really changed color yet.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“You making a statement about climate change? Maybe that some day the leaves won’t fall?” she joked.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“No, no, that’s not it. I was just thinking about all the folks nearby who passed this year. You know, Marge lost Phil, Joe lost Mary, and all the rest.” He paused as they started moving towards their cottage again and then added, “All the leaves have dropped off their trees, but not ours. Might be a sign.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“Jim, you’re in remission. Your doctors have given you a clean bill of health. You don’t need to go looking around for omens or anything. You’re going to be around for a while,” she said with conviction. “And when that little lonely leaf finally drops, you’ll wake up the next day and go on with your life. Believe me, it’s just a leaf, Jim. A stubborn little leaf, but just a leaf.” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">He breathed in deeply as the two of them climbed the steps to their front door. Reaching for the door knob, he told her, “Of course you’re right. I’m going to be just fine.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">He went in first, followed by her. As she turned to close the front door behind them, she looked out at the tree and its lonely little leaf.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">She’d have Freddy, the paperboy, take it down early the next morning when he delivered the morning paper, before Jim got up.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">Freddy had been a good boy and had done a nice job putting up the fake leaf weeks ago.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">End<o:p></o:p></span></p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/73215132023-12-19T14:43:40-07:002023-12-19T14:43:41-07:00Saint Teddy - By Brian Law<p><span lang="EN">Phil tapped his cigarette ash into a nearby ashtray on the bar as he eavesdropped on the fellow next to him. The fellow wasn’t talking to anybody in particular, just going on drunkenly about random stuff to himself. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">Then he turned to Phil and seemingly for no good reason asked, “Are you a sinner, friend?” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“Am I a </span><i><span lang="EN">what</span></i><span lang="EN">?” Phil retorted, narrowing his eyes to slits as he looked at the other fellow for the first time. Phil heard the word ‘sinner’ alright, but he just wanted to put the other fellow on notice that he wasn’t pleased with the term. That was Bar Survival 101 when dealing with fellow drunks. Challenge ‘em to say it again. Most won’t.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“A sinner, you know, a transgressor of God’s laws. A miscreant. An evil doer,” the fellow explained, slightly slurring his words.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“Jeez, who isn’t, pal?” Phil growled as he motioned to the bartender for another drink and lit up a cigarette.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">The fellow edged slightly off his bar stool and drunkenly leaned in on Phil and replied, “Well, I’m not. Not anymore. I’m clean as a whistle sin wise, friend.” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">Phil gently shoved the fellow back out of his face, smiling as he did it. Returning to his drink and cigarette, Phil sarcastically remarked, “Well, I’m real happy for you, pal. Now, why don’t you leave me alone. I’m tired, I’ve had a long day, and I don’t feel like talking to anybody. Okay?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">The bartender came over, refilled Phil’s glass on the house, leaned over and said in an uncharacteristically serious voice under his breath, “They call him Saint Teddy on the street, Phil. He’s the real deal. He’s cured people of cancer and shit like that. He’s got a direct line to God, they say.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">Phil glanced over at the drunk he’d just shoved away and then back at the bartender. “Cancer, huh?” he muttered to himself. Phil’s wife and both his parents had gone out that way. Only a miracle would have saved any of them.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“Doesn’t seem right though, God workin’ through a drunk and all,” Phil mused, glancing back at Saint Teddy who was continuing his random rant from the next bar stool over. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“I seen it myself, Phil, right here in the bar. You remember Tony Ruffo, don’t ya?” the bartender asked.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“Sure, but Tony died just last month. I read his obit in the paper. What’s your point?” Phil replied.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">The bartender leaned on the bar and looked Phil right in the eye and said, “That wasn’t the first time Tony died, Phil. He died in here two years before. Keeled over right over there,” the bartender explained, pointing to a spot on the floor. “And Teddy here brought him back to life. And he was dead, all right. I’ve seen enough of ‘em to know, believe me.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“How many people saw it happen?” Phil asked, still skeptical.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“Just me, Phil. But I swear, Tony died right there and a few minutes later Teddy walks in, kneels down and Tony springs back to life. Swear to God, Phil. A frickin’ miracle.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">Phil sat smoking for a moment, lost in thought. Then, he asked, “You told many people about this?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">The bartender shook his head and added, “No, you’re the first I’ve told about Teddy being able to bring back the dead. And Tony, he never knew what happened. Can you believe it, guy dies, comes back to life and doesn’t remember any of it? And Saint Teddy, forget about it. He doesn’t even know what happened ten minutes ago.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">Somebody called the bartender over and left Phil alone with his thoughts. Phil was having a hard time lately and what he’d just heard might just be the ticket to fixing his problem. He turned to Saint Teddy and asked, “Teddy, I’m Phil, by the way. You got a minute?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“Sure, Phil. What’s on your mind?” Teddy replied, still obviously under the influence.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">Phil slid over closer to Teddy, leaned over, and asked, “When you asked if I was a sinner, you already knew, didn’t you? You knew just what kind of life I've lived, right?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">Teddy smiled and nodded. “I know your sins, Phil. Every last one.” He seemed somehow more focused than before to Phil.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“Well, okay, here’s the deal, Teddy. I hear you have certain abilities. You know, healing powers. So, what I’m wondering is can you heal a guilty conscience?” Phil asked, his eyes focused directly on Teddy’s.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“The murders, they bothering you, Phil?” Teddy asked pointedly.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“Yeah, I can’t sleep. I’m haunted by ghosts, Teddy. I’m at the end of my rope. I’m thinking about doin' myself in.” Phil paused and then added, “But I just heard you cure cancer and even bring back the dead. Clearing my conscience, that can’t be too hard for you, can it, Teddy?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">Teddy, suddenly sober as a judge, put his hand on Phil’s and replied, “It’s not me doing those things, Phil. I’m just the actor. Somebody else writes the script, see.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“Sure, sure, Teddy, I get it. But . . . and I’m just asking here . . . is there a chance that a really hard core sinner like me can get some help? I’m not asking for too much, am I, Teddy?” Phil implored. “I’d just like to live out my life without these terrible thoughts in my head.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">Saint Teddy moved off his bar stool and stood right next to Phil. He put his hand on Phil’s shoulder and said, “Your heart is evil, Phi. So, there’s no easy way out for you. But . . . there is something that can be done.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“No, I get it. I’m no Boy Scout, Teddy. So, you said there’s something . . .”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">Teddy was now the soberest man in the room as he continued, “When you die, Phil, I will always be there to bring you back to life, time and again, with the same guilty conscience as before. You try to kill yourself, you’ll be brought back to life. You kill me, somebody else will take my place. This is the plan for you, Phil. Your suffering will continue for as long as deemed necessary.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">And with that, Teddy moved back to his bar stool,turned to the bartender and, slurring his words, ordered another drink. “Make it a double, bartender!”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“Coming right up, Teddy. You, Phil, you ready for another?” the bartender asked as he turned out Teddy’s drink.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">Phil nodded, his shoulders slumping, his eyes fixed in a sleepless, dead stare.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">End<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/73215122023-12-19T14:43:16-07:002023-12-19T14:43:17-07:00Passing Elko - By Brian Law<p><span lang="EN">He was dreaming fitfully when he felt the hand of the trucker on his shoulder shaking him awake and saying, “You asked me to wake you when we passed Elko, pal.” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">Ed opened his eyes for the first time in several hours. The dim glow of the truck’s instrument panel and the back glow of the truck’s headlights were the only light in the darkness that otherwise surrounded the truck as it rolled west down the highway.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">The exhaustion he’d felt when the trucker first picked him up was now gone, but the pain remained. He yawned and stretched, grabbed the rolled-up jacket that had until a minute ago been his pillow and sat upright. He patted the inside pocket of his jacket and found the almost empty pack of cigarettes. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“Mind if I smoke?” he asked the trucker, wincing a bit.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“Nah, be my guest. You still going all the way through to Fresno?” the driver wondered. “I kinda like the company.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">Ed lit up and inhaled. He reached out and opened the dashboard ashtray and put the spent match in. “Fresno? Is that what I told you back there where you picked me up?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“Yeah, you said Fresno. You don’t remember?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“No, Fresno’s fine.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">The two said nothing for a while until the trucker saw a sign that said “Rest Stop 5 Miles Ahead”. He turned to Ed and explained, “I gotta stop and check the load, pal. Go ahead and use the facilities if you want. We’ll stop for about fifteen minutes.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">Ed nodded and said, “Thanks, I will. What’s your load, by the way?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">The trucker chuckled and replied, “A load of new caskets for a funeral home in Fresno, believe it or not. Forty-seven of ‘em, from the cheapest to the most expensive.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">Ed continued to smoke quietly for a few moments without speaking and continuing to stare out the windshield. The trucker turned to him and asked, “This bother you, you know, being on the road with these caskets and all? ‘Cause it doesn’t bother me none. I deliver caskets all the time all over the country.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">Ed asked, “You ever lose one, a casket I mean?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">The driver, downshifting, answered, “Lose one, sure. It happens. Lost one outside of Salt Lake City last month. Why?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">Ed turned towards the trucker and opened his shirt, revealing a gunshot wound. “Jesus, pal. You need a doctor!” the driver exclaimed, upshifting.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“I need a casket. You got forty-seven of them. I got money, plenty of money,” Ed said, his voice weak. “Just pull over. Won’t take much time. We’re in the middle of nowhere. I’ll make it worth your while.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“There’s a place, not far up ahead, just before the rest stop. It’d work. How much money you got?” the driver asked.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“Five thousand.” Ed reached into his jacket and removed a wad of hundreds.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p><span lang="EN">“Okay. We got time. We got two hours of darkness,” the driver replied. “Problem, though. You’re not dead yet.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“Is that really a problem?” Ed replied, his voice weaker yet.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“Nah. Not really,” the driver replied, checking in his rear view mirror and downshifting as he moved onto the shoulder.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">End<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/73092892023-11-25T12:08:30-07:002023-11-25T12:08:30-07:00The Common Touch - By Brian Law<p><span lang="EN">Cadet Miller knocked quietly on the door and announced his presence, “Cadet Jonathan Miller reporting as ordered, sirs!”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">The two young FBI agents were seated at a table with Miller’s file in front of them. They had just interviewed Cadet Jameson and were ready to perform a perfunctory interview with Cadet Miller and clear the case. Open and shut. Miller clearly was their culprit and they both wanted to be back to Albany by Happy Hour.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“Come in, Cadet,” one of the agents sternly replied as they both looked up as the young man entered, his uniform cap neatly tucked under his right arm. “Take a seat. I’m special agent Argent and this is special agent Wilson. We’re from the Albany office of the FBI. We’re investigating the theft of a transistor radio from one Cadet Jameson.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">Cadet Miller sat in the empty chair and placed his cap on the table. He looked nervously at both of the agents and then said, “I’ll help if I can, agents.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">Agent Wilson began, “Good, Miller, good. Now, Cadet Jameson has indicated that his transistor radio was on the table in his room when he left to go take a shower on Thursday, 12 June at about eight o’clock at night. When he returned about fifteen minutes later, the radio was gone. He told us that you were the only person he saw in the hallway when he exited his room and when he returned from the shower. Do you have anything to say about those statements by Cadet Jameson, Miller?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">Cadet Miller cleared his throat and replied, his voice cracking a bit, “Around eight o’clock in the evening on June 12th? Sorry, agents, I don’t specifically recall being in the hallway or not. Of course, if Cadet Jameson says I was, well, he may very well be correct. Of course, people are coming and going all the time in the dormitory halls. But, seeing me at two separate times in the hallway doesn’t necessarily mean anything, does it, especially since it doesn’t seem like Cadet Jameson knows exactly the time his radio was stolen.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">Agent Argent nodded and wrote something down, and then started to say something when Cadet Miller added, “And, of course, there are any number of non-students in the dormitories at night. Janitors, repairmen, tutors and whatnot. I would say that your focus may have to widen from just looking at me, agents, if you really want to do a professional investigation.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">Agent Wilson interjected, “Let us make that decision, Cadet. Now . . “ <o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">But before he could finish, Cadet Miller said, “And there’s always the question of why Cadet Jameson would even have a radio in his room. As you must be aware, first year cadets are prohibited from having anything but their uniforms, their grooming supplies, their computers and their books in their rooms. No cell phones, no radios, no tablets, nothing like that.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">The agents looked at each other and one was about to say something when Cadet Miller said, “Then there’s the question of why Cadet Jameson was taking a shower at that time of the evening. Regulations strictly prohibit showers after six thirty on school nights, agents.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">Agent Wilson tried to get the investigation back on track by saying, “Look, Cadet Miller, we’ve come a long way to get your side of the story, so . . . “ but Miller continued.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“Of course, agents, you will find out through your investigation that Cadet Jameson’s father is a politically-connected billionaire and as a result his son gets away with a lot.” Miller paused and then added, “For instance, he has that radio, he has a small television, and he often has female companionship after dark. Some say he meets these females in the showers. It’s not up to me to say for sure. But, you really should look into that aspect, agents. You never know. One of those girls could have taken the radio.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">Agent Wilson looked nervously at the tape recorder that the agents had running on the table top. He was beginning to wonder whether getting this all on tape was such a good idea when Cadet Miller interrupted his thought process by adding, “And you probably will find out anyway, so I guess I can tell you what everybody here knows. Jameson is a White Supremicist, no doubt. Now that may be completely irrelevant to your investigation. As is the fact that he’s running an illegal gambling book among the cadets. Again, that may be irrelevant, but it might bear looking into, especially since I won four hundred dollars from his gambling operation on June 11th, the day before he says I stole his radio, agents.” Again he paused and then continued, “Now, would I really need to steal a little radio if I had just won that kind of money? Or is it maybe that Jameson is upset at me and perhaps wishes to sully my name with these unfounded allegations. You tell me, agents. You’re the experts at ferreting out the truth, right?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">As the two agents fidgeted nervously in their chairs trying to figure how to get Miller back in their sights, Miller went on, “And I’m sure you agents have more important investigations to pursue. Like terrorists, bank robbers, complaining parents at local school board meetings and the like. So, if there’s nothing else I can help you with, I’d like to get back to my studies. I have a History exam in the morning and I haven’t read the chapters yet.” At that, Cadet Miller stood up, placed his cap firmly under his arm and did an about face to the utter surprise and amazement of the two agents.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">As Cadet Miller closed the door, Agent Wilson looked at Agent Argent and said, “Jesus, Walt, whatta we do now? This kid Miller’s got us between a rock and a hard place. Can you imagine what Jameson’s father could do to our careers if any of this stuff got out about his son?” He reached over and turned off the tape recorder, removed the cassette and pulled the tape out and threw it in the waste basket.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“But we have to submit a report, Jim!” Agent Wilson replied. As they both thought for a moment, Wilson suggested, “Let’s do a background check on these non-students who are around the dormitory at night. We’ll find some with sketchy backgrounds and suggest that anyone of them could be our culprit. But we’ll have to conclude that we couldn’t find enough proof to point to any one person, including Cadet Miller.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">"Sounds like a plan. And you gotta hand it to that Cadet Miller. Quite the straight shooter, if you ask me. Would have been a real mistake to focus on that young kid. Could have ruined his military career," Agent Argent concluded. His partner nodded in return.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p><span lang="EN">Back in his room with the door closed, Cadet Miller put his feet up his desk, leaned back and turned on his newly acquired transistor radio to his favorite channel. As he listened through his earphones, he poured himself two fingers of Irish Whiskey he'd recently won in a poker game in the boiler room with some of the girls from the next college over.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">And he checked his watch. The Cadet he was paying two hundred dollars to summarize five chapters of History for him was due in a few minutes. He'd better hide the radio and use some mouthwash.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">After all, he had a reputation to protect.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">End<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/73092882023-11-25T12:07:59-07:002023-11-25T12:07:59-07:00Cold to the Touch - By Brian Law<p>“Your Honor, the State calls as its next witness, Vlad Nicolescu,” the prosecutor announced.</p><p>The Judge turned to the defense attorney and asked, “Have you stipulated that Mr. Nicolescu is an expert in his field, Mr. Dennis?”</p><p>“Yes, your Honor, the defense has so stipulated,” the defendant’s lawyer replied, standing.</p><p>“Very well, then, Mr. Nicolescu, please take the stand,” the Judge directed.</p><p>The jurors watched with fascination as a pale, thin man rose from the spectator gallery and walked slowly to the witness stand. When asked to place his hand on the Bible by the Bailiff, he shook his head and said something to the Judge. And with that, the Judge just shrugged and waved the witness to the witness box without further ceremony.</p><p>The Prosecutor cleared his throat and addressed the witness, “Mr. Nicolescu, why are you here today in this courtroom?”</p><p>“I am an expert witness for the Prosecution,” came the hollow response.</p><p>“And just what is your expertise, Mr. Nicolescu?” the Prosecutor continued.</p><p>“I am an expert at blood extraction.”</p><p>“Is there a commonplace name for that, Mr. Nicolescu, one that the jury members might be more familiar with?” the prosecutor asked, glancing over to the twelve jurors.</p><p>A thin smile crossed the witness’s face as he turned to the jury and replied, “I am a vampire.” Hearing that, the jurors all abruptly straightened in their seats and paid rapt attention.</p><p>Continuing, the prosecutor asked, “And how long have you been a vampire, sir?”</p><p>“Ever since being bitten by another vampire in the year sixteen ninety-seven in a forest in what was then known as Bessarabia. I was twelve years old at the time.”</p><p>“And what training did you undergo in the ensuing years to acquire the skills needed to become a successful vampire, Mr, Nicolescu?” the prosecutor asked.</p><p>“I was taken in by a local group of vampires and ‘homeschooled”, as it were, for about a hundred years, give or take. My training included learning how to shape shift, how to seduce my victims, how to evade capture, personal hygiene, and dozens of other skills,” the witness answered.</p><p>“So, sir,” the prosecutor said, looking over at the Defense table, “would it then be safe to say that to become a Vampire one doesn’t simply acquire the needed skill set in a weekend seminar?”</p><p>The witness nodded and replied, “Correct. It takes generations of training under watchful eyes to become a true vampire, sir. To suggest otherwise is just false. There are no shortcuts.”</p><p>“Thank you, Mr. Nicolescu. Now, at the end of your training, did you receive any sort of certification or official recognition of your achievement?”</p><p>“There was a ceremony which took several days. Vampires from all over the world attended. It was a big deal. My name was inscribed on the wall of a cave somewhere in the Carpathian Mountains where it remains to this day with names of all the Vampires throughout history. But, no, no document or certificate,” Nicolescu recounted.</p><p>“So, Mr. Nicolescu, you are aware, are you not, that the defendant has been accused of sucking the blood of four people resulting in their deaths and is using the fact that he is a vampire as a defense?” the prosecutor continued. “In essence, the defendant is arguing he became a vampire without his consent and therefore could not help himself.”</p><p>“Yes, I am aware of that.”</p><p>Continuing the questioning, the prosecutor asked, “And you were asked by the prosecution to examine the defendant to determine the validity of his claim that he is a vampire. Did you so examine the defendant?”</p><p>“Yes. I examined the defendant over a period of days in his jail cell a month ago.”</p><p>“And what was the result of that examination process, Mr. Nicolescu? Is the defendant a vampire in your expert opinion?” the prosecutor asked.</p><p>The witness turned towards the jury and answered in a disembodied voice, “At the time of the murders, the defendant was not a vampire, in my expert opinion.”</p><p>“And what led you to that expert conclusion, Mr. Nicolescu?” the prosecutor asked.</p><p>“Several things. First, vampires do not typically kill their victims. That is a common misconception. They merely subdue their victims so that they can periodically harvest their blood. In my entire career as a vampire I have only heard of one vampire killing one of his victims, and that was accidental. It just isn’t done!”</p><p>Nicolescu looked over at the jury and continued, “Second, the defendant was extremely vague about when he was bitten by a vampire. His story changed often. And when pressed for details about how he felt in the hours and days after he was bitten, the emotions he described were not those of the typical victim of a vampire.”</p><p>“And then there was his daily routine after he said he was bitten. He went to work as a landscaper, outside and in broad daylight! Clearly not something a vampire could endure!”</p><p>“Finally, and this is probably the most important point, his body temperature at the time of my examination was normal,” Nicolescu explained. “Anyone who knows anything about vampires knows that this is just not possible.”</p><p>The prosecutor stood and said, “Thank you, Mr. Nicolescu, for your testimony. Your Honor, I have no more questions for this witness.”</p><p>The Judge turned to the defendant’s lawyer and asked, “Mr. Dennis, do you wish to cross-examine?”</p><p>As Mr. Dennis prepared to rise, his client leaned over and whispered something into his ear. His lawyer looked surprised and for a moment even a bit stunned. And then the defendant took his hand and put it into his lawyer’s hand and held on for a long moment.</p><p>“Mr. Dennis, we’re waiting,” the Judge announced.</p><p>“Yes, your Honor. Pardon the delay. I just have one question for Mr. Nicolescu,” the defendant’s lawyer responded. “You, sir, stated that the defendant’s body temperature at the time of your examination was normal. Yet, it is clear that at this moment, the defendant’s body temperature is clearly cold to the touch . . . subnormal. How do you explain this apparent contradiction, sir?”</p><p>Nicolescu just shrugged, crossed his legs, clasped his hands in his lap, leaned back in the witness box and replied, “No contradiction, sir. You can’t expect to put a vampire in a jail cell for several days with a healthy human and expect nothing to happen. Really, sir, you can’t be that naive.”</p><p>End</p><p> </p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/72835392023-10-05T18:11:44-07:002023-10-16T07:57:28-07:00The Page Turner - By Brian Law<p><span lang="EN">The old woman lifted the cup of tea to her lips with difficulty. She sipped with care and then held the cup in her lap and waited for the next question. She did not try to hide either her disfigured hand or the tattoo on her inner right arm.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“Did you know about the piano player before you were sent to the Camps?” the man asked.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“We all did,” she replied with a smile. “He was the next Chopin. All of Poland knew of his greatness. And at only nine years of age!”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“So, how did it happen that you were not gassed?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“Ah, yes,” she said, sipping her tea. “Why me? Out of all the others.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">The man waited for her answer. He knew enough not to rush her.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“It was because I mended his coat, you see,” she answered. “I was spared from death when I arrived at the Camp because I was a skilled seamstress. I would not have lasted long, regardless, but I was given his coat which was torn.” She paused and then added, “There was something about my work that intrigued him. He asked to meet me.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“So, the Nazis knew all along who he was and were catering to his needs. Is that what you are saying?” the man asked.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“Oh, yes, they knew who he was and how great he was. They were not about to murder the greatest pianist since Chopin. He was to be protected and nourished. And I was chosen, out of all the others, to assist him.” She paused, leaned back in her chair, and winced with pain. Then she continued and said, “He wanted to see my right hand, you see. He thought the hand that had done such a marvelous job of stitching his torn coat must be just what he needed.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“And what was that?” the man asked.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“Why, his music page turner, of course,” she said, the smile returning to her face.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“So, I assume you got better food, were bathed regularly, got better clothing and helped him perform. Is that correct?” he asked.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“Yes, we performed for the Camp command staff often, sometimes for the S.S. guards, and once even for Himmler when he visited. Never for the inmates, never,” she replied. “He said that my hand turning the pages of his music was like an angel from above. It gave him strength and purpose, he told me. . . and then we were liberated.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“And you stayed together and found yourself in London in the late 1940’s.” the man pointed out.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“Yes, and he became famous and performed worldwide for the next thirty-seven years. And I was with him daily, rehearsing with him, assisting his performances, and providing support at all times. It was marvelous for both of us,” she explained.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“But then something happened. Is that correct?” the man asked, a look of concern coming over him as he glanced down at her right hand.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“Yes. I found out, quite by accident, that I had been chosen from hundreds of young women to be his page turner. And that my two sisters were among those others.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">The man looked at her and asked, “And he knew what would happen to those who weren’t chosen?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“Yes, he knew, and yet kept looking until he found me.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">The man breathed in deeply and said, “What did you do when you found out?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">The old woman held up her right hand and said in a strong voice, “I went to his liquor cabinet late one night, poured his brandy over this hand and lit it on fire.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">The man said nothing but waited for her to continue.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“And from that point on, his career was over,” she said. “He had become so dependent upon me and my hand for his success that without it he couldn’t perform.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">The man interjected. “So, you robbed him of the one thing that made his life meaningful?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“As he did to me,” she concluded, resting her disfigured hand in her lap once more.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">End<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/72835382023-10-05T18:11:18-07:002023-10-05T18:11:18-07:00Power Forward - By Brian Law<p><span lang="EN">Walt Johnson removed his fourth paper cup of coffee from the hospital’s vending machine, returned to his seat in the waiting room and sat down with the rest of the expectant fathers.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">He was bleary eyed as he hunched forward, exhausted from the waiting and worrying. As he sipped from his coffee cup, a man slipped a business card onto the table in front of him, but said nothing. Walt looked at the man and with his interest piqued, picked up the card and read it. The card had the mascot of the local college’s basketball team embossed on it, and a name underneath it . . . Hector Cruz, recruiter.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“What’s this, mister?” Walt asked the man, holding the card up.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“Call me Hector, Walt,” the man replied, smiling. “The hospital called me when your wife went into labor, so I got over as soon as I could so we could talk a bit about your baby’s future.” Then, looking around, he suggested that he and Walt move to a more private area and talk.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“Our baby's future?” Walt wondered, still confused about why a basketball recruiter would be stalking him at a maternity ward at four o’clock in the morning.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“Confused, huh, Walt?” Cruz said, again smiling. “Most of our clients respond that way at first. It’s typical.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“Clients? I’m not your client,” Walt responded, a tone to his voice. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“Well, hear me out and you can decide later, Walt. But let me put you in the picture first,” Cruz explained as he corralled Walt to a separate table for just the two of them. He told Walt that the hospital had an arrangement with the local college. Pregnant women within a certain profile were identified and the college was provided with their names and their key data.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">Walt nodded and interrupted, “So, because my wife and I were both college athletes, me in basketball and Helen in volleyball, and because the baby is obviously going to be big at birth, they contacted you guys, right?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“You’re quicker than most, Walt,” Cruz retorted. “And we’d like to establish a relationship with you and your wife, an informal one.” He slid a sealed manila envelope across the table discreetly. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN"> “What’s this?” Walt asked.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“Just a friendly gesture, Walt,” Cruz answered. “No strings. Just something to show you and your wife that we’re serious.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">Walt picked up the envelope and peaked inside. It was filled with a neat stack of new one hundred dollar bills with the familiar face of Ben Franklin staring back. “No strings?” Walt asked, his tone changing.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“No strings.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">Just then, someone from the hospital walked over to the table and announced, “Mr. Johnson, you’re the proud father of a new baby boy, sir. Mother and baby are doing very well.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">Walt, ecstatic, jumped up and asked, “How big is he?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“Oh, my, Mr. Johnson, he’s a big one. He weighed 14 pounds, 2 ounces and was 30 inches long at birth. Biggest baby we’ve seen in years,” the staff member beamed.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">Walt looked at Cruz, grinned, and held out his hand. “Be seeing you again, I presume, Mr. Cruz. Informally, of course,” Walt said confidently, pocketing the manila envelope.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">As the two men shook hands, Cruz leaned over and whispered in Walt’s ear, “Your boy beat Shaq by two ounces and four inches, Walt. Congrats! See you about a year from now. Can’t wait to meet the boy.” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">Turning to leave, Cruz stopped and over his shoulder asked, “By the way, what are you naming the boy, Walt?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">Walt looked up and replied, “Well, we looked at hundreds of names and were thinking Benjamin, Cruz.” He paused, and taking out the envelope filled with hundred dollar bills and watching Cruz for his reaction added, “But now that we know how big he is, I’m kinda thinking we'll have to look at maybe a thousand more names. Grover comes to mind.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">Cruz, not blinking, nodded and said, "Grover is good, Walt. We can do Grover."<o:p></o:p></span></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">End</span></p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/72596052023-08-19T09:01:00-07:002023-08-19T09:01:00-07:00Johnny Agenda - By Brian Law<p><span lang="EN">The Deputy, nearly out of breath, rushed into the Sheriff’s Office where his Boss was dozing in his chair, his boots up on his desk, his hat covering his face. “Sheriff, Sheriff, ya gotta come right now! Somethin’s bad gonna happen right soon!”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">The Sheriff was used to his high-strung Deputy getting all riled up about little things so he took his time swinging his boots off the desk and sitting up in his chair. “Okay, Deputy, what is it this time? A cow caught on the train tracks?”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“No, Sheriff, no! He’s back, Sheriff. Johnny Agenda is back in town. He’s drinkin’ down at Uncle Bill’s Saloon and sayin’ things, Sheriff. Dangerous things. Ya gotta go down there and put a stop to it, Sheriff,” the Deputy continued.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">The Sheriff was no stranger to danger. He’d been at Wyatt Earp’s side in Dodge City and had helped clean up Abilene with Bill Hickok. He’d seen a lot of rough characters in his time. But Johnny Agenda presented a unique kind of risk. A risk that would scare off most men. Some things just can’t be fixed with a shotgun or a brace of pistols. And Johnny Agenda was one of those things.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“Sheriff, you want me to grab a rifle and come with you on this one?” the Deputy asked, hoping the Sheriff would decline the offer.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p><span lang="EN"> </span><o:p></o:p></p><p><span lang="EN">The Sheriff shook his head. “Remember what Agenda did down in Tascosa, Deputy? He turned that whole town upside down in just a couple of hours of talkin’. And the Sheriff there had five deputies loaded for bear. Didn’t do no good down there, Deputy, and it won’t do no good up here. No, you stay here. I gotta handle this situation my ownself.” He straightened his hat, stuck an unlit cigar in his mouth, and as he headed for his office door and Uncle Bill’s Saloon he asked the Deputy, “How long’s he been shootin’ off his mouth, Deputy? Has he got the whole town up in a lather yet?”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">The Deputy, relieved he wasn’t going to be needed, informed the Sheriff, “Maybe so. He’s been at it for the better part of three hours, Sheriff. The Saloon’s packed and there’s an overflow crowd out onto the street. You don’t have much time, Sheriff. It may already be too late.”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">The Sheriff stepped out into the midday heat, squinted his eyes, adjusted his hat, and turned toward the sound of the crowd down the street. He knew he couldn’t take on the whole crowd and so there was only one way to grab hold of this situation before it wrecked the town. He had to settle this mano a mano with Agenda. And he had to make sure that the crowd stayed out of it.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">As he approached Uncle Bill’s Saloon, some in the crowd spotted him walking tall down the middle of Main Street and told the others. The crowd, angry and nearly out of control after listening to Agenda for several hours, turned their attention to the lawman as he approached. Several started to yell out epithets. Some wanted to run the lawman out of town. But he kept on coming, unafraid.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">Agenda’s booming voice could be heard from inside the Saloon. It was his usual blather. The Sheriff had heard it all before. “Your elected officials are all in on it! The elections are all rigged! You’re all being played for suckers and you’re paying for it! Pretty soon they’ll be nothing left for law abiding, God fearing, hard working citizens like you!”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">The outer ring of the crowd at first didn’t look like it was going to let the Sheriff through, but then they thought better of beating up on an eighty-two year old man and cleared a path towards the front door.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">More lies spewed forth from the man inside as the Sheriff pushed open the door to Uncle Bill’s Saloon and stood there listening. “There’s only one way to take care of the Indian menace and that’s to round ‘em all up and wall ‘em off.”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">The crowd inside turned as one and faced the Sheriff. They, too, were reluctant to take on this old legend of the West and so a path was parted from the front door to where Agenda was standing and telling one last lie. “You folks ought to be able to cut down as many trees as you can for farmland. Don’t believe them when they tell you it will lead to disaster later. It’s a hoax, folks!”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">The lawman ambled up to where Agenda was standing. The Sheriff said nothing but got close enough so that nobody except Agenda could see what he pulled from inside his coat pocket. He held it out for a few seconds to let Agenda get a good look at it, then put whatever it was back into his pocket and turned and headed for the door and back to his office.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">The crowd closed in behind the Sheriff and turned its attention towards Johnny Agenda. They were hungry for more of his rants, but all they got was an empty platform. Agenda had disappeared out the side door and was long gone on his waiting horse.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">There was some grumbling and some more epithets, but within a few short minutes the crowd had started to disband and by Noon the street was back to normal and folks were about their Sunday business.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">The Sheriff got back to his office without incident where he hung up his gunbelt and resumed his position in his chair with his boots up on his desk for a well-deserved nap, his hat tipped down covering his face. He was fast asleep and dreaming when his Deputy barged in about an hour later wanting to know how he had handled the crowd.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">Without moving from his chair, and with his hat still covering his face, the Sheriff reached inside his coat and withdrew what he had shown Johnny Agenda. He threw it onto his desk for his Deputy to see.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p><span lang="EN"> </span><o:p></o:p></p><p><span lang="EN">The Deputy reached down, picked it up, looked at it and smiled. It was a photograph, one of those new-fangled things from the East that lets someone capture images on paper with something called a camera.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">The picture was of Johnny Agenda with a very young girl. Wouldn’t do for that picture to get around to all these law abiding, God fearing, hard working citizens to see. No, siree, wouldn’t do at all.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">End</span><o:p></o:p></p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/72596042023-08-19T09:00:29-07:002023-08-19T09:00:30-07:00Fierce - By Brian Law<p><span lang="EN">The two old men, lifelong friends, sat together at the rear of the small cafe. It was what they did each Thursday morning since they had ‘retired’ from The Family. They talked about old times, old rivalries, old rivalries settled. Today they were talking about their old boss.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“He had an unusual way of telling you what to do, ya know?” Gino related. “It wasn’t like he was the Boss and you was the underling. You know what I mean?”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">Vito nodded and sipped some wine.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“He would say things like ‘If I was you, which I am not, I would make sure so-and-so was taken care of.’ Like that, ya know. Never came right out and said, ‘Whack the guy’,” Gino continued. “Classy guy. Kept his hands clean.”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">Vito leaned in, his hands together on the table, and nodded, “Yeah, there’s a word that describes a guy like that. Can’t think of it right now. Too much of this,” he said, raising his wine glass. “Anyway, it’ll come to me.”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“And he could run a whole meeting like that,” Gino said. “I was upstate once, doing security for him. The meet was in some old farmhouse in the boonies. Everybody was there. All the old bosses. And he was runnin’ the show. And he’d just sit there and nod or shake his head and everybody knew what it meant. Hardly said a word and things got done just the way he wanted. It was unfrikin’ believable.”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“Yeah, yeah, I know. And I’ve got this word on the tip of my tongue. It describes him to a ‘T’. But . . . I just can’t remember it,” Vito added, frustrated.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“And that look he had. Oh, Jesus. Scary as Hell. Froze me in my tracks a coupla times, ya know. I’d be talking, goin’ on, and then I’d say somethin’ and he’d give me that look. Nobody, and I mean nobody, could scare me like that,” Gino said.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“Yeah, there’s a word for that. I’m tryin’ to think of it,” Vito replied. “Jesus, it’s hard gettin’ old.”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“And him being dead for, what, twelve years now. And I can still remember that look. Christ, the guy was fierce! I’m tellin’ you. The guy was somethin’ else,” Gino continued.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“The word. I almost had it,” Vito said, excitedly. “I’m gonna get it. It’s on the tip of my tongue.”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">Gino said nothing for a moment as he stared coldly at his old friend. Then he said, “Ya know, he told me right before he died. He said, ‘Gotta watch that Vito. He talks too much.’”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">Vito froze.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“You still think there’s a word, Vito?” Gino asked menacingly.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">Vito could feel his heart beating loudly in his chest as he answered carefully, “Word? No, there’s no word, Gino. My mistake.”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">End</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/72424132023-07-15T08:23:22-07:002023-07-15T08:23:22-07:00Dwight . . . from Testing - By Brian Law<p><span lang="EN">"General, I have a question,” one of the engineers announced from the back of the room.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“Yes, Jim, go ahead. I remember you from my last visit,” the General replied.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“Sir, our Company’s first contract with the Defense Department was the design and production of the MS-42 model. As I recall, you bought forty thousand of those units back in 2023. How have they worked out, sir?” Jim asked.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“That’s a good question, Jim. Let me remind those of you who weren’t here thirteen years ago that the Defense Department back then decided to use androids to replace cooks, clerical workers, truck drivers, data entry people, warehouse men, and other similar positions. The results were, as many of you know who worked on that project, spectacular. In fact, ninety-four percent of those androids are still functioning. Congratulations, folks, on a job well done,” the General explained. “And, in 2030, we built on that relationship we had with your company to order the MS-75 model, which at the time was the first marriage of androids with artificial intelligence. Your design team provided us with over seventeen thousand of these units which were integrated as instructors in every facet of our training programs.”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“So what brings you here today, General?” a voice from the rear asked. “It’s not often we are blessed with a man of your position visiting our engineering team.”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">The General stood silent for a moment and then began, “I’m here to explain a problem that the Defense Department has been wrestling with for several years now. Many of our new recruits, especially the Army and Marine recruits, are, shall we say, quite adverse to inflicting harm on other humans. It seems that generations of video game watching has changed the mind-set of our younger people. They can easily inflict harm in games, but not in real life. And as you can imagine, that presents a real problem for the Defense Department. You can't run a real war with a bunch of pacifists.”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">The small group of engineers and technicians began to move nervously in their seats. They sensed where the General was going with this.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“And it would be fairly simple,” the General continued, “for the Defense Department to order a hundred thousand or so androids from your company for the purpose of introducing our new recruits into what it’s really like to inflict harm, or even death, on a very lifelike android. In short, to get them over their namby pamby attitudes towards killing.” He let that statement hang in the air as he watched the reaction of the group. Then he added, “But, we know that you folks would probably have something to say about that. Correct?”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">A rail-thin young man rose in the front row and responded. “General, we build androids who are so lifelike, so realistic, so human-like that they actually become our friends. What you are asking us to do is to send our friends to their gruesome deaths, sir!”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">Another engineer stood up and continued this line of thinking. “To think that we would allow you to use our androids for bayonet practice, hand-to-hand combat training, target practice, or whatever, is unthinkable, General. Simply unthinkable. For all intents and purposes, these are sentient beings. We won’t do it! No amount of money will make this work, sir!”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">The General held up his hand and spoke, “We at the Defense Department know that. And that’s why I’m here today. Let me explain. In all our previous contracts, we specified that the androids you designed were to have likable personalities with personalities that would make them good team members and trustworthy companions. And you did that and did it well. And the result was you created near-human androids with whom you bonded. Completely understandable, as are your objections to your androids being used in combat training. So, we think we have a solution.”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“What’s that, General?” another engineer asked skeptically.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">The General cleared his throat and responded, “We want you to design and build androids with extremely unlikable personalities . . . personalities that are repellent. We want androids who are natural-born liars, cheats, bullies, racists, you name it. Really disgusting types. We want you engineers and technicians to hate these androids. We want you to not give a damn about what happens to these androids when you send them to us. Understand?"</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">The engineers and technicians sat silent for a few moments. Then one spoke up and said, “You mean you want us to produce androids with personalities like Dwight, in Testing?”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">The rest of the group broke out in loud laughter and then spontaneous applause. Heads nodded in unison. “Yeah, like Dwight,” they yelled enthusiastically.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">The General turned to the President of the Company and quietly asked, “I’d like to meet this Dwight from Testing, Bob. Seems he might just be the solution to our problem.”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">End</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p> </p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/72424122023-07-15T08:22:34-07:002023-07-15T08:22:34-07:00Who's Leon - By Brian Law<p><span lang="EN">It was the typical Sunday family dinner at the Franchetti’s house with the usual assortment of aunts, uncles, brothers, and sisters in attendance. And, of course, Grandpa Franchetti. </span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">Grandpa was the patriarch of the family and always sat in the same seat . . . closest to the bathroom. He was ninety-three, a widower, had all his hair and was still sharp as a tack, his memory faultless. And he had the energy of men thirty years younger. The women of the family doted on him.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">The table was filled to capacity with homemade Italian food and several bottles of homemade red wine stood half empty. The conversation was nonstop and the hand gestures more noticeable as the bottles of wine were passed around.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">And Grandpa was right in the middle of it all. He watched, listened and at just the right times interjected his comments. They were always intelligent, to the point, and everyone stopped and politely listened to what this wise old man would say. </span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">And then he said something that stopped the whole dinner party in its tracks. “Who’s Leon?” Grandpa said out of the blue as someone across the table was discussing Leon Franchetti, a family member who was not in attendance. Grandpa said it unapologetically and as soon as he said it, he returned to eating his meal.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p><span lang="EN">But the rest of the family stopped eating. They had all heard about Grandpa’s father, Vito, whom none of them had met, and who had died in the Old Country when Grandpa was twenty years old. The rumor was that Greatgrandpa Vito was a vital, strong, and wise man who also was sharp as a tack, but who near his untimely end would also forget about close family members, and ask, “Who’s So and So?” And shortly thereafter, that person would be dead.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">And the rumor was that Greatgrandpa Vito in this strange way predicted the imminent deaths of seven of his close family members. And now it was his son, Grandpa Franchetti, who might have inherited the same ability.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">The silence around the table was only broken by the sound of Grandpa continuing to eat his dinner. His eldest daughter, Maria, was the first to speak as she suggested, “Grandpa, why don’t I take you into the other room to watch the ball game, okay? Here, let me help you with your dinner. You can finish it as you sit and watch?”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">She helped Grandpa into the other room, got him settled in watching the ball game, and returned to her seat in front of the other silent and ashen-faced family members. No one spoke, but Maria had removed Grandpa from the table because she knew a family conversation needed to begin. But she realized it would be a moment as the meaning of Grandpa’s raw question continued to sink in . . .</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">After a few silent moments, Rick’s cell phone rang and he answered it. The rest of the family listened intently for clues of what the call was about, but heard nothing but “un-hus” and “Yes, I understands”. </span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">At the end of the phone call, Rick took a deep breath and said, “That was Leon’s wife. He’s in the hospital. There’s been a bad accident.”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">One of the sisters started to sob at the other end of the table. Her brother put his arm around her shoulders and comforted her and said, “It might just be a crazy coincidence. We shouldn’t jump to conclusions.”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">Just then, Maria’s youngest son, Georgie, came into the dining room and went to his mother’s side. He smiled and said,” Mom, Grandpa wants a beer. Is it okay if I get him one?” The rest of them smiled, too. Little Georgie’s presence sort of broke the tense ice of the moment and the rest of the family started to slowly eat their dinners again.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“Of course, Georgie. But put it in a glass, dear,” Maria instructed as she sent him off to the kitchen.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“Oh, and Georgie, be sure to use a coaster!” she yelled after him as he disappeared into the kitchen.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">From another room came Grandpa’s voice, loud and strong, and without guile, “Who’s Georgie?”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">End</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/72308752023-06-22T16:12:30-07:002023-06-22T16:12:31-07:00Dry Run - By Brian Law<p><span lang="EN">He waited at the bus stop across the street until he saw the sign on the bar change from ‘Closed’ to ‘Open’. Bars were few and far between in this remote part of Oklahoma, which was fine with him. He figured that after he got a snoot full, he could sleep it off in the nearby park and nobody would notice.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">He checked the date printed on his driver’s license one last time, pulled up the collar on his high school letterman's jacket against the wind, and loped across the street to the front door. It was seven in the morning and he was sure he would be the first and only customer. He didn’t want a lot of spectators just in case he got a little goofy under the influence.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">The place was small and dark, dominated by the bar and a big screen television. He wanted to take in every aspect of this experience, so he stood in the open doorway a bit longer than was necessary. </span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“Hey, kid, either come in or don’t, but close the damn door!” the bartender yelled out. </span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“Sorry,” he replied as he closed the door behind him and continued to take in the ambience of the dusky little bar. “Where do you want me to sit, sir?”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“How about over here by me, kid. That way I won’t have to work so hard.”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">He nodded and moved to the barstool closest to the television. Sitting down, he put his arms on the bar with his hands together, a bit anxious about just how this rite of passage was supposed to go down. “So, sir,” he asked, “How does this work? It’s my first time. I just turned twenty-one.”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">The bartender smiled and leaned on the bar; his bar rag slung over his shoulder. “A virgin, huh? Well, the first rule is I gotta see your driver’s license. So, plop it down on the bar and let’s just see if you’re really legal.”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">He pulled out his wallet, extracted his Arkansas driver’s license, and laid it on the bar. Picking up the license, the bartender turned his back and moved to where he had better lighting. Without turning back to the kid, he asked, “Okay, what’s your name and birth date, son?”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">He looked at the back of the bartender’s head and replied proudly, “I’m James Worthy and I was born twenty-one years ago today, sir. Two thousand and two, April first.”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">Turning back to the kid, the bartender handed the license to him and asked, “Okay, but what time of day were you born? You know, what did it say on your birth certificate, kid?”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“Uh, let’s see. I was born at 1:28, sir.”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“Morning or afternoon, kid?”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“Afternoon, sir. But why does that make any difference? Didn’t I just turn twenty-one at midnight?” </span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">The bartender shook his head and informed the kid that a local ordinance in this part of Oklahoma prevented serving alcohol to someone until </span><i><span lang="EN">exactly</span></i><span lang="EN"> twenty-one years had passed since birth. “So, kid, you’re about six hours too early. I can get you a coke, but no booze. Not until 1:28 this afternoon. It’s the law, kid,” the bartender solemnly told him.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">He looked at the bartender, then turned and looked around at the empty bar and asked, “Who’s gonna know, sir? We’re alone here. How about just one beer?”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“You might be a plant from those nutbags at the Alcohol Commission, trying to pull my license,” the bartender responded. “I can’t take the chance. No way, kid. Come back in about six hours when you’re legal.”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“You know, sir, come to think of it, it was 1:28 in the morning. Yep, I was born early in the morning. So, can I have that drink now?” he said, nervously.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“You’re a crappy liar, kid. And besides, I got you on video,” the bartender explained, pointing to a security camera over the television. </span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“Well, is there any other place close where I can get a drink where they don’t have that stupid ordinance, sir?” he pleaded.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“Not close enough, kid. By the time you’d get there, I could be serving you your first beer,” the bartender replied. “I think you’re gonna have to stay right here for a while until you get a little older, son.”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">He checked his watch and realized his big day was ruined. If everything had gone as planned, he should have been well into his second boilermaker by now. But the idiot ordinance and this stickler-for-details old bartender had conspired to make it all a big disaster. The story he had planned to tell his buddies back in Arkansas about getting drunk for the first time way out in no-wheres-ville Oklahoma had turned into a nightmare of rejection and humiliation. He swung around on the barstool, his shoulders slumped and headed for the front door, his eyes downcast.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">He half expected the bartender to take pity on him and call him back, but that didn’t happen. All he heard was the clinking of glass and the television in the background as the bartender went about his business. The only good thing about it was that there were no witnesses to his defeat other than the bartender.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">He reached for the doorknob and slowly opened the front door of the bar. Instead of a desolate, windswept street, there in front of him were a cluster of his Arkansas buddies, tightly packed and grinning like a bunch of fools.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“April Fools, Jimmy!” they all yelled in unison.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">It took him a moment to figure out just what was going on. And then he started grinning, too, and as he turned the bartender strode out from behind the bar with a big mug of draft beer in his hand.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“Here ya go, kid. First of many today!” the bartender said as he handed him the overflowing mug. “No hard feelings, I hope.”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">Now, as he stood there surrounded by his buddies and with a big mug of cold beer in his hand, he couldn’t help but wonder what his friends had in store for him in that other area of life he knew little or nothing about.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">And that's when out of the corner of his eye he saw the woman in the tight red dress standing over by the television.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p><span lang="EN">She looked like she knew what she was doing.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">"No, no hard feelings, sir," Jimmy said as he raised the mug of beer to his mouth, his eyes firmly on the woman in the red dress.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">End</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/72308742023-06-22T16:11:41-07:002023-06-22T16:11:41-07:00A Range of Emotions - By Brian Law<p><span lang="EN">Rory looked at the business card again and then up at the man across from him at the large desk. “So, this </span><i><span lang="EN">is</span></i><span lang="EN"> the place, right?”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">The man smiled and replied, “Yes, Mr. Avery, you’re in the right place.” He turned his chair a bit and started to type into a computer as he continued, “Now, we don’t usually take walk-ins. But your situation is unique, so we’ve decided to make an exception. Just so you understand, sir.”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">Rory nodded enthusiastically. He’d been fretting for weeks about his situation but was frustrated. He had no experience getting even with those who had falsely accused him. But what had been done to him by people he had trusted could not go unanswered. And that was what brought him to the man’s office this morning. He glanced at the card again and mouthed the words embossed on it, “Revenge, Inc.” Looking up again, he said, “Okay, so where do we go from here?”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">The man behind the desk stopped typing, stood up and moved over to a white board where he picked up a magic marker and wrote three short phrases in longhand:</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN"> Take Your Time</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN"> Let Your Emotions Settle</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN"> Learn About Your Adversaries</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“Let’s take this first item, Mr. Avery. You’ve come here not only out of frustration at what’s been done to you, but also in great anger. And you want retribution against your enemies. It drives you crazy to think they’ve got away with lying about you. Does that reasonably describe where you are at, Mr. Avery?” the man asked.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">Rory’s face betrayed his frustration and anger as he nodded and said under his breath, “In spades!”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“Fine. So, the first thing you have to do is realize that we will not help you in your search for revenge until that frustration and anger have cooled. Revenge, Mr. Avery, is a process best planned and executed with cold rationality. If you want instant gratification, go to the Mafia, sir.” The man looked at Rory and asked, “So, are you willing to cool down, Mr. Avery? Because if you aren’t, this meeting is over.”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">Rory breathed out, sat very still for a moment, and then reluctantly replied, “Okay. I understand. . . but it won’t be easy.”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">The man then pointed to the second phrase and continued, “We’re going to put you in touch with some experts who will guide you in settling your emotions, Mr. Avery. I think you will be surprised how quickly our methods will turn that frustration and anger of yours into something much more productive.”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">Rory was already a bit calmer than when he entered a few minutes before. So he asked the question that was at the top of his mind, “So, I’m guessing that you guys employ a lot of people for all kinds of situations. What I need is a couple of guys, you know, some muscle, who can beat the crap out of a few people. Can you make that happen?”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">The man smiled, sat down at his computer again and explained, “That’s not how we work, Mr. Avery. We don’t actually get involved in physical revenge. We leave that up to you. What we do is advise you on forming a comprehensive plan. We probe your enemies for their weaknesses and vulnerabilities. We train you in certain special skills you will need. And that takes time.”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“How much time are we talking about?” Rory wondered as he began to understand that what he wanted was going to be a longer process than he had anticipated. “Weeks?”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“Years, Mr. Avery, years. We wait and we plan. And the plan we develop will be exquisite, comprehensive, and one that can never, ever be traced back to you. . . or us.” Then he added, “The plan will take care of everyone, sir. Even some of whom you are not currently aware of.”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">Rory sat back in his chair. </span><i><span lang="EN">Years</span></i><span lang="EN"> he thought to himself. “Years, huh? Why so long?” he asked the man.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“Think about it, Mr. Avery. Your enemies will have lost any fear of retaliation from you by that time. They will have moved on with their lives. Made lots of money, had children, grandchildren, got very comfortable, very secure. They will have let their defenses down. In short, Mr. Avery, they will have a lot more to lose years from now.” The man stood up, leaned across the table, and added, “Our plan will include the obliteration of everything they’ve come to love and hold dear. Believe us, Mr. Avery, when we tell you that the wait will be ever so delicious.”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“Jesus!” Rory exclaimed. “Your plan might target the grand kids, too?”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“Great grandchildren, too, sir. Nothing is off the table. Are you beginning to understand how we work, Mr. Avery? Wait, plan, act in cold ruthlessness and leave no trace. That’s how it’s done, sir.” </span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">Rory stared at the floor as he digested what he’d just heard. </span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">The man let Rory sit for a moment, then told him, “Don’t worry, Mr. Avery. Your plan won’t include any physical violence to anyone. Your revenge will be fulfilled by watching your enemy’s carefully crafted lives crumble.” He watched Rory for a few more moments and then asked, “So, are you in, sir?”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">Rory smiled as best he could and said, “Yeah, I’m in. So, you help me settle down. I get that. Makes sense. But you said something about getting me trained in specific skills. What skills are we talking about, anyway?”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">Handing Rory a list, the man explained, “We’ve learned from long experience what kind of skills someone in your situation will need. As you can see, you’ll be learning a lot of new things.”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“Yeah,” Rory said as he read over the list. “Let’s see, Identity theft, Computer hacking, Creating Deep Fake videos. Wow, that’s a lot of stuff.” Then, continuing down the list, Rory stopped and asked, “B & E. What’s that?”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“Breaking and Entering, Mr. Avery.” The man smiled and continued, “But learning these skills is worth it, sir. Would you care to hear about some of our most recent successes?”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“Sure.”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">The man pulled a file folder from his desk, opened it, and started to read. “Let’s see, here’s one where a client posted a deep fake video on a grandchild’s social media. Showed the girl in blackface using the “N-word” repeatedly on a video clip. Ruined the kid’s chance of getting into a good college.”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“I like it. You got more.”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“Here’s one where a client recently posted some child porn on an enemy’s computer. Worked like a charm. Ruined the enemy’s life.”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“Wow.”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">"And the ever popular social media posts showing one of your enemies sitting by an endangered species he or she has just shot."</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">"Good one."</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“But, Mr. Avery, before we proceed, we need to see a list of your enemies. You see, we have to cross-reference your list with our client list, past and present.”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“You mean . . .”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“That’s right, sir. Someone may have, in the past, hired us to target you. And we wouldn’t want to double-dip, as it were. Not good for business. You understand, don’t you, sir?”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">Rory said he understood as he reached into his suit pocket and withdrew a yellow sheet of paper. He handed it to the man who typed the seven names into his computer. They both waited.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">A nearby printer could be heard printing out a short line.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">The man retrieved the printed message and returned to his chair. He read and reread the short message and then looked over at Rory and said, “Well, none of your current enemies have ever been our clients, sir. So, I think we can proceed. I’ll get the contracts for you to look over, sir.”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">As the man got up from his chair, he handed Rory the sheet he’d retrieved from the printer. Rory, left alone at the desk and waiting for the man to return, looked down at what had been printed out.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“Subject Avery targeted by his son, R. Avery, Jr., nine years ago. Son not a client. Free lancer used.”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">Rory dropped the printout and stared blankly ahead. As he did, he reached across the desk, retrieved the yellow sheet of paper, and added a name to the bottom.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">But he was going to need those emotion control experts and soon.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">End</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/72122502023-05-19T14:02:45-07:002023-05-19T14:02:45-07:00Alligator Problems - By Brian Law<p><span lang="EN">The blood stain on the carpet of his motel room was really the only tell-tale remnant of what had happened. That and the dead alligator in the bathtub. He turned up the air conditioner, switched off the bedside lamp, and headed out into the heat of the Florida day. If he played his cards right, he could be across the Georgia line and headed north before the maid came in and started screaming.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">It had all started innocently enough yesterday afternoon. He’d come down from Atlanta in his pickup to meet a young girl. Not for what you’re thinking, though. He’d come down to see if she was really as good as her parents said she was. Good at beer tasting. His company was looking for somebody with a fool-proof palate to test their new beers before they went to market. They sent him because the girl was only fifteen. Everybody else had their panties in a bunch over this. He didn’t see the problem. </span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">Her Daddy and Momma lived in a shanty outside of town near the glades. They were both drunks and told him he could use the girl’s tasting skills if the company kept them supplied with beer. He didn’t see the problem with this either. So they introduced him to the girl. Her name was Wanda and she looked like fifteen going on thirty. </span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">He and Wanda sat on the porch and talked a bit while his recorder was turned on. He told her what he wanted her to do . . . take a sip of beer, spit it out and tell him how it tasted. But, he warned, don’t swallow, Wanda. That would be illegal in Florida. She nodded and he handed her a chilled beer sample from his ice chest. She sipped it, spat it out, leaned back and with her eyes closed, described what she was tasting. He’d heard rumors about palates like Wanda’s, but now he was in the presence of one. She was truly a wonder, this Wanda.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">He gave Wanda five more chilled samples and recorded each of her experiences. And each time he got more excited. At some point her Daddy stumbled out in his t-shirt and underwear and announced, “Time to feed the gator! Let’s go!” He didn’t see the problem with that. He told Wanda he’d be back in a jiffy. He took the recorder with him.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">They called the gator ‘Greenie’ and had it chained up to a tree. Dad handed him a piece of meat and told him, “Hold it right above his nose.” He didn’t have a problem with that. He should have, though. The gator took the meat and two of his fingers before he could jump back. Daddy said something like, “Too close”, both laughing and belching at the same time. </span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">Just then, Wanda shows up with a shotgun wondering what the yelling is all about. She sees him jumpin’ around and bleeding and her Dad laughing and belching and Greenie doing whatever he’s doing. She moved the barrel of that thing like she knew what she was doing and told him, “Wrap that hand of yours up.” And to her Daddy she said, “Put Greenie in his pickup.”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">He didn’t have a problem with any of this except he didn’t know why the gator had to be in the truck. Wanda looked at him like he was stupid and said, “Cause your fingers are in his gut! We’re gonna get ‘em out and put ‘em back on. So, go get that cooler of beer and let’s get goin’.”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">Wanda drove and drank beer. He leaned against the passenger door and shut his eyes. His hand hurt like a son-of-a-bitch. They got back to the motel after dark with Greenie’s eyes blazing with anger as they pulled into the parking lot. But they didn't blaze for long because Wanda quickly removed the lost fingers from Greenie’s gut as soon as she got him in the bathtub.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“This is gonna hurt a bit,” Wanda warned as she poured cold beer over his fingers and then sewed ‘em back on. When she was done, she went to a nearby bar and scored some pain killers and some antibiotics and told him to get some sleep.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“I’ll set your phone alarm for tomorrow morning. Best you get moving back to Atlanta as soon as you get up,” she told him as he took the pills. Then she patted him on his head and said, “See you next time.”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">That Wanda, what a wonder! When he got back to Atlanta and played his recordings for his bosses, they asked him if he’d be willing to go back down to Florida for another session with Wanda and her Daddy and her Momma.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">He told them he’d have a little problem with that.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">End</span><o:p></o:p></p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/72122492023-05-19T14:02:08-07:002023-05-19T14:02:08-07:00Don't Open the Safe! - By Brian Law<p><span lang="EN">The two men approached the counter at the nursing home and one of them said to the clerk, “We called this morning. We’re here to interview Mr. Castle.” Both men showed their detective badges to the clerk and waited.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">The clerk who was no stranger to the police glanced at the badges and half heartedly joked, “Robbery-Homicide, huh? What’s our Mr. Castle gone and done now.” The detectives responded by looking at their watches with an air of irritation.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“I’ll have one of our attendants take you to him right away,” the clerk explained as he motioned for a large man dressed in white to come to the counter. “Bailey, these men are police officers who want to interview Mr. Castle. The schedule has him in the Game Room right now. Please escort these gentlemen there and help them with anything they need.”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">He then turned and addressed the detectives. “Mr. Castle is eighty-nine years old and in the late stages of dementia. Some days are better than others. You may get lucky.” And with that he returned to his duties and the detectives left with Bailey.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">The Game Room was really just a euphemism for a place they dropped off the wheelchair-ridden clients between breakfast and lunch. It was a large room empty of furniture except for one small table used by the staff to sort the medications out for the clients. Bailey escorted the two detectives to a client near the north corner of the room. As they approached, it was clear the man was asleep, his head lolled to one side, his legs covered with a blanket and a shawl over his shoulders. His head was uncovered, nearly bald, and streaked with the odd gray hair. He couldn’t have weighed more than a hundred pounds.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“Mr. Castle, Mr. Castle,” Bailey said softly as he bent down and shook the old man’s shoulders gently. “Mr. Castle, you have visitors.”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">The old man woke, moved his head upright and appeared a bit disoriented as one of the detectives knelt down next to him and said, “Good morning, sir. We’re here to talk to you about something that happened fifteen years ago. Do you understand that?”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">Castle’s grizzled old right hand emerged from under the blanket and with a great deal of effort wiped a bit of spittle from the side of his mouth. “Cops, right?” he rattled. </span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“Yes, we’re from L.A., Mr. Castle,” the other detective said as both men revealed their badges. “We’re working on a cold case and your name came up recently. Do you follow what I’m telling you, sir?”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">Castle nodded and replied, his voice a bit stronger now, “Sure. You’re here about the safe.”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">Both detectives looked at each other with some surprise and then at Bailey, who just shrugged and said something about good days and bad days. “Yes, Mr. Castle, we’re here about the safe. We need to get into it, sir. But our experts haven’t been able to open it.” one of the detectives asked.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“No shit,” Castle said matter-of-factly.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“Is that because you’re the only one who knows how to open it, Mr. Castle?”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">Castle nodded, his eyes glistening with a newfound clarity.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“Now, Mr. Castle, we have information that there’s something in that safe that will help us solve the case. And our information suggests that you were the last person to have access to that safe. It’s not been opened since you last opened it. So, whatever is in there, you either put it there or know what it is.” The detective paused and then continued, a slight edge to his voice, “So why don’t we start by you telling us what was last in that safe. Okay? Then we’ll go from there.”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">Castle shook his head in denial. “Not gonna happen,” he said. “That safe stays closed and what’s in there is my little secret.” Bailey stood behind Mr. Castle with his arms folded and a look on his face that betrayed nothing.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">One of the detectives took Bailey aside to a nearby corner and asked him, “Is this typical of this guy? You got any suggestions on how to deal with him?”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">Bailey just shrugged and said that Mr. Castle could be a handful at times.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">The detective confided in Bailey that he should go for a quick smoke because they were going to lean on old man Castle a bit. Bailey said he understood, reached for his smokes, turned, and walked for the nearest hallway.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">Bailey had just finished his cigarette in the hallway when the two L.A. detectives came over to him and told him they were through with Castle. “We got nothing. We probably won’t be back, so he’s all yours,” one of the detectives told Bailey. Then, handing him a card, he said that if Castle tells him anything about the safe to let him know. Bailey agreed, thanked them, and returned to the room where Mr. Castle was seated in his wheelchair.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“So, some excitement, huh, Mr. Castle,” Bailey said as he arranged the blanket and shawl around Castle and prepared to wheel him back to his room.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“They’ll never get the combination out of me, no siree, Bailey,” old Mr. Castle said, his voice tiring a bit. Then, patting Bailey’s hand he added, “It’s my little girl’s birthday. Got it memorized right up here,” Castle confided, pointing to his head.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“Oh, Linda. I talk to her sometimes when she comes to visit you. She’s a Pisces, right? I’m good at getting peoples’ signs right, Mr. Castle,” Bailey said as he wheeled the old man towards the hallway.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">Castle coughed and then chuckled, “Nice try, Bailey. Nope, she’s not a Pisces. She’s a Leo. Born the same year Nixon was impeached.” And with that, Castle closed his eyes and nodded off.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">Or pretended to. In fact, old man Castle was really Jim Castle, an L.A. Robbery-Homicide detective who retired twenty-five years earlier and was living with his wife of sixty years in Bakersfield when he was asked if he would go undercover for a few weeks in a nursing home. L.A. needed help nabbing a big time safe and loft man named Bailey Watson.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">He jumped at the chance. </span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">And now he could just hear the gears in Bailey Watson’s brain moving around. Watson now had two of the three combination numbers. The third number was one of the thirty one days in August. Now all he needed from the old fart he was pushing around was the address where the safe was located.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">When Bailey was out for his cigarette break, Jim had told the detectives he’d string Bailey Watson along until Friday, then give him the address. </span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">They’d be waiting. With bells on.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">End</span><o:p></o:p></p><p> </p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/71883892023-04-12T09:52:04-07:002023-04-12T09:52:04-07:00The 25th Word - By Brian Law<p><span lang="EN">The quiet in the room was broken by a very slight knocking on the door. The man in the room preferred absolute silence and his underlings knew well what happened when that silence was broken without a very good reason. After a few moments, the slight knocking resumed, this time just a bit louder.</span><p></p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“Enter!” boomed the voice of the man behind the large desk. The soundproofing in the room allowed just enough of that command to register on the other side of the doorway. The doorknob turned ever so slightly, and Grimsby entered tentatively, a well-worn file clutched close to his vest.</span><p></p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“What is it, Grimsby?” the voice growled as Grimsby judiciously closed the door quietly behind him and turned to face the large desk. </span><p></p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“I think I’ve broken the code used in the FireFly Telegram, sir,” Grimsby announced nervously after clearing his throat. </span><p></p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">The man behind the desk put down his pen, leaned back in his large chair, and asked, “You’d better remind me. Just what is this FireFly Telegram, Grimsby?”</span><p></p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“Ah, yes, well, sir, it’s a file I’ve been working on for eight years, long before you were made the head of this division three years ago, sir.” </span><p></p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“Sit down, then, Grimsby,” the man said, extending his hand towards a chair. “And let’s start by asking why it has taken eight years to clear this FireFly thing up, anyway?”</span><p></p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“Well, eight years ago, I had been offered an early retirement package by your predecessor, sir. I declined the offer, and the next day I was presented with the FireFly telegram and told that it was to be my sole job to decode it until I actually retired. But, that I had to do it “old school”, sir. Couldn’t use the division’s computers. I could use the division’s library, but I could not confide in any one else in the division. I was told I had to do all the work by hand in a windowless room in the basement. No phone, no computer, nothing but me, my pencil and paper, and the telegram, sir.” Grimsby paused, and then added, “It was my punishment, sir, for not taking early retirement.”</span><p></p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">The man behind the desk nodded, and then asked, “So, you found yourself alone in a highly secure location. Did they give you any details about the source of the telegram? Who sent it? To whom was it sent? Anything at all?”</span><p></p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“Virtually nothing, sir. I was just handed a copy of the telegram and told to decipher it, period. It consisted of twenty-five separate numerical groups, with a numerical date of 2/07/2014. I worked in that little room for three years until I finally broke that code.”</span><p></p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“Three years? My God, Grimsby, what took you so long?”</span><p></p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“Well, sir, each time I thought I had it decoded, it just came out as what looked like gibberish. Until I figured out that it wasn’t gibberish, sir. It was Afrikaans!”</span><p></p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“Really? So five years ago, I arrive and take over the division. But I was never told about any of this. The only reason I know about you is because I read your file, just like I read everyone’s file who works here.” The man stopped for a moment, pondered something, and then asked, “So, now you presumably had a telegram with twenty-five words in the Afrikaans language. What was your next move?”</span><p></p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">Grimsby shifted a bit in his chair and replied, “I had to learn the language, sir. At least enough to determine if the telegram made sense when it was translated into English. That, sir, took me the better part of a year and a half.”</span><p></p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“And did it make sense when translated into English, Grimsby?”</span><p></p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“No. The telegram was double-coded. I broke the first code that resulted in the Afrikaans text. But then I had to decode what that was trying to tell me. It took me over three more years to figure out how they were doing it. Turns out, the key to deciphering the Afrikaans text was the Volksblad edition of the date of the telegram. Volksblad is an Afrikaans language newspaper in South Africa.”</span><p></p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">The man was getting excited. “Good work, Grimsby. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to encrypt this little telegram. Clearly they wanted no one to know what they were talking about. So, what did the telegram say? This is just fascinating!”</span><p></p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">Grimsby fidgeted momentarily as he collected his thoughts. “Well, it was very painstaking work, sir. I won’t go into how I determined the decoding process except to say that I went through many versions until it became obvious that this telegram was from one scientist to another. The sender was telling the recipient of a huge breakthrough in his research. Obviously, some super secret project given the complicated method they used to communicate.”</span><p></p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">The head of the division muttered to himself, “A secret project? Hmm, there were rumors a few years back about secret labs in that part of the world.” Then, catching himself, he said, “Anyway, you got my complete attention, Grimsby. But you’ve only used up seven and a half years to this point. Why did it take you six more months to decode the entire message?”</span><p></p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“Well, sir,” Grimsby replied, “It was the last word that had me mystified. The twenty-fifth word. I just couldn’t find a translation from Afrikaans to English for it. What I figured I had stumbled upon was a new word in Afrikaans, you know, that this scientist or these scientists had just made up to describe what they were doing. They knew what it meant, but none of the rest of us knew, at least not until this morning. That’s when I figured it out!”</span><p></p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“A new word. How did you do it, Grimsby?”</span><p></p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“I was reading the New York Times this morning with my coffee and got interested in some medical article. And that’s where I saw the term. It’s three words in English. But those South African scientists put it into a single word! One word, but what it says explained everything, sir!”</span><p></p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“Grimsby, what did the word mean?” His boss was now on his feet, leaning over his desk, his eyes ablaze with anticipation.</span><p></p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“It means ‘gain-of-function’, sir!”</span><p></p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">End</span><p></p></p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/71883882023-04-12T09:51:19-07:002023-04-12T09:51:19-07:00Overdraft - By Brian Law<p><span lang="EN">Jake smiled, closed his eyes, and tossed his dart.</span><p></p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“Oh, my God!” someone yelled. “That’s seven bull’s eyes in a row! Without looking!” The crowd in the little bar went wild, some high fiving each other frantically and others slapping Jake on the back. Too bad some had bet against Jake on that last throw. Too bad for them, but great for Jake. The bartender was holding over fifty-seven dollars of his newly won money.</span><p></p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">Jake opened his eyes, acknowledged the crowd’s adulation, and said in a loud voice, “Just lucky, I guess”. Tonight’s fifty-seven dollars was only a small part of his recent winnings. The crowd had seen his incredible prowess at darts tonight, but only he knew the true extent of his fortune this entire week. He couldn’t lose, not at the ponies, poker, or at the crap tables. Everything was coming up winners for Jake. There would be an end to this run of luck . . . he knew that for sure. But for the time being, he was going to ride this train to the end of the line.</span><p></p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“You want an escort to your car, Jake,” the bartender asked as he handed Jake a paper bag full of money. “You know, just in case.”</span><p></p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“Nah, I’m good. I know these people. They’re my friends,” Jake replied. </span><p></p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“Suit yourself, hero,” the bartender said as he shrugged and went back to listening to the music on the radio. He hoped that ‘dart boy’ got home in one piece. He’d been really good for business tonight.</span><p></p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">Jake went to the front door, yelled goodnight to everyone and then stepped out into the early hours of a cold, dark October morning. It took a moment to remember where he’d parked his car, but as he turned up the collar of his coat and headed towards it, he felt a tapping on his shoulder.</span><p></p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">He figured the bartender had arranged for an escort anyway and he turned to tell whoever it was that he didn’t need a bodyguard . . . he could take care of himself. But what he saw made him stop cold on the sidewalk and just stare at the figure alongside him in the dim light.</span><p></p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“Don’t be afraid, Jake. I’m not here to hurt you,” the stranger said in an other-worldly voice. Even in the faint light, Jake could see that the person was dressed immaculately in a tuxedo, topped with a Borsalino hat, and carrying a cane.</span><p></p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">Jake smiled bravely and replied, “I’m not worried, friend. You seem to know me, but I don’t ever recall meeting you. We’ve met before?”</span><p></p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“No, Jake, I’m not from around here. Here, let me give you one of my business cards. Then we can go to your car and have a little conversation about your recent run of luck,” the tuxedoed man explained, handing Jake an elaborate back-lit little card that read “Jerome-Regional Luck Manager-Region 7”.</span><p></p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“Oh, and Jake, I’d like that card back. We don’t like to advertise our existence,” the man added.</span><p></p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">Jake nodded, read the fancy little card several times, turned it over, and then handed it back. “Regional Luck Manager, huh?” Jake said with a faint hint of disdain in his voice. “Are you some sort of collection agency or something?”</span><p></p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“No, Jake, nothing like that. Let’s go to your car and get out of this weather, okay? I promise this won’t take long. You’ll be home in your warm bed before you know it. I just have to make sure you have all the facts about your recent run of good fortune,” the stranger offered. Then, extending his cane towards Jake’s car and taking Jake’s arm in his, he said, “Shall we?”</span><p></p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">As Jake was being led towards his car, he was intrigued by what was happening. This stranger seemed to know about his recent lucky streak. He thought he’d been pretty close to the vest about it, telling no one. But if this guy knew that much, he might know where Jake had hidden his newfound fortune. This might just be some elaborate ruse to lure Jake into an ambush.</span><p></p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“It’s not an ambush, Jake,” the stranger remarked out of the blue as they walked together. “We’re not trying to rob you, or anything. Your money is safe in your hiding place . . . in the garage. Again, I’ll explain in the car.”</span><p></p></p><p> </p><p><i><span lang="EN">Jesus</span></i><span lang="EN">, Jake thought, </span><i><span lang="EN">this guy is reading my thoughts</span></i><span lang="EN">. </span><i><span lang="EN">I’d better watch my step.</span></i><span lang="EN"> </span><p></p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">As they closed the car’s doors and Jake turned on the engine and the heater, the fancy-dressed man turned to him and said, “Jake, you’ve had quite a run lately. And that’s over as of right now.”</span><p></p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“Wait,” Jake said, interrupting him. “You’re telling me my luck’s run out. Is that what this is about? That somehow you and your little agency have the power to do that? C’mon, who do you think you’re talking to?”</span><p></p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">The man handed Jake a large coin. “Okay, Jake. Maybe this will convince you. Go ahead, toss it, and call it, heads, or tails.”</span><p></p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">Jake nodded, tossed the coin in the air, and called ‘Heads’. It came up ‘Tails’. Jake tossed it again and again and again, losing every time. He stopped at twenty tosses and in dismay handed the coin back to the stranger.</span><p></p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“Just to convince you absolutely, Jake, I have a deck of cards in my hands. You’ll notice that all the cards are face cards except one that is a ‘six’. I’m going to shuffle the deck and ask you to pull out one card. If you pull a face card, I will leave the van and you’ll never see me again and your luck will continue. But . . .” the man explained as Jake immediately reached out and pulled out a card. It was a ‘six’.</span><p></p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">The stranger reshuffled the deck and each time Jake pulled out the lone ‘six’. </span><p></p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“Are you a believer now, Jake?” the man asked coldly.</span><p></p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">Jake nodded, defeated. “Why me? Aren’t there a lot of other winners out there? Why pick on me?” he whined.</span><p></p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“Alright, let me explain what’s going on here, Jake,” the man in the tuxedo said. “We, and I mean the agency I work for, allocate luck at the moment of conception. It’s a way that problems in past lives can be smoothed over in new lives. But, I won’t go into details here except to say that there was a little bit of a mistake made in your case, Jake. And we just found out about it. Follow me so far?”</span><p></p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">Jake turned a bit and said, “So, what you’re telling me is that I got more luck than I was supposed to be allocated, right? Basically, I’ve overdrawn my account.”</span><p></p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“Yes,” the man replied. “First time it has ever happened. So, we’ve got to right the ship, so to speak. And that means you’ve got to go on a very prolonged losing streak, Jake. You can keep all the money in your garage, but if you continue to gamble, and we know you will because you can’t help it, you’ll lose it all and more. This is just our way of fixing our little mistake. Balancing the scales, so to speak. No hard feelings, I hope.”</span><p></p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“Wow, of all the billions and billions of people ever born, I’m the only one, huh? What are the odds of that?” Jake said aloud to himself, making some calculations in his head.</span><p></p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“Very, very long odds, Jake. As are the odds of you ever winning another bet. So, you have a choice. Give up gambling or go down swinging.”</span><p></p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">“But,” Jake interjected, “There’s still a chance I could win a bet. Is that what you’re telling me?”</span><p></p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">The man nodded and replied, “A very, very, infinitesimally small chance, Jake. Yes, you could win a bet because we know there’s a fundamental flaw in our system which we haven’t figured out yet how to fix. Your losing streak is really just a band aid until our IT guys apply a fix. Could take a while.”</span><p></p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">Jake said he understood completely and there were no hard feelings. He and the man in the tuxedo shook hands and the nattily-dressed fellow left the car and walked away into the dark, cold morning.</span><p></p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">Jake watched as the man disappeared around the corner. He wanted to wait until he thought the man couldn't read his mind anymore. He waited ten minutes, trying to keep his mind blank throughout.</span><p></p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">Finally, Jake started to think. He knew he’d definitely lose if he gambled. No question about that. His stash of six thousand and change in the garage could disappear pretty fast if he didn’t watch out. So he needed to put his money somewhere that wasn’t technically gambling. Someplace where he could win without really betting.</span><p></p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">He leaned back and then it came to him. He’d call his brother-in-law, the stockbroker. All he ever heard at dinner at his sister’s was how everyone was making a killing on Wall Street these days.</span><p></p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">Jake didn’t know much about stocks and such, so he figured he’d just show up this morning at his brother-in-law’s office with a bag of cash and have him spread it evenly across the Dow Jones Industrial Average.</span><p></p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">Hey, it wasn’t gambling. It was investing.</span><p></p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">And you can’t lose, he’d always heard from his brother-in-law. He checked his watch, saw the date was October 28 and decided to get a little breakfast before heading home to his stash in the garage.</span><p></p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">Jake was pretty proud of himself. After all, he was twenty-seven years old, it was 1929, and it was about time he started making money like the rest of the squares out there.</span><p></p></p><p> </p><p><span lang="EN">End</span><p></p></p><p> </p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/71581042023-02-21T15:23:11-07:002023-02-22T18:24:52-07:00The Cook - By Brian Law<p><span lang="EN">The monks shuffled single file into the dining hall, their hooded heads bowed in silence, their hands clasped together. The morning fare had been arrayed on the long table and was the same as always . . . hearty soup, homemade bread, vegetables from the Abbey’s garden, and wine. As the dining hall filled, each monk stood in front of his assigned place and patiently awaited the Abbot’s arrival.</span></p><p><span lang="EN">The Abbot, a short, severe-looking man in his mid-seventies, habitually entered the dining hall at mealtime from a side door obscured by a velvet curtain. Today was no exception, and he was always careful to wait until all the monks were standing at their chosen chairs to make his entrance and assume his own exalted position at the table. After all, he’d earned the right through years of loyal and devoted service to the Order.</span></p><p><span lang="EN">After saying Grace, the Abbot announced, “Brothers, please be seated and commence this fine meal the Cook has prepared for us. We have much to do in the vineyard and garden before our evening devotionals, so you’ll need your energy today.” And with that, the familiar clack of wooden spoons against wooden bowls began to fill the dining hall along with the voices of the older monks.</span></p><p><span lang="EN">The rules were simple enough. The younger monks were not allowed to speak unless spoken to by one of the older monks. As such, Brother Timothy had never been spoken to at the dining table in his three years since joining the Order. Not expecting today to be any different, he didn’t respond when Brother Jonathan asked him a question. It wasn’t until he was nudged by a brother next to him that he realized he was being spoken to. “I’m sorry, Brother Jonathan. Could you repeat your question?” Brother Timothy responded belatedly.</span></p><p><span lang="EN">“Brother, I asked you if you’ve ever seen the Cook,” Brother Jonathan repeated, a wry smile crossing his face.</span></p><p><span lang="EN">The brethren nearby stopped talking as their attention was drawn to the question posited to their young Brother Timothy. Clearing his throat, Brother Timothy replied gently, “I, uh, have not, Brother.”</span></p><p><span lang="EN">“Even when you worked in the kitchen?” </span></p><p><span lang="EN">“Not even then, Brother.”</span></p><p><span lang="EN">“Do you find that curious, Brother?”</span></p><p><span lang="EN">Hesitating for a moment, Brother Timothy debated within himself just how to answer the question. He’d heard rumors about how the younger Monks would sometimes be questioned about things, things of seeming little importance. But how they answered the questions would have important implications about how their futures in the Order would play out. He decided to take a chance.</span></p><p><span lang="EN">“Yes, Brother, I did find it curious,” Brother Timothy answered calmly and then added, “But I have never seen God, either, Brother, but I know in my heart that he exists. And he provides us with all we need, just like the Cook does.”</span></p><p><span lang="EN">None of the monks at the table said a word as Brother Timothy finished speaking. Nor did they continue to eat. Instead, transfixed by his words, they did nothing until a clinking on a wine glass was heard from the head of the table.</span></p><p><span lang="EN">It was the Abbot, drawing all their attention to him. As they turned as one to the sound of the tinkling glass, the Abbot rose, walked slowly down the line of seated monks until he stopped behind Brother Timothy, who by this time was mystified by what was happening. </span></p><p><span lang="EN">With all watching, the Abbot put his hands on Brother Timothy’s shoulders and, looking around at the others, announced, “He will sit at my right hand for the rest of my tenure here, Brothers.” And with that, the Abbot took Brother Timothy and led him to the head of the table and seated him on his right.</span></p><p><span lang="EN">As the Abbot assumed his seat at the head of the table and instructed the rest of the monks to resume their meal, he turned to Brother Timothy, smiled, and leaning over, whispered, “Your faith is powerful, Brother. You are the first in two generations to have answered the question correctly. When I pass, you will be the new Abbot.”</span></p><p><span lang="EN">“I am honored, your worship. But am I qualified? Won’t I need much training?” Brother Timothy wondered.</span></p><p><span lang="EN">“You will do well, Brother Timothy. You have a good heart and a strong faith. Hopefully the Cook will approve of you, too. That’s important,” the Abbot replied.</span></p><p><span lang="EN">“You’ve seen the Cook, your Worship? What’s he like? Will I meet him?” Brother Timothy asked breathlessly.</span></p><p><span lang="EN">Looking around to be sure no one else was overhearing, the Abbot moved close to Brother Timothy and quietly divulged, “No, Brother Timothy, I’ve never seen him, either. He works very mysteriously. No one knows what he’s like, just that he’s always been here, cooking. And, no, you’ll never meet him either.”</span></p><p><span lang="EN">As Brother Timothy leaned back in his wooden chair next to the Abbot, he felt a bit uneasy. He’d lied to Brother Jonathan earlier. He didn’t know why, but he had lied. He’d seen God, more than once. He’d just never told anyone. And he wouldn’t have known how to explain it in words, anyway. </span></p><p><span lang="EN">Today in the garden he would find more of the mushrooms he liked to eat alone in his room late at night. Perhaps the Cook, too, would pay him a visit.</span></p><p><span lang="EN">End</span></p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/71581032023-02-21T15:22:39-07:002023-02-22T18:24:52-07:00The Potato Farmer's Wife - By Brian Law<p><span lang="EN">He checked his watch, thought for a moment, and then finished writing the story: "As the two men stood in the doorway to the huge potato shed, the banker turned to the farmer and joked, “Joe, you could bury a semi-truck under that pile of potatoes, and nobody would ever know!”</span></p><p><span lang="EN">Joe smiled and replied, “Yep. It was a good year, Mr. Jameson. A very good year.”</span></p><p><span lang="EN">As the banker turned and headed for his car, Joe could still detect the faint tire tracks in the dirt floor leading into the potato pile. </span><i><span lang="EN">Jeez</span></i><span lang="EN">, he said to himself, </span><i><span lang="EN">that damn Javier forgot to wipe out the tire tracks last night. Good thing that city-slicker banker couldn’t tell a truck tire from a bicycle tire!"</span></i></p><p><span lang="EN">End</span></p><p><span lang="EN">He leaned back, put his hands on the back of his head and stretched. It was late, but it felt good to finish the story on time . . . another Joe Dell story ready for the local paper to publish next week. He shut down the computer, turned out the desk light, and headed for the refrigerator for a snack before heading up to bed. </span></p><p><span lang="EN">Winnie, his wife, would want to check the story before he sent it in tomorrow morning. After all, she was the one who last Winter suggested that he add a more sinister thread to his Joe Dell stories, and she was right. She suggested that Joe Dell, a successful potato farmer, hire Javier Garcia as a labor foreman, even though Javier was known to have relatives in the Cartel. </span></p><p><span lang="EN">And when the Cartel approached Joe through Javier to use his farm as a distribution depot, well . . . let’s just say that it opened up a vast new array of storylines that never would have been possible before. Even he had to admit that his older Joe Dell stories were pretty boring affairs in hindsight.</span></p><p><span lang="EN">And his readers, those who religiously read his stories in the County Trumpet, circulation six hundred and twenty-three, couldn’t be more thrilled. The bloodier, the better! they always told him at Sam’s Breakfast Nook every Sunday morning after church. Keep it up, they said! Things were really dull around the County after the crops were in and Joe Dell and his crooked ways kept the town humming.</span></p><p><span lang="EN">In a way, his wife’s plot ideas surprised him. She was a church-going woman, never raised her voice in anger, always had a good word for everybody. So when she would drop hints about how Joe should be more aggressive with the Cartel about getting involved with their operations on a deeper level, it caught him off guard. Where did she get these ideas about gun-running and human trafficking, anyway? When did she even have the time to learn about these things, given that she had the kids to raise and the farmhouse and livestock to manage, and even drove some of the equipment in a pinch. But he took her suggestions to heart and his stories were almost like they’d been ripped from the headlines from big cities. You know, like Spokane and Boise. Being a farmer’s wife was hard. So, anything he could do to make her life a little bit more exciting was fine with him.</span></p><p><span lang="EN">He helped himself to three scoops of chocolate ice cream and sat down on a kitchen stool to eat his snack. Every Winter he’d usually gain ten or fifteen pounds, and this Winter was no exception. In fact, he’d been putting on a lot of weight as he got older. If his wife had caught him eating this huge bowl of ice cream, he’d never hear the end of it. He was sure that his newfound heft was the reason she went to bed early these days and was always sound asleep whenever he arrived.</span></p><p><span lang="EN">He cleaned up the empty bowl, dried it and left no traces of his late-night snack. Taking one more look around the kitchen, assuring himself that all was in its place, he turned off the lights and headed upstairs to bed.</span></p><p><span lang="EN">Quietly he padded into the bedroom and noticed that she wasn’t in bed but was in the bathroom. The low glare of the bathroom light showed through the bottom of the door, and he could hear her moving around. He took the opportunity to undress, get into his pajamas and slip into his side of the bed. He’d pretend to be asleep when she re-entered the bedroom.</span></p><p><span lang="EN">Laying on his side, he saw the bathroom light go off and heard the bathroom door open slowly. His eyes half open, he could just make out her silhouette against the little night light that still shown from the bathroom. </span></p><p><span lang="EN">He blinked and then opened his eyes wide but didn’t move otherwise. There she stood, dressed in a flimsy black negligee, one hand resting up against the door jamb and her other hand on her hip. </span></p><p><span lang="EN">She stood like that for a good thirty seconds and then seductively moved over to her side of the bed and gently slipped in next to him.</span></p><p><span lang="EN">He still was motionless as she lay on her side facing him, covered herself, and in the darndest voice he’d ever heard, say, “I bought this just for you, Javier. Do you like it?”</span></p><p><span lang="EN">And just like that, things would never be the same.</span></p><p><span lang="EN">End</span></p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/71348102023-01-08T13:44:22-07:002023-01-08T13:44:22-07:00Chapter Twelve - By Brian Law<p>He could have easily missed the door if he hadn’t been searching for it. But there it was, Room 303, ‘The Chapter Shoppe, by Appointment Only’. </p>
<p>He’d been told to knock five times, then enter, which he did. And there, in an elegantly decorated office, sat an immaculately dressed man, who indicated for him to sit down. </p>
<p>“Well, Mr. Welles, thank you for being on time for your appointment today. You must have some questions, though, before we begin. I’m Mr. Wilson. So, please, ask away,” said the well-dressed man behind the desk. </p>
<p>Welles had heard about this Shoppe from a friend of his. He was told that what happened there changed his friend’s life. And if anything, Welles needed a change in his life, and in a hurry. He cleared his throat and began, “I’ve been told you folks can help me craft the next chapter in my life. I’m at a point where I have a lot of things up in the air, and I need you to direct me on how to proceed to a successful outcome.” </p>
<p>Wilson replied, “Certainly, Mr. Welles. I see that in your application that you are forty-two years old. So we’re probably talking about your Twelfth Chapter out of perhaps Twenty Chapters in your life. Sounds about right, sir? Just a record keeping detail, really." </p>
<p>“Yes, Chapter Twelve sounds about right.” </p>
<p>“And how would you portray the context of this Chapter Twelve, Mr. Welles. Will it be a mystery-thriller, a romantic comedy, a tragedy, true crime, erotica, or perhaps even a combination of themes?” Wilson asked, writing something in a folder. </p>
<p>“Oh, well, I guess I would say a combination of themes. Yes, definitely, a combination. Mostly tragedy, but some erotica.” </p>
<p>“Fine. Now Mr. Welles, how would you portray your current life situation? Are you at a key crossroads, are you seeking viable options, or is your life just a real mess that requires significant fixing?” </p>
<p>“The last one.” </p>
<p>“Good. It’s always best to be frank about these things, Mr. Welles. Now, and try to be brief, tell me what problems you are facing in your life and how you want your Chapter Twelve to resolve them.” </p>
<p>Welles shifted nervously in his chair as he thought about how to answer that question. Then he began about his marriage, his mistress, his drug-addicted children, his problems at work, his heart condition, his problems with his mother and her money and a variety of other problems. He concluded with, “I’d like all these problems worked out in my favor in Chapter Twelve, Mr. Wilson. Can you do it?” </p>
<p>Mr. Wilson rose and stood by the side of his desk. “Of course we can, Mr. Welles. First, we’ll interview you intensively so we know exactly who and what you’re dealing with in your life. Then our writers will present you with a rough draft of your next chapter and go through it with you, fine-tuning it until we get it just the way you want it.” Wilson paused, and then added, “But realize we deal only in the plausible. We can’t make you into a professional golfer or have you winning the Powerball or anything like that at the end of the chapter. It doesn’t work that way.” </p>
<p>Welles was starting to get excited. “I’m a little awkward in my social relationships. Will there be dialogue for me to fall back on if I need it?” </p>
<p>“Oh, goodness, yes, Mr. Welles. Lots of dialogue for you, emails for you to send, letters for you to author, hand gestures, postures, timing, wardrobe, the whole enchilada. We’ll even throw in some good jokes for you to tell at just the right moment. Everything will be in the final document.” He put his hand on Welles’ shoulder and added, “It’s a blueprint for the next phase of your life, sir. And while you may have to make a few minor on-the-fly adjustments to the general arc of the chapter, you should do just fine, broadly speaking.” And then he added, "Oh, and we have a twenty-four hour hotline for you to call in an emergency." </p>
<p>Welles was ecstatic and grinning from ear to ear as he digested what Wilson had just told him. Finally, he thought to himself, I can get this train-wreck of my life back on track. He couldn’t wait to get started. “Well, Mr. Wilson, I’m ready to proceed if you’re willing to take me on.” </p>
<p>Wilson smiled as he reached into his desk for documents for Welles to sign to get things going. As Welles reviewed and then signed them, Wilson said, "We'll be in touch, Mr. Welles. Your first interview should occur within the next two weeks or so." </p>
<p>And with that the two men shook hands and Welles left the elegantly decorated office, a smile on his face and a spring in his step. He even whistled a bit as he headed for the stairs. </p>
<p>From another room, Wilson's head writer appeared. Wilson looked up from his desk and asked, "Did you get all that, Bob?" </p>
<p>The writer was the complete opposite of Wilson. He was a bit disheveled, hadn't shaved in a while, and there was a distinct odor surrounding him. "Yep, and I have a few ideas," the writer replied as he slumped in one of Wilson's large leather chairs. "But, overall, it looks like a pretty routine chapter. Nothing we haven't seen before." </p>
<p>"Any ideas on when to introduce Patricia into his life, Bob?" Wilson wondered, a sharp look in his eyes. </p>
<p>"Towards the end," the writer said, nodding to himself. "By that time, he will be convinced that everything is working out well for him and be completely trusting in the process. That's when we'll introduce Patricia. Slowly." </p>
<p>"Ah, yes, slowly. And by the time you complete Chapter Thirteen, she will have him in her clutches, right?" </p>
<p>"And ours, too, Boss," Bob said, a sly grin on his face. "It still amazes me that these guys never figure on us writing all the next chapters of their lives without their knowledge," he added, taking a pencil from behind his ear and writing something on his notepad. </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/71348092023-01-08T13:43:11-07:002023-01-08T13:43:11-07:00The Secret of the Old Red Tambourine - By Brian Law<p>He didn’t intend to buy anything. He just wanted to browse for a while, really just waste some time in the little shop that specialized in used musical instruments off a London alley. </p>
<p>“How much for this?” he asked the proprietor, pointing to a well-used harmonica laying in one of the display cases. </p>
<p>“That one I’ll let you have for sixty-five pounds,” the proprietor called out from behind the counter. </p>
<p>The customer nodded and moved deeper into the shop, its aisles narrow and cramped. For some reason he still doesn’t recall even to this day, he turned again to the owner and asked, “This old red tambourine? How much?” </p>
<p>“Oh, that’s not for sale. Sorry,” was the reply from the front of the shop. </p>
<p>There was something about the tambourine that drew him to it. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Something powerful, though. An urge he couldn’t resist. “Look,” he continued, “I’ll give you fifty pounds for it. That seems fair, given its age and condition.” </p>
<p>The owner moved from behind his counter and walked down the aisle to where the customer was standing holding the tambourine. The look on the owner’s face was one of annoyance as he took the tambourine from the shopper’s hands, placed it back on its shelf, announced, “I said it’s not for sale,” and turned unceremoniously back to where he had been working. </p>
<p>“Hey, wait! Don’t get all upset,” he called after the owner who by now was sitting behind the counter again. “If it’s not for sale, at least tell me why. Okay? How hard could that be?” </p>
<p>The owner looked over at him, sighed and motioned for him to come to the counter. “I suppose you’re right,” the owner apologized. “I shouldn’t have left it on the shelf if I didn’t want to sell it. But until you came in, nobody has shown any interest in it at all . . . for years.” The owner paused and then added, “So, I guess you’re entitled to an explanation.” </p>
<p>Coming out from behind the counter, the proprietor indicated for the customer to follow him back to where the old red tambourine was sitting on its shelf. Handing it to the customer, he said, “So, you want to know why it’s not for sale, huh? Well, then, shake it. See what happens.” As he finished, he backed away from the customer a bit and egged him on with, “Go ahead. Give it a few shakes.” </p>
<p>The customer just stood in the aisle holding the tambourine, but not shaking it. He looked suspiciously at the owner who had moved back a few more feet than before and asked, “So what gives here, anyway? You told me I was owed some explanation and now you’re just telling me to shake this thing and I’ll get my explanation. Is this some kind of scam or trick or something?” </p>
<p>The owner shook his head and said, “No scam, no trick. Just shake the tambourine and see what happens. I’ll just move back here a bit more, just in case.” </p>
<p>“Just in case what?” the customer countered, a bit of anger in his voice. And a little fear. </p>
<p>“You’ll have to shake the tambourine to find out.” </p>
<p>The customer moved a step closer to the owner, who, in turn, stepped back a step. </p>
<p>“Hey, look, pal,” the customer declared, handing the old tambourine back to the owner, “You can take this old piece of junk and put it where the sun don’t shine. Maybe some other sucker will bite on your little game. But not me, brother.” </p>
<p>And with that, the customer turned and stormed out of the store, slamming the front door as he left. </p>
<p>The owner waited for a few moments and then, lovingly stroking the little old tambourine, said, “Another unworthy one, my little friend.” </p>
<p>The little old tambourine rattled itself and on the floor at the feet of the owner appeared ten small gold coins. </p>
<p>“Thank you, my old friend,” the owner said, carefully replacing the tambourine to its place on the shelf. “May we get lucky before I die and find you a new owner. Someone who is worthy and fearless.” </p>
<p>Slowly bending down, the owner picked up the ten small gold coins off the floor just as another customer entered the store. </p>
<p>“Hey, old man,” the new customer jauntily announced in his mock cockney accent, “I’m starting a new band, and we need some instruments.” </p>
<p>The owner straightened up and walked towards the young man. His brash and loutish behavior, his designer-style clothing, his shaggy hairdo and his large lips suggested something promising to the owner. </p>
<p>“Why, yes, young man,” the owner replied, “I may have just the thing for an up and coming musical group.” </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/71242702022-12-16T19:00:18-07:002022-12-16T19:00:18-07:00The Chimney Inspectors - By Brian Law<p>He was leaning forward in his recliner trying to catch every piece of the action on his television when the doorbell rang. Quickly checking his watch, he knew it wasn’t his brother and he wasn’t expecting any Amazon deliveries until later in the week. </p>
<p>He decided that the last six minutes of this football game were more important than whoever was outside ringing his doorbell. So, ignoring them, he leaned in closer and took another gulp of beer. He had a c-note riding on this one and it was close, real close. </p>
<p>The doorbell rang again. And again. </p>
<p>Pushing the record button on his remote, he sighed, finished his beer and slowly rose from his La-Z-Boy. If he played it just right, he could still get rid of these jokers on his doorstep and keep an eye on the game at the same time. He turned up the volume, rotated the television set about sixty degrees and headed for the front door. </p>
<p>“Yeah, I don’t want any,” he grumbled as he cracked the door open and saw three people standing on his stoop, one guy about six feet tall and two really small guys. Keeping the door open a bit, he turned so that he could watch the game and still hear what the three of them had to say. They didn’t look religious, just a bit out of the ordinary. </p>
<p>“We’re here, Mr. Jacobs, because we got a work order last December around this time to verify your chimney measurements. Apparently, you have a non-standard chimney and we’d like your permission to go on your roof and take some measurements,” the tall guy said. He had a clipboard and everything and looked legit, sort of. </p>
<p>“Really? Last December? You kind of took your time getting here, pal,” Jacobs sneered, sipping his beer. “Who do you work for, anyway? Our ever-efficient city government?” </p>
<p>One of the smaller guys replied, “No, Mr. Jacobs, we have a contract with an independent delivery outfit. It took us so long to get to your house because there was some kind of a mix-up with the addresses. But we’re here now. The inspection won’t cost you a dime and we’ll be on your roof and done in no time.” </p>
<p>“So, an inspection, huh? You put anything down my chimney to do it?” </p>
<p>The tall guy told him that they lower one of the small guys down the chimney who takes a quick video of its interior and makes some quick measurements. Usually takes about twenty minutes. </p>
<p>“This independent delivery contractor? You guys aren’t talking about? . . . .” Jacobs started to ask before he was handed a card by the tall guy. He stopped talking and looked at the card. He’d guessed right. “Jesus, he’s real? This is some kind of a joke, right?” </p>
<p>“No joke, Mr. Jacobs,” the other small guy remarked, smiling broadly. “And for your cooperation today in letting us inspect your chimney, we’d like to offer you this free box of peppermint candy canes.” His little hands held out a nicely wrapped box. </p>
<p>“So, let me get this straight. And I apologize if I was a little distracted before. I got some money riding on the game in there,” Jacobs said, opening the door a bit more. “I let you guys go up on my roof, let you climb down my chimney and do whatever you have to do, then I get this free box of candy. Right? And I don’t have to believe in your boss or anything like that? What’s the catch? What’s your gimmick?” </p>
<p>“No catch, no gimmick, Mr. Jacobs. You do us a simple favor and we give you a gift. It’s just that simple!” </p>
<p>“And if I don’t go along with the gag, what happens?” Jacobs growled, his patience growing thin. “What’s your boss going to do to me, anyway?” </p>
<p>“Well,” the tall guy said, “And not trying to be too prosaic about it, you’ll be put on his “Naughty List”, Mr. Jacobs. Plain and simple.” </p>
<p>Jacobs didn’t know what prosaic meant, but he didn’t like the sound of it or the idea of being on a “Naughty List”. Moving close to the taller man, Jacobs wondered, “So, this list, what happens if I go on it? I mean, who even reads that, anyway?” </p>
<p>“You’d be surprised. Your bookie, for one. And the NFL, Jeff Bezos, some orders of the Catholic Church, and the Chinese Communist Party Central Committee, just to name a few, Mr. Jacobs. And once your name goes on the “Naughty List”, sir, it never gets off it. It’s a forever thing,” one of the small guys added. “Take the candy, Mr. Jacobs. It’s the smart move.” </p>
<p>Jacobs looked back at his television and saw that there were just one minute and forty-seven seconds left in the game. “Okay, you got a deal. But don’t touch the satellite dish when you’re up there. I got to see the end of this game!” </p>
<p>As he took the candy and closed the door, he watched from his front window as the three of them went back to their truck and started taking down one of their ladders. Closing his drape, he turned and headed back to the final seconds of the football game that was blaring from the other room. </p>
<p>Slumping down in his recliner once again, he knew he’d made the right decision. You don’t want to piss off Jeff Bezos. No way, no how. </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/71242622022-12-16T18:58:46-07:002022-12-16T18:58:46-07:00The Long Final Night - By Brian Law<p>Finally, time alone, he thought to himself as he checked his watch. Sunday night after ten-thirty the calls typically fell off real fast. There were lots of theories why, but nobody really knew the true reason. But, for whatever reason, people contemplating suicide didn’t usually pick late Sunday nights to call in to the Suicide Hotline. </p>
<p>Which is why he was the only one left manning the phones. Jade left right after ten. She was the supervisor and even she knew there would probably be, at best, one or two more calls. She patted him on the head and said, “Good luck, and call me if there’s a crisis,” as she headed for the place where she spent most of her free time, the bar at the local Westin. He knew she’d be there until about three. She didn’t even try to hide it anymore. </p>
<p>He leaned back, took off his headpiece, rubbed his eyes, and reached for his lunch. He called it lunch, but he usually ate it around midnight, sometimes sooner. Tonight it was sooner. Tuna sandwich, pickle, chocolate milk, and an orange, already cut into segments and wrapped in plastic. Comfort food. God, he needed comfort food doing this gig. </p>
<p>He was two bites into the tuna sandwich and had just reached for the pickle when the call came through. </p>
<p>“Good evening, this is Ray. You have reached the Hotline. Who am I speaking with?” </p>
<p>He could hear the breathing on the other end of the phone. From experience, he could tell that it was a woman. He checked his watch. He knew he shouldn’t have, but he really wanted to finish his lunch. And talking to a potential suicide while you’re eating was one of the no-no’s they told you about in the training. </p>
<p>“Hello?” he said. If she didn’t answer this time, he’d take a bite of the pickle and risk a sip of chocolate milk before asking again. He might even chance a third bite of the sandwich, too. </p>
<p>She still didn’t answer, and so he took a quick bite of the pickle and was about ready to drink a bit of the chocolate milk when she finally said, “Ray, this is Jade.” </p>
<p>He immediately sensed that something was very wrong as he spit out the pickle into a napkin, sat up straight, and replied, “Yeah, Jade. You caught me in the middle of lunch. What’s up? Where are you?” </p>
<p>“I’m alone in the parking lot of the Westin.” She paused and then explained, “I took the pills, Ray.” </p>
<p>Oh, Jesus, Ray said to himself. She took the pills. They all knew about the pills. The ones that everybody in the Hotline biz knew about. The painless, mellow, quick acting, foolproof stuff. The stuff from Mexico. </p>
<p>“When did you take them, Jade?” </p>
<p>Jade laughed mildly. “I see that you were awake during that part of my training session, Ray. Nice try.” </p>
<p>They both breathed together without saying anything across their phone connection. They both knew that time didn’t matter anymore. Ray figured Jade had, maybe, five minutes left. There was nothing left to do but keep her on the phone and try to make her last moments as positive as possible. </p>
<p>“Jade,” he asked, “You remember when I first signed-up as a volunteer. You remember that?” </p>
<p>“Sure. I didn’t think you’d make it past the probation period. You were too sensitive, I thought. But you fooled everybody, kid. You did good. You saved a few, Ray,” she managed. </p>
<p>“We saved a few, Jade. We. We’re a team and I’m going to be here with you right across the line, okay?” he said, the tone of his voice surprising him. </p>
<p>“I would expect nothing less, Ray,” she mumbled. “And, for your information, these pills are as advertised. This is the best buzz I’ve had for a long time, kid.” </p>
<p>“Okay, good to know, girl. Good to know. So, one question. Are you ready for this?” Ray wondered. </p>
<p>“Oh, yeah, Ray. Ready as I’ll ever be.” </p>
<p>“Good, Jade. That’s good.” </p>
<p>“Ray, would you do me one last favor?” </p>
<p>“Sure, Jade. Whatever you need.” </p>
<p>“Would you take a bite of your sandwich and tell me how it tastes. I’d like that. Go ahead. Talk with your mouth full, Ray.” </p>
<p>He took a deep breath, brought his sandwich to his lips and bit into it. As he chewed, he told her about the experience. The tastes, the textures, the pleasures. It didn’t take long but he thought he did a really good job of it. </p>
<p>“Thanks for that, Ray. I lost all that. Forgot the joy in the little things. You keep that, Ray. You hear?” </p>
<p>The phone went dead. Ray knew what that meant as he took off his headset, leaned back in his chair, and thanked God that it was Sunday night and nobody else was on the line. He didn’t think they’d understand if the guy who answered the Suicide Hotline phone was sobbing uncontrollably. </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/71009842022-11-12T10:27:19-07:002022-11-12T10:27:19-07:00The Tonys - By Brian Law<p>The young FBI agent flashed his badge to the maître d' and said, “I’m looking for Tony Collazo. You may know him as Tony Swimsuits. He here tonight?” He’d been out of the Academy for just three weeks and he still got a thrill every time he got to pull his badge and show it to somebody. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>The maître d' smiled, nodded and remarked in a cursory manner, “You’ve got your Tony’s mixed up, Agent Wilburn. Anthony Collazo is Tony Tennis Shoes. And Mr. Collazo is here tonight. Tony Swimsuits is Anthony Cilurzo. He lives in Jersey, not New York, and never dines here. I'll have you escorted to his table. We always like to be on good terms with the government.” </p>
<p>Wilburn put away his badge, straightened his tie and followed a waiter through the crowded restaurant until they got to a large booth in a far corner. A heavyset man in a cheap suit sat in the middle. He had a large cigar in one hand, and on either side of him sat a beautiful woman. On the outside seat sat a big, rough looking character whose face needed some work. The big character stood up as Wilburn approached and put his hand on the agent’s chest. </p>
<p>“That’s okay, Vito. Let him through, for Christ’s sake, will ya! Don’t you know an FBI agent when you see one? ” Collazo bellowed. “C’mon, kid, sit down. Waiter, bring this man a glass!” </p>
<p>Wilburn flashed his badge again just so everybody could see it and so he could get that good feeling again. As he slid into the other outside seat of the booth, the buxom young woman slid over closer to Tony Tennis Shoes. Wilburn was impressed by her jewelry, among other things, which jingled as she moved. </p>
<p>“So, Agent Wilburn, what brings you to my humble table this evening?” Collazo wondered, waving his big cigar in the air. Just then the waiter brought an empty glass for Wilburn and poured some wine in it. </p>
<p>Wilburn had grown up in Iowa on a farm in a big family. He was taught to be polite, follow the rules, and work hard. The situation he found himself in tonight was completely alien to him. Sitting at a table with a powerful mob boss, his bodyguard, and two knockouts was not what he was expecting when he was sent out this afternoon from the New York office. </p>
<p>They had not told him much. He didn’t even know the agent who gave him his instructions. They’d just lifted him from a seminar on fingerprints and gave him some questions to ask of one Tony Collazo. He was told that Mr. Collazo would be a good source. Nice guy, they said. Chatty. </p>
<p>Clearing his throat, Wilburn brought out a small notebook from his suit pocket and flipped to a certain page. Looking up, he said, “Well, sir, Mr. Collazo, I’ve been sent out to ask you to answer three questions about your, uh, organization. Nothing invasive, just trying to clear up some misunderstandings we at the Bureau have about your chain of command, as it were. Sound like something you could help us with, sir?” </p>
<p>“Shoot, kid,” Collazo said in a gravelly voice. </p>
<p>“We’ll, first, I guess I need to apologize to you for getting your name wrong with the maitre d’. I called you Tony Swimsuits. He set me straight,” Wilburn confessed. “I’m on the right page now, Mr. Tennis Shoes, sir.” </p>
<p>Collazo’s demeanor changed as he heard what Wilburn had just explained. He indicated with a flick of his head for his bodyguard to have a little talk with the maitre d’ and then turned his attention back to Wilburn. “I don’t use that moniker no more, Wilburn. In fact, none of us use our old nicknames anymore. We find it unseemly. Capice?” </p>
<p>The bodyguard returned, sat down and nodded to Collazo whose demeanor now resumed its previous pleasantness. “So, what three questions you got, Wilburn?” Collazo asked. </p>
<p>“Okay, here goes, sir. Does Tony ‘The Backhoe’ still run the crew on the lower East Side? That’s the first question, and I’m sorry to have to use the man’s nickname, but that’s all they gave me. I apologize. I’ll clear this all up when I get back to headquarters, sir,” Wilburn replied. </p>
<p>“Anthony Crimoli is no longer with the organization, Wilburn,” Collazo explained. “He did run that crew until he met with an unfortunate accident a while back. And his name wasn’t Tony ‘The Backhoe’. It was Tony ‘No Thumbs’. So, that should clear up that. We good?” </p>
<p>Wilburn nodded, jotted something down, and moved on to the second question. “Again with apologies, sir, we would like to know where Tony ‘Big Ears’ fits into your org chart. We didn’t have a current last name. Sorry about that, sir.” </p>
<p>Collazo didn’t say anything. He just shook his head, indicating that Wilburn should move on to the third question. Wilburn took this to mean that the man in question was no longer functioning in the organization in any capacity. </p>
<p>“Right, sir,” Wilburn continued. “Just one last question and I’ll leave you folks to your supper.” He looked around the table, but no one except Collazo was paying any attention to him. “We’d like to know if Tony ‘Horseshoes’ Milano will resume his former position in the organization once he’s released from Federal custody later this year.” </p>
<p>Collazo laughed and waved to the waiter for another bottle of wine. “My old friend, Anthony Milano, will definitely not be resuming his former duties, Wilburn. In fact, I’d be surprised if he survives long enough to even get out. He was a rat, Wilburn. You do know what a rat is, right?” </p>
<p>Wilburn nodded as he wrote something in his notepad, put it away in his suit pocket and said, “Well, thanks for the information you’ve given me, sir. I’ll straighten out my superiors at headquarters about not using nicknames anymore and we’ll make changes in our understanding of your organization based upon your answers tonight. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to get back and type up my report, sir.” </p>
<p>“Sure, kid. Nice talking with you. Pass on my regards downtown. I’ll send you a ham for Christmas. I got your name and stuff on your card, kid,” Collazo replied as Wilburn got up and headed for the front door. </p>
<p>Once out of Wilburn’s earshot, Collazo shook his head and said, “What a friggin’ idiot. Shit-for-brains kid comes in here and believes anything I tell him. Jesus, what’s the world coming to, anyway?” He then threw his arm around the knockout on his left and laughed as hard as he could. </p>
<p>Once back in his car, Wilburn sat in the dark and said nothing for a few moments. Then, he handed something to the agent sitting in the front seat. </p>
<p>“How’d she seem?” the agent in the front seat asked. </p>
<p>“Cool as a cucumber, sir,” Wilburn replied. </p>
<p>The agent in the front seat replied, “Well, this thumb drive you got from her tonight should give us enough to indict Collazo’s entire organization. She’s been at his side every day for months now. Every conversation he’s had, every deal he’s made, every contract he’s put out. It’s all on there, Agent Wilburn.” </p>
<p>Wilburn smiled and relaxed for the first time in hours. </p>
<p>“And did he believe your little act, Agent Wilburn?” the agent in the front seat asked, adjusting his earpiece. </p>
<p>“Just call me Agent ‘shit-for-brains’ from now on, sir,” Wilburn replied as they both burst out laughing. </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/71009832022-11-12T10:25:27-07:002022-11-12T10:25:27-07:00The Mud Room - By Brian Law<p>The real estate agent had just finished showing the old house to the elderly couple when she explained, “This home was built in the late 1800’s and, as you can see, it has been very well maintained. The floor plan is original, no additions. They’ve obviously upgraded the windows, appliances, and heating and air conditioning systems. But, otherwise, it’s just the way it was when it was first built.” </p>
<p>The elderly couple looked at each other and then the wife turned to the agent and asked, “We’ve heard rumors. You know, about what went on here in the early ‘60’s. Now would be the time to disclose that, if it’s true.” </p>
<p>The agent smiled and replied, “You’re talking about the Manson Family, right? And the time they lived here. Yes, that’s all true. But that was well before their ‘Helter Skelter’ period. They moved later to ‘The Spahn Ranch’ where all that other stuff went on. In fact, many of the Family members that lived here were never identified. They didn’t move to the Ranch, apparently. Went their own ways.” </p>
<p>The couple looked at each other again and the husband said, “You’ve indicated that the floor plan is original, but we’re from the East Coast, not California. So, it’s a bit unusual to see a ‘mud room’ in a home out here. I mean, let’s face it, you get maybe three inches of rain a year here, right? So, why did they convert that little room off the kitchen into a ‘mud room’?” </p>
<p>The agent smiled again and replied, “That has been a continuing issue with this home. Nobody has really figured out why the Manson Family did that, because it was done when they were living here.” </p>
<p>Looking at each other, the elderly couple nodded their heads and turned to the agent. “We love it! Put in an offer for us at the asking price,” the wife gushed. </p>
<p>Beaming, the agent shook their hands and indicated that she would go back to her office and get the paperwork ready. “You both can stay here and look around some more. Just be at my office in town in two hours and we’ll get things moving. Sound good?” she asked. </p>
<p>“We’ll see you in two hours,” the husband indicated. With that, the agent left the two elderly folks alone as she drove back to town. </p>
<p>They moved together through the home to the kitchen and to the door leading to the mud room. He squeezed her hand and asked, “Do you remember?” </p>
<p>“Like it was yesterday. Charlie told us all that we couldn’t track blood into the house.” </p>
<p>Her husband smiled and added, “So we said, ‘How about we add a mud room?'” </p>
<p>“And nobody, even Charlie, knew what we were talking about. So that was our project for the next week,” she said excitedly. </p>
<p>They stood in the doorway admiring the results of those labors so many years ago. </p>
<p>“How about when we move in, we get some shovels, first thing?” he asked her. </p>
<p>“I know just where to dig,” she replied, her excitement growing to levels she hadn’t felt in decades. </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/70831242022-10-17T12:22:08-07:002022-10-17T12:22:08-07:00The Road Between the Fields - By Brian Law<p>“That’s it. That’s the one,” he said to the driver. He pointed as he said it, the cigarette held in his fingers glowing in the dark. </p>
<p>The driver slowed the truck and rolled down his window to get a better look. “You sure?” </p>
<p>He nodded and replied, “Yeah, I’m sure. The sunflowers have grown up, but the road is there, alright. Back up and put your headlights on it. You’ll see.” </p>
<p>The driver did as he was told and as the truck stopped at an angle so that its headlights were on the gap in the sunflower rows, the driver observed, “They might have been irrigating. Could be a muddy mess in there.” </p>
<p>“You Americans and your irrigation water. Remember where you are. No irrigation out here. But you gotta take it real slow. Won’t be able to see more than a few feet in front of the bumper. Road bends a bit to the left, too. And we’ll have to back out once we’re done,” he explained to the driver. “That’ll be the tricky part.” </p>
<p>“Maybe we should wait for dawn,” the driver said, taking a quick sip from a pint of vodka he’d been working on since they left town. </p>
<p>“No, we gotta go now. In the daylight, eyes in the sky could see the sunflower stalks moving as we drive through, especially if there’s no wind. We can’t risk that.” </p>
<p>“What about if they buried, you know, . . . things in the road?” </p>
<p>“You’ll never feel a thing if they did.” </p>
<p>“Okay, then, you ready?” the driver asked, putting the truck in gear. </p>
<p>He took the pistol from the glove compartment, jacked a round into the chamber, and nodded. “Yeah, and remember, real slow and it bends to the left.” </p>
<p>The truck lurched slightly as it entered the field. As it disappeared amidst the towering stalks and slowly made its way deeper into the field, the two men were jostled back and forth as the headlights barely illuminated its path forward. </p>
<p>He checked his phone and told the driver, “Another three hundred meters or so. Almost there. You’re doing fine.” </p>
<p>The driver just drove, concentrating hard on not veering off into the sunflowers. He wanted another swig of vodka bad but couldn’t risk it. It was hard just keeping the truck’s wheels on the dirt road. </p>
<p>“Stop! We’re there. Look over there. See it!” he exclaimed. </p>
<p>The driver slammed on the brakes and the old truck came to an abrupt halt. “Yeah. Not very big, is it?” </p>
<p>He opened his door, pushing aside the sunflower stalks as he did. Signaling for the driver to follow him, he pushed his way towards the package that was about ten feet away, the driver following him close behind. </p>
<p>“You know what’s in it?” the driver asked. </p>
<p>“We never know. Sometimes it’s communications equipment, sometimes high explosives, sometimes night vision goggles. Whatever it is, it’s hard-to-get stuff and we need all we can get,” he explained to the driver as he carefully removed the netting around the package. “Here, pull on this while I hold this other thing over here.” </p>
<p>After few minutes, they had the package opened and its contents sorted. </p>
<p>“Take those parcels, put them in the back of the truck, and cover them with the tarp,” he said to the driver. “I’ll take this little box into the front for the trip back.” </p>
<p>“You mind if I rest for a minute, drink a bit?” the driver asked. </p>
<p>“Nah, you did good. We got time. You want some of these, by the way? Came with the package,” he asked the driver. “What are they called, anyway? Never seen them before.” </p>
<p>“Oreos. You don’t see them here in the Ukraine,” the driver said, taking a few and putting them into his pocket. “Some American supply sergeant in Poland probably thought it might perk us up a bit. Try one. They’re okay.” </p>
<p>He bit into one tentatively and chewed on it for a moment. Then he ate the whole thing and reached for another. </p>
<p>“See what I mean?” </p>
<p>“Yeah, these are good,” he said smiling. “You done resting? We got a long trip back to our lines before sunup.” </p>
<p>“Yeah, I’m good. Maybe next time we’ll get some Fritos,” he said. </p>
<p>“Fritos? What’re they?” </p>
<p>“Got you interested, haven’t I,” the driver said, a wry smile on his face. </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/70831232022-10-17T12:21:36-07:002022-10-17T12:21:37-07:00The Putting Lessing - By Brian Law<p>It was late in the afternoon. Most of the other members were in the club house bar doing whatever wealthy men do after golf when their wives weren’t around. But two men remained out on the practice green, working on their putting technique. </p>
<p>Unknown to the two putters, two others watched from nearby. One was an older man, the other a younger man. They kept their presence hidden as neither was a club member. </p>
<p>“Now, watch his feet, kid,” the older man pointed out. “See how the pin and the tips of his two feet all line up in a straight line? That’s key to one great putt.” </p>
<p>The younger man nodded and wrinkled his brow as he tried hard to remember all the things the older man was teaching him. </p>
<p>“Okay, kid, and note how he bends just slightly at the waist, not too much, not too little. Very important!” the older man added. “You bend over too much; you’ll pull your putt to the left. Gotta watch that.” </p>
<p>“Really? To the left, huh?” the younger man answered. “Feet lined-up and bending down at the waist, but not too much. Real important stuff. Got it!” Again, he tried to concentrate, but it was hard. He was hungry and tired and had to pee. But he really appreciated the attention he was getting. These putting tips were really important, and he knew it. He’d need them when his luck turned. </p>
<p>The older man put his hand on the younger man’s shoulder and whispered into his ear, “Look at his grip. He’s looking at that pin to the right, about a forty two foot putt, I’d say. Watch his grip. See how it’s different than his grip when he was making the shorter putt?” </p>
<p>The younger man pretended to understand what was just said as he enthusiastically nodded his head and replied, “Oh, yeah! Wow, you must have given me a million bucks worth of great tips today.” Wiping his nose with his sleeve, he then asked, “Where’d you learn all this stuff, anyway?” </p>
<p>“Here and there, kid, here and there,” the older man mused. “I used to knock a golf ball around for a living a long time ago. I was pretty good . . . you know, until the booze got to me.” </p>
<p>The younger man let the branches he had parted close in front of them and the two men retreated a few feet back into the trees alongside the golf course. “Booze, huh? It was heroin for me. I used to be a pretty good mechanic.” </p>
<p>The two men leaned back against separate tree trunks. The old man pulled out a pint of cheap whiskey and took a pull from it while the young man snorted something. </p>
<p>They sat there silently for a while, both forgetting about putting and everything else. </p>
<p>Soon, it started to rain, so they packed up and headed back to their spot under the bridge. </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/70831222022-10-17T12:21:11-07:002022-10-17T12:21:11-07:00The Minor Leagues - By Brian Law<p>The jeep pulled-up in front of the Quonset hut and stopped. The driver checked his watch and knew he was right on time, which was really important. He couldn’t afford too many more screw-ups in his Army career, and today he knew he had to make a good impression. </p>
<p>The newly arrived 2nd Lieutenant emerged from the hut, looked around, and then strode purposely towards the waiting jeep. </p>
<p>“Morning, sir,” the driver said, saluting smartly. “I’m PFC Walcott, sir, your driver.” </p>
<p>“Good morning, Private,” the Lieutenant replied, returning the salute and climbing into the jeep. </p>
<p>“Where to this morning, sir?” Walcott asked. </p>
<p>“Show me around my command, Private. Let’s start with the perimeter and work inwards. Any questions?” </p>
<p>“No, sir,” Walcott replied, putting the jeep into gear and slowly moving towards the north. </p>
<p>They drove for a few minutes without saying anything until Walcott couldn’t hold it in any longer. “Sir, I do have one question?” </p>
<p>“Of course, Walcott, I’m always open to the people under my command.” </p>
<p>“Well, sir, it’s that me, Private Gomez and Sergeant Wilcox know that you just got out of West Point. This is your first posting, right?” </p>
<p>“That’s right, Private. I’m a proud member of the Class of ‘22.” </p>
<p>“Okay, well, you must know how the three of us screwed up to get posted to this dump of a Command, sir,” Walcott ventured. “So, we were just wondering what you did to merit this as your first posting? Musta been a doozy, sir, if you don’t mind me saying so.” </p>
<p>The Lieutenant smiled and said nothing for a few moments as the jeep navigated the pock-marked road. Clearing his throat, he then replied, “Well, Walcott, I’ve read your three service files and am well aware of what brought you three here. You, for instance, made a pass at the General’s daughter at your last posting. Am I correct?” </p>
<p>“That’s right, sir. I didn’t see nothin’ wrong with it at the time, though.” </p>
<p>“She was twelve years old, Walcott,” the Lieutenant observed, his gaze on the road ahead. </p>
<p>Walcott just shrugged and kept on dodging potholes. </p>
<p>“And as far as Private Gomez and Sergeant Wilcox, I won’t reveal their mistakes, although I’m sure you are well aware of them. Am I correct?” the Lieutenant asked. </p>
<p>“Yes, sir, I know just what they did. And you won’t see no nooses being hung up around here by them, sir. No way! They’ve learned their lesson,” Walcott admitted. </p>
<p>“That’s good. So, what you want to know is why the Army would post a fresh-faced 2nd Lieutenant who had a spotless record and who was a Regimental Commander at The Point, who had a 3.95 GPA, and who was the point guard on the basketball team, to this odd little command. Is that about it, Private?” </p>
<p>“That’s about it, sir. With all due respects, sir.” </p>
<p>“So why, if I had my choice of any Branch of the Army, be it Infantry, Armor, the Engineers, Intelligence or even Finance, would I end up here? Right, Private?” </p>
<p>“Yes, sir.” </p>
<p>“Well, for one thing, Walcott, it is a Command, is it not?” the Lieutenant observed. </p>
<p>“That it is, sir, that it is. And 2nd Lieutenants just don’t get Commands right off the bat, in my experience, sir,” Walcott added. </p>
<p>“But now you’re thinking that this wasn’t my choice, but that I was sent here as punishment. For some big mistake I made somewhere along the way. Right, Walcott?” the Lieutenant continued. “And what the Army really wants is for me to just resign my commission and walk away. That’s what you’re really thinking isn’t it, Walcott?” </p>
<p>Walcott nodded as he veered the jeep to the left to avoid a small animal in the roadway. </p>
<p>“And you three probably have a bet going on just when I’ll turn in my bars. Am I getting close, Walcott?” the Lieutenant probed. </p>
<p>Walcott sheepishly agreed and conceded, “It seemed to us that to be in Command of the Army’s Porta-Potty Testing Center in Pahrump, Nevada would be just too big a let-down for a hard-charger like yourself, sir.” </p>
<p>“Which leaves us with the sixty-four thousand dollar question, doesn’t it, Walcott?” the Lieutenant concluded, looking over at his driver. </p>
<p>“Yes, sir, that it does.” </p>
<p>Clearing his throat, the Lieutenant continued, “And that is just what gigantic mistake did I make to get posted to this dump of a Command, as you so eloquently call it, Walcott?” </p>
<p>Walcott gripped the steering wheel of the jeep tightly. He couldn’t remember being this excited about anything since he made that pass at the General’s daughter. This new green Lieutenant was about ready to fess-up to his career blunder. And what the Lieutenant didn’t know is that the bet between Walcott and the other Private and the Sergeant was whether Walcott could get the Lieutenant to confess to it! Walcott had bet three month’s pay that he could get this snot-nosed little officer to spill the beans. He was already thinking about how he was going to spend it in Las Vegas. </p>
<p>“Well, Walcott, I’m not going to tell you. You’ll just have to live with that as long as I am your Commanding Officer,” the Lieutenant concluded. </p>
<p>Walcott visibly sank in his seat as the jeep continued to lumber past the endless rows of portable toilets within the perimeter. </p>
<p>Few people knew what really got the Lieutenant posted out in the middle of nowhere. He didn’t get caught running the longest-running poker game in West Point history until right before graduation. And they hushed it up for the good of the Corps. But by that time, he’d pocketed enough money on the side to live whatever life he wanted. </p>
<p>But when they told him he was being posted to Pahrump, Nevada, a stone’s throw away from Las Vegas, it was all he could do to maintain his calm and not jump up and shout “Yes!”. </p>
<p>He felt kind of bad for Walcott, though. He knew what was on Walcott’s mind the second he walked out of his Quonset hut earlier. After all, you don’t operate the longest-running poker game in West Point history for four years without learning something about degenerate gamblers . . . </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/70596212022-09-13T14:59:47-07:002022-09-13T14:59:47-07:00Boise Time - By Brian Law<p>He sat up in bed, half awake, picked-up his t-shirt, smelled it, shrugged and put it on. The early morning sun was just peaking over the eastern hills of Boise, his newly adopted town, and it was chilly outside. He still hadn’t got used to that, moving from Santa Monica and all just a few months before with his mom and his brother. Running his fingers through his hair, he slowly arose and walked to the bathroom to pee. The clock on his dresser showed it was 5:05. Jesus! </p>
<p>Padding downstairs, trying to be quiet, he walked through the kitchen and then through a door that led down to the basement. The eerie glow of many computer screens was all that illuminated the space, and the only sound he heard was the rapid clickety-clack of his brother’s typing on a computer keyboard. </p>
<p>“Any pizza left from last night?” he asked his brother. </p>
<p>“Yeah. It’s still in the box over there,” his brother indicated with a casual toss of his head, continuing without interruption his typing on the keyboard. </p>
<p>Grabbing the last cold slice of pizza from the box, he moved behind his brother and looked at the computer screen as he ate. “Any specials today?” he asked, his mouth half-full of pizza. </p>
<p>“He’s offering a thousand for any officer above colonel today,” was his brother’s answer. </p>
<p>“Nice. How about equipment specials?” he wondered. </p>
<p>“Same as always. Heavy artillery, rocket launchers, and comms centers are all five hundred each,” his brother replied matter-of-factly. </p>
<p>He moved into the seat next to his brother and logged-in to the same program his brother was using. “Okay, I’m live. What am I seeing?” he asked. </p>
<p>“Got a phone convo going between Moscow and some muckety-muck near the front. I’ve designated it as Red 1. See it?” his brother said. </p>
<p>“Yep. I’m listening in. Guy in Ukraine is asking for clearance to attack. Want to earn a thou, bro?” he suggested. </p>
<p>“Read my mind. I’ve armed the drone and am moving to within range as we speak.” </p>
<p>Just then their mother appeared at the top of the stairs and yelled down, “Hey, you two, breakfast in ten minutes. You got to get cleaned up and ready for school! You know what happens if you’re late again for home room.” </p>
<p>“Okay, mom. Be up in a jiff,” his brother yelled back. He turned, put his finger on a red button, and looked at his brother. “We good?” </p>
<p>“Yeah. I’ll stay on the line and let you know what happens.” </p>
<p>His brother pushed the red button and as he listened over the phone, his brother counted down. “Three, two, one!” </p>
<p>“Okay. Phone went dead,” he said, smiling. He looked up at the clock on the wall that showed Ukrainian time. “Ruined somebody’s dinner I’d say,” he chuckled. </p>
<p>“Whatever,” his brother replied as he shut down his computer and headed for the stairs and breakfast. </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/70378342022-08-14T14:47:56-07:002022-08-14T14:47:56-07:00Required Reading - By Brian Law<p>He held the small painting, inspecting it closely under the dim light of the garage. “Who the hell is this guy . . . Monet . . . anyway?” he asked gruffly. “Never heard of him.” </p>
<p>“It’s pronounced ‘Monay’, Gregory. He’s French and I’m told that it could be of value. Let’s say ten dollars, shall we?” the little thief ventured, looking around nervously. </p>
<p>“Two bucks,” he countered. He’d lost money before on art, even on paintings that weren't blurry. </p>
<p>The little thief just shrugged and took the money. He was in a hurry and had to see a man about something else. Something that made his jitters go away for a while. </p>
<p>Ten minutes passed, and someone rapped on the fence’s door. He knew who it had to be and let him in. He hadn’t had time to put the little blurry painting away yet, and the man who walked in just stared at it and said nothing. </p>
<p>“You just going to stand there and stare or are you here about the clock?” Gregory growled at the man as he covered the little painting and slipped it into a drawer. </p>
<p>“The clock, oh, yes, the clock,” the man said, quickly recovering. “Yes, I’ve come for the clock. I have the money.” </p>
<p>The fence reached down and retrieved the item he’d wrapped in cloth earlier. Setting it down on the counter and removing the cloth, he told the man, “Thirty-five bucks, as we agreed.” </p>
<p>“Yes, of course. Here’s your money,” the man replied, handing over the bank notes and taking the clock into his soft, well-manicured hands. He knew full well that the clock was worth hundreds in New York and even more in London. Gregory was an idiot when it came to the real value of some things, he thought to himself. It was nineteen hundred and two, for God’s sake, and even an oaf like Gregory should be more aware, he mused as he said, “And thank you, Gregory, for contacting me first. But I must say, you drive a hard bargain.” </p>
<p>“Anything else on your mind?” Gregory wondered aloud, remembering the man’s earlier interest at the little painting now resting in the drawer near the fence’s left knee, and also knowing that the man still held a large wad of bank notes inside his left jacket pocket. </p>
<p>The man pretended to look around the garage and then asked, “Any recent acquisitions? Sculptures, paintings, things of that sort, Gregory?” </p>
<p>“Maybe,” the fence replied, playing his cards close to his vest. “Anything in particular?” </p>
<p>“Well, I’m redecorating my home and I’m looking for a nice blue-green painting to match the curtains and the rug. Nothing too expensive, you know, and smallish. Discrete,” the man explained. “If you run across something like that, I’d be interested, Gregory.” </p>
<p>Gregory reached down and opened the drawer and as he did, he carefully watched the man’s face. The fence had played poker since the Gold Rush when he was just a kid and he knew what to look for. Sure enough, there it was. The man couldn’t hide his excitement. The artery on his neck was bulging behind his starched collar! </p>
<p>“Well, I just came into possession of this little painting,” Gregory said as he held it in his hands just a few inches above the desktop. “It’s by some Frenchie. Blue-green, like you wanted.” He continued to watch the man’s artery swell as he added, “But it didn’t come cheap. No, it didn’t come cheap. I had to pay through the nose for this hazy little daubing.” </p>
<p>Realizing that the bidding had begun, the man leaned in for a closer look. “Monet? Hmmmm.” </p>
<p>“I heard it was pronounced ‘Monay’, but that’s all I know. If you’re interested, you can have it for three hundred bucks. Firm,” Gregory announced, knowing exactly how the dandy little man would react. </p>
<p>“Well, it’s certainly the right color. And I like the pond and water lily setting. But that’s too much, Gregory. Perhaps when you acquire something else, you could contact me. I’m still at my Nob Hill address,” the man replied, full-well knowing that he would return again in a few days and restart the bidding for this little treasure at a lower price. </p>
<p>“I will keep you in mind, sir.” </p>
<p>And with that, the dandy left the shop knowing in his heart that he was just a few dollars away from owning one of the most precious works of art the world had ever known. One thing bothered him, though, was that the idiot, the one they called ‘The Saint’, would be handling the little treasure with his rough, stupid hands for the time being. </p>
<p>Gregory St. Germaine smiled as he gently wrapped the little painting in clean cloth and took it into a special place he had for very special things. Locking it away, he sat down and poured himself a glass of well-earned Chateau d-Yquem sauterne. As he relaxed, he reached over for the large book he’d been reading in French before his customers had arrived. </p>
<p>It was the only copy known to be in America and he turned to page forty-one, a page he had visited many times before. There was the blurry little painting in all its glory. </p>
<p>‘The Saint’ wept, his hardened heart softened by the indescribable beauty he beheld. </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/70378332022-08-14T14:47:16-07:002022-08-14T14:47:16-07:00Without Regard - By Brian Law<p>He was surprised and responded, “Well, I’m in that age zone now where things can happen, sometimes fast, sometimes slow.” Faster was better, he thought to himself, but didn’t say it aloud. “So, maybe you might want to look for a younger man for the job, Vince.” </p>
<p>The big man behind the desk smiled, got up and looked out the window onto the streets of Chicago below, his hands clasped behind his back. “It’s precisely because of your age, Jimmy, and also because you’ve been out of the game for years now that I want you for this job. Nobody knows you anymore and they certainly won’t expect it coming from somebody your age. Even the cops wouldn’t look in your direction.” </p>
<p>Jimmy nodded his head and replied, “Well, that’s probably true, Vince. So, let’s just say I’m interested, even though it could be tricky, especially at my age. What’s the client offering?” </p>
<p>Turning back to face his old friend, Vince leaned on his desk with both hands and said with a grin, “How about that Degas you tried to buy at that auction some years back, Jimmy? Interested?” </p>
<p>Somebody knew the way to Jimmy’s heart. He’d started collecting art soon after he became a hired killer. And the loss of the Degas to a higher bidder years ago still stuck in his craw. He knew it had been stolen recently and felt the loss just as deeply as if it had been taken from his own collection. But now it was being offered as payment for a very dangerous and difficult job. Probably his last. </p>
<p>“Yeah, I’m interested. I’d have to see the painting first, though, Vince. You know how it is.” </p>
<p>Nodding, Vince reached down for a briefcase near his desk, placed it on his desk, opened it and turned it towards his friend. “Here, Jimmy, have a look.” </p>
<p>Jimmy looked down at the open briefcase and the painting he longed to own for years. “Can I pick it up, Vince?” </p>
<p>“Sure, Jimmy. Take a close look at it. Take your time.” </p>
<p>He’d never used appraisers. He knew what he was looking for and he saw it immediately. This was the real thing, and he had it in his hands at last. He hadn’t been this excited in years and he knew he was close to possessing the Degas all to himself. There was just the little matter of the job. </p>
<p>Gently replacing the painting in the briefcase, Jimmy took his seat and waited as Vince closed the briefcase, replaced it on the floor next to him, and then sat down himself. “So,” Vince asked, “You in?” </p>
<p>“Give me the details and I'll let you know, Vince.” </p>
<p>Vince laid out the pertinent facts that Jimmy would need to make up his mind, except the identity of the client. The job was risky, very risky and required split-second timing. Also, Jimmy would have to leave the country for a year or so after the hit until things died down. But he’d get the Degas before he left. No question about that. </p>
<p>“That’s about it, Jimmy. What’s your decision, old friend?” </p>
<p>“Vince, I know you and how you work. You’ve looked at my medical records, right?” </p>
<p>Vince just shrugged but said nothing. </p>
<p>“So, you know that if I leave the country for a year or so, I don’t come back. I’ll be lucky to live six months, tops, in my condition. But you know this, Vince.” </p>
<p>“We know this, Jimmy.” </p>
<p>Jimmy chuckled to himself as he looked at his old friend with admiration. “But you’d let this old, sick man do one last job and then spend the last six months of his life in ecstasy, holding that Degas in his arms as he fell asleep each night. Am I close, Vince?” </p>
<p>“Something like that, Jimmy.” </p>
<p>“And then on that one morning I don’t wake up, somebody would come in, gently remove the painting from my death grip, and that would be that.” </p>
<p>“We wouldn’t want it to get into the wrong hands now, would we, Jimmy?” </p>
<p>“No, Vince, we wouldn’t.” </p>
<p>“So?” </p>
<p>“I’m in, old friend. And I prefer to spend my last six months in Chile, if that’s okay with you.” </p>
<p>“It’s already arranged, Jimmy. Valparaiso, close to the beach.” </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/70116972022-07-10T11:08:36-07:002022-07-10T11:08:36-07:00The Last Thing To Go - By Brian Law<p>He glanced at the mirror in the hallway for just a moment as he walked past it. Not enough for anyone to notice, but enough to assure himself again. His jaw was firm, his crow’s feet gone, his nose perfect, his hairline normal, his hair without streaks of grey, and his eyelids didn’t droop anymore. He looked near fifty, maybe even younger. And the pain was almost gone. </p>
<p>The important thing was for him to still look like himself, just a younger version. A version that had disappeared over the last twenty-five years but that had now been resurrected by that wonderful little doctor in Guadalajara. He knew it wouldn’t last for very long, but it would last long enough for his purposes. He took another quick look in the mirror as the matron came out to meet them. </p>
<p>“Good morning, Ms. Walcott. Your mother is in the sunroom. She’s had her breakfast and knows you will be visiting,” the matron said to them, shaking Mildred Walcott’s hand while stealing a quick look at him. He could tell she liked what she saw. “And I see you’ve brought a visitor along with you today,” the matron added. </p>
<p>Beaming, Mildred gripped his right arm in her arms and holding him tightly, introduced him to the matron. “Oh, yes, this is John, my fiancée, Matron. I wanted to introduce him to Mother today. Is she up to it?” Mildred asked. </p>
<p>John could tell the matron was surprised that Mildred had arrived with a man on her arm. Mildred Walcott, the classic homely spinster, was now sporting quite a catch, the matron must be thinking. Good looking, tall, probably a little old for Mildred, but well-mannered in any case. Matron was happy for Mildred but not quite sure what it all meant. “I think your Mother will be fine, but don’t take too long, dear. She tires easily since her last stroke. But she definitely understands what’s being said,” Matron explained. “She can't speak, of course, so watch her eyes. They will tell you everything.” </p>
<p>John knew exactly what Matron was thinking as the three of them moved towards the sunroom and Mother Walcott. He knew she was confused as to why a man like him would attach himself to a woman like Mildred. That’s what everyone thought . . . homely little Mildred, who wasn’t rich, had suddenly hit the relationship Jackpot? It didn’t make much sense to anybody. </p>
<p>Matron chatted to Mildred about her Mother’s condition as they found their way through the large building and up the stairs to the sunroom. From time to time, Matron’s gaze would stray towards John and her medically trained eyes would catch that John moved like a much older man than his face suggested. She wondered if he’d been in an accident or was ill. He moved much more like some of her patients in their eighties than a man just past fifty. </p>
<p>As they arrived at the right floor, John squeezed Mildred’s arm and reminded her how excited he was to meet her Mother for the first time. She squeezed right back and he could tell she was more excited than at any time since they’d met a few months before. She was a disappointment to her Mother, being unmarried and childless, and she knew it. It was her most fervent wish that before her Mother died, she could present her with what Mother wished for most. A husband and, maybe, even grandchildren. She wouldn’t tell her Mother she was pregnant just yet. Not until after the wedding. </p>
<p>John was excited, too, but for a decidedly different reason. He knew Mildred’s Mother only too well. Years ago, they’d been lovers, had planned on a life together, and then, Poof, it was over. She left him for another without an explanation, an apology, or an argument. What would Mother think when John showed up looking decades younger on the arm of her only daughter! </p>
<p>He knew precisely what Mother Walcott would think. She’d be confused, at first, then angry and would want to warn Mildred! Tell her it was all a ruse! A cynical, evil plot to get even! </p>
<p>But, of course, Mother could do none of these things. Trapped in a wheelchair, voiceless, with only her eyes to betray her inner emotions. Yes, John was excited alright as he and Mildred entered the sunroom and approached the wheelchair facing the garden window. </p>
<p>“Mother Walcott, you have some visitors this morning,” Matron whispered into the old lady’s ear as she grasped the handles on her wheelchair and turned it around. </p>
<p>As Matron and Mildred smiled and said pleasantries to Mother, only John could really interpret the fierce confusion and anger that was showing in Mother Walcott’s eyes. </p>
<p>My God, he thought to himself, this is better than he could have ever imagined. </p>
<p>"Mother Walcott," he said lovingly, patting her crippled arm that gripped her wheelchair so tightly, "How lovely to meet you after all this time." </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/70116962022-07-10T11:07:46-07:002022-07-10T11:07:46-07:00Down Under - By Brian Law<p>The letter was postmarked Bunbury, W.A. He knew who sent it. There was only one person he knew of who lived in Western Australia. </p>
<p>“Dear Mr. Wallace, </p>
<p>Thank you for your interest in my husband’s most recent novel, The Sleazy Mouthpiece, and please pardon the delay in the dispatch of this reply. But I am sure you will understand when I tell you that my husband was involved in an accident and we have all been very busy since then. He was struck while crossing the Coalfields Road just south of where we live in Allanson around the same time your letter arrived. They are saying it looks like it may have been a hit and run. No suspects at this time. My husband is in hospital with severe injuries in Critical Care. </p>
<p>Your letter is typical of numerous similar letters we have received since the publication of The Sleazy Mouthpiece in America. Like you, other American readers have recited much the same experience with their legal systems as the main character in the novel. Attached is a list of the names and addresses of our American readership who have contacted us. I’m sure they won’t mind me giving you this information. You might find commonality if you contact some of them. </p>
<p>Pray for my husband, Mr. Wallace. And, if you could find it in your heart to help, we would appreciate anything you could spare through our ‘GoFundMe’ page. Details are attached. </p>
<p>Yours very sincerely, </p>
<p>Edith Wordswill” </p>
<p>Weeks back, when he first ran across this little e-book titled The Sleazy Mouthpiece, he checked out the author, Albert Wordswill. Turned out Albert was an Australian who currently lived in the Outback in a caravan with his wife, three dogs, and a pet crocodile. He had been a member of the New South Wales Bar Association (Barrister) but was no longer so associated. He’d published two other legal novels, Wrongful Representation and Fixed on Appeal, neither of which sat well with the Australian legal establishment, hence his current Outback address and reduced circumstances. </p>
<p>Nothing piqued Wallace’s interest like a book that purported to expose the slimy underbelly of the legal profession. He’d been roughly handled himself by that profession and he loved reading anything that smelled like the truth. And whether the stories came from Canada or South America or Australia, he knew that lawyers were the same all over. And that’s why he wrote to Albert Wordswill weeks back. He wanted to tell him how much he loved his book and how close to his own horrible experience with the Missouri legal system it really came. It was as if the main character and he were the same person. </p>
<p>Rereading the letter, he quickly decided to contribute to Albert’s ‘GoFundMe’ page and to contact a few of the folks on the list that Edith Wordswill had provided. The list was not a long one and some on it lived in nearby states. He did a quick internet check, got a few phone numbers, and settled back in to make the calls. </p>
<p>“Hello,” the voice answered, obviously tired. </p>
<p>“Yes, I’m trying to reach Mr. Terry Jenson. Is he home?” Wallace asked. </p>
<p>“I’m sorry. I guess you haven’t heard. Terry died a few days ago. Hit and run. Were you a friend?” </p>
<p>Confused, Wallace sputtered something inane and hung up. </p>
<p>And so it went with the next three calls. Four names, four deaths, four hit and runs. Coincidence went out the window after the second call. </p>
<p>By the fifth call, Wallace had changed his approach. </p>
<p>“Hello,” came a voice, again haggard and weary. </p>
<p>“I just heard that John just passed away. I knew him from college and I wanted to pass on my condolences,” he said, lying. “I understand it was a hit and run. Is that correct?” </p>
<p>The answer was immediate and irate. “How did you get that information? That was never released by the police or the family? And John never went to college! Who is this, anyway? I have your phone number now and you better have a good reason for having this information when the police contact you!” </p>
<p>Wallace hung up immediately and sat back, stunned. What was going on? Were the police investigating these hit and runs as being connected? Did they know about Wordswill’s book and the hit and run in Australia? Was he now in the middle of a vast murder conspiracy? Was he next? </p>
<p>He had to get away! </p>
<p>Meanwhile, back in Australia, Edith and Albert were relaxing on their porch, well out of the harsh Outback sun. Both were enjoying a fine Australian petite Syrah thanks to Wallace’s very generous contribution to their ‘GoFundMe’ page. </p>
<p>Edith turned to Albert, a wry smile on her face, and said,“Your relatives in America tell me that Wallace got five deep into the list I sent him before he gave up and stopped making calls. Your Uncle John took his last call, and apparently it was a special treat. He tried to pass himself off as a college friend of the deceased, but your Uncle handled it perfectly.” </p>
<p>Albert laughed and replied, “My guess is that our Missouri friend is now so scared he’ll crawl into a hole somewhere and not come out for a very, very long time, my dear.” Pausing to take a sip of his wine, Albert added, “And he certainly won’t be contacting us again, will he?” </p>
<p>Edith got up, stretched, and looked out over their vast land holdings. “I love it here, Albert, far away from the city and your law practice. I wish we could stay here longer than just a few weeks every year.” </p>
<p>“One day, my dear, one day. But before that day comes, you have to continue to write the novels and I have to continue to be a Barrister,” Albert added. “And with so little time to enjoy ourselves, toying with people like Wallace in Missouri is our only real outlet.” </p>
<p>“And we do so love doing it, too, don’t we, Albert?” Edith said lovingly, moving close to him and kissing him on the top of his head. </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/69922722022-06-12T10:01:21-07:002022-06-12T10:01:21-07:00The Short Shovel - By Brian Law<p>He thought it odd, especially since everybody in town knew about Jonas’ bad back. Why would a man of Jonas’ size and stature own such a short shovel? But there it was, leaning right up against the back wall of old dead Jonas’ tool shed along with his other regular sized tools. It didn’t make much sense. </p>
<p>“How much you asking for that short little shovel in the shed, Madge?” he asked the woman who was running the estate sale. </p>
<p>She laughed and asked him if he had midgets working for him this year. Madge had a strange sense of humor, but she didn’t mean anything by it. Then she told him he could have it for two bucks. He held up a dollar, which she accepted and then told her son, Will, to get the little shovel from the back of the tool shed for the man. </p>
<p>Will wasn’t too bright so it took him a while, but he eventually reappeared with the little shovel and handed it to the man. As he did, he said, “Another fellow wants this little shovel real bad, Mr. Allison. Told me he’ll meet you out front if you want to sell it for a profit.” Will pointed out the other fellow who was standing over by the big tree alongside the driveway. </p>
<p>“Thanks, Will. You going to mow my lawn this week like we talked about?” </p>
<p>Will nodded and smiled and wiped his nose with his arm. Not too bright, Allison thought, but a good kid just the same as he turned and walked towards the other man. </p>
<p>The other man was even taller than Jonas’ used to be, which didn’t make any sense, either. Allison held the little shovel in front of him as he said to the other fellow, “Will tells me you’re interested in buying this little shovel.” </p>
<p>“Yes. The boy told me you got it for a dollar. I’ll give you twenty dollars for it.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“You got midgets working for you this year?” he joked holding up the little shovel. He didn’t know this other fellow so he figured a little humor couldn’t hurt. Then, seeing the other fellow’s reaction, he quickly added, “Don’t mind me, Mister. I don’t mean nothing by it.” </p>
<p>“Well, you want to sell it or not?” he heard the other fellow say. </p>
<p>“Well, see, this here little shovel just happens to be a part of this town’s history, Mister. I’ve lived here all my life, as did my parents and grandparents before me, so I know a little about where stuff comes from around here. This shovel dates way back . . . to the Witch Trials.” Allison knew almost nothing about the town’s history, but since the other fellow was offering big money for this little shovel, he figured he might as well puff up its value with a harmless lie. </p>
<p>“So, you have an eye for such things, do you?” the other fellow replied. “I’ll tell you what. Rather than us standing here haggling over the perceived value of this item, let’s just assume that your historical assumption is correct and then you tell me what you think is a fair price that we can both agree upon.” </p>
<p>Allison was surprised by this and realized he needed a bit more time , so he lied some more and added, “Well, I guess then you know how they really used this little shovel during the Witch Trials. There were several of these as the story goes, but this is the only one I’ve ever seen anywhere in these parts. Last one makes it pretty valuable.” </p>
<p>“Again, let’s just assume that you’re correct about the historical significance of this object. Give me a dollar figure and we can go from there,” the other fellow said, not showing any emotion or concern. </p>
<p>“Well, let’s say three hundred bucks.” </p>
<p>“Fine. Are hundreds okay with you?” the other fellow asked, reaching into his inside jacket pocket. </p>
<p>“Hundreds are fine,” Allison answered already sorry he hadn’t ask for more, a lot more. </p>
<p>The money and the little short shovel were exchanged as they shook hands. The other fellow then turned and walked towards the curb while Allison just stood by the big tree holding his money. </p>
<p>After a short wait, a sleek, long, black limousine pulled up and stopped next to the other man, its side rear window open. From within its darkened interior, a gnarled hand reached out, grasped the little shovel and then the limousine sped away. </p>
<p>The other fellow continued to stand by the curb as if waiting for a ride. “Hey, Mister,” Allison yelled at him. “Can I ask you something?” </p>
<p>The other fellow turned, motioned for him to come over to the curb, and then indicated he didn’t have much time. “You have a question?” the other fellow asked as they stood together at the curb. </p>
<p>“Yeah. How high would you have gone, anyway? Just wondering?” he asked the other fellow. “Would you have paid a lot more than three bills?” </p>
<p>“For the last existing short shovel from the Witch Trial era, as you so aptly described it?” he replied, a strange smile on his face. “Oh, yes, my employer had authorized me to go much higher.” </p>
<p>Another limo pulled up and as the other man opened its rear door and slid into its dim interior, Allison peered in and ventured, “Just like that, huh? You folks would spend that kind of money just on my word alone?” </p>
<p>Reaching over to close the limousine’s door, the other man looked at Allison coldly and replied, “He was paying for your lie, Mr. Allison. You cannot imagine the delight that he and those in his immediate circle experience when they hold that little short shovel that embodies the pronouncements of an accomplished liar such as yourself. It is the closest thing to holding your soul, sir. It is indescribable!” </p>
<p>Allison straightened up as the limo’s door closed and it and the other man slowly pulled away from the curb. Allison looked down at the three one hundred dollar bills in his hand and felt good about himself for the first time in weeks. </p>
<p>Like the other man had just said, he was accomplished. That was really something! </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/69922712022-06-12T10:00:53-07:002022-06-12T10:00:53-07:00The Left-Handed Catcher's Mitt - By Brian Law<p>“What about this old thing?” she asked her brother as she held it up from across the room. </p>
<p>The two of them, brother and sister, had been asked by the lawyer to go through Granny’s things. They were the youngest of her relatives and the one’s still physically capable of doing the job. </p>
<p>Her brother looked up from what he was doing and replied, “Oh, that’s a baseball catcher’s mitt. Throw it over here. Let me take a close look at it. I might want to keep that.” </p>
<p>Granny had been a bit of a hoarder. Nothing too serious, but there was a lot of stuff to go through. She had been a bit of a drinker, too. And a bit of a family gossip. But at ninety-six when she died suddenly at home, the rest of the family forgot her shortcomings and quickly came together to settle her affairs. And part of that was to pack-up her house, which her granddaughter and grandson were now doing. They were told that they could keep whatever they wanted in exchange for taking care of Granny’s things. And they had each agreed that either of them could keep whatever each wanted, no arguments. </p>
<p>They decided right off to do it systematically. Put all the clothes in one area, all the crockery in another, and on and on. And if something was found that defied description, they both agreed in advance to discuss it first. And that’s why her brother was now fiddling with the catcher’s mitt his sister had found locked away in a chest. </p>
<p>He had the mitt on his right hand, and was punching into it with his left hand. She smiled as she continued to sift through the other stuff in the chest. He was about the least athletic one in the family, she thought to herself, but he was about as avid a baseball fan as anyone she knew. “It’s a left-handed catcher’s mitt, Dedre,” he said, getting up and walking over towards her. “And you know that there are no left-handed catchers playing baseball? None. And in my memory, and that goes back for over fifty odd years, there never has been one.” </p>
<p>She nodded absentmindedly as he got closer and as she continued to look at what remained in the chest. “Oh, that’s interesting,” she remarked as he stood right next to her, still pounding the thing in his right hand with his left hand. </p>
<p>“Which is odd. It’s a Rawlings product. See, here’s the tag sewn on the inside. But why make a mitt that nobody was going to wear, ever?” he asked, a very serious tone in his voice, as he removed the mitt and made a closer inspection of it. </p>
<p>“Maybe we should call Rawlings and ask,” she suggested. “Might be that it’s valuable. And maybe that’s why Granny had it locked away.” </p>
<p>“Well, I’m going to keep this. We agreed, right? No arguments?” he said abruptly, clutching the mitt and turning away as he walked back across the room. </p>
<p>She said nothing for a few moments as she continued kneeling over the open chest. She had found something else along with the mitt, something she hadn't told her brother. She knew very little about baseball but she recognized the autograph on the baseball she was now holding in her hand outside of his view. </p>
<p>“That’s fine,” she replied to her brother. “We had an agreement.” </p>
<p>He smiled to himself, consumed by his new-found possession and wondering just how much it might be worth. He thought he might have gotten an argument from his sister about keeping the catcher’s mitt, but she seemed very adult about the whole thing. </p>
<p>“I’ll just keep this little baseball that was in the mitt, Bob,” she muttered from across the room. </p>
<p>“Whatever, Dedre. We had an agreement,” her brother countered, a self-satisfied look on his face. </p>
<p>Looking down again at the ball she now held in hand, she just wanted to make absolutely sure about the name. Yes, there is was, ‘Honus Wagner’, she said to herself, as she slipped it into her apron pocket. </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/69677322022-05-10T07:54:39-07:002022-05-10T07:54:39-07:00The Black Spoon - By Brian Law<p>“And what, dear Uncle, do you require in return?” the Nephew asked, glancing impatiently at his phone. </p>
<p>His Uncle reached over for his pipe, tapped it twice on the ashtray, and then sitting back in his rocking chair, replied, “Merely that you keep me company, my dear boy. That’s all. Just visit with me a bit each day and check on me at night before I retire. Not too much to ask for a rent-free cottage and a small monthly allowance now, is it?” </p>
<p>With no prospects of a job, no car and with no savings, the Nephew was in no shape to negotiate with the old man. But the thought of being stuck out here ‘in the sticks’ with no car and no friends was a bitter pill. “I don’t suppose I have a choice, do I, Uncle?” he replied with no enthusiasm. </p>
<p>“No,” the Uncle replied, loading his pipe slowly, “I don’t suppose you do, Nephew.” Striking up a match, the old man puffed away on his pipe as he stared stoically at his young visitor for a moment, and then added, “But we can find interesting things to do together, I'm sure.” </p>
<p>“Things to do, Uncle? Out here? Like what, for instance?’ the Nephew asked. </p>
<p>“Well, for one, we can go through my spoon collection. You know, clean-up the documentation, organize it, shine it up a bit. How does that sound, Nephew?” the old man said, watching him closely. “In fact, we can start right now if you don’t have anything important to do, Nephew?” </p>
<p>Trapped, he thought to himself. This is what he feared that his life would come to. Tied to a dreary old man and all of that old man’s dreary stuff. Jesus, a spoon collection. “No, Uncle, I’d love to help you with your spoon collection,” he replied, again with no enthusiasm. </p>
<p>The old man smiled and gripping his pipe in one hand slowly pushed himself up and out of his rocking chair and went over to the nearby sideboard. Opening one of its drawers, he extracted something wrapped in blue velvet cloth and returned to his rocking chair. </p>
<p>Sitting down with an effort, the old man sat still for a moment with the wrapped object in his lap as he caught his breath. Then, putting his pipe in his mouth, he opened the velvet cloth to reveal a black wooden box. </p>
<p>“What’s that, Uncle? One of your spoons?” the Nephew wondered. </p>
<p>“Not just one of my spoons, Nephew. The most important spoon!” the Uncle explained, his voice clear. “And one day it will be yours . . . after I pass.” </p>
<p>The Nephew showed no emotion as the old man carefully opened the wooden box and beckoned him with his hand. “Here, come closer.” </p>
<p>Leaning down, the young man saw what was lying in the wooden box. It was just an old silver spoon, blackened by age, probably a tablespoon by the look of it. Nothing special, the Nephew thought. “What’s so important about this one, Uncle?” he ventured. </p>
<p>“Ah, silver spoons were used by royalty centuries ago to foil attempts at poisoning them, Nephew. In the presence of silver, Sulphur and arsenic and many other compounds would turn the spoon black,” the Uncle explained. </p>
<p>The Nephew was now getting interested. “So, this spoon was a poison tester for some King? Is that what you’re telling me, Uncle?” </p>
<p>“Yes, Nephew. And its provenance is flawless!” </p>
<p>“What King?” the Nephew asked breathlessly. </p>
<p>“Here, look at the stem,” the old man said, handing his Nephew a magnifying glass. </p>
<p>Taking the magnifying glass in hand, the young man held the spoon in one hand and peered at the writing on the stem. “It’s in French, with a royal crest and a date, Uncle! This must be priceless!” </p>
<p>The Uncle took the spoon back from his Nephew and replied, “Yes, it’s very valuable. I was lucky to come across it years ago, Nephew.” </p>
<p>The Nephew’s head was now swimming with visions of imminent wealth, visions which until now had just been fantasies. “You must keep this spoon safe, Uncle! Are you sure it’s safe?” </p>
<p>“Way out here, Nephew? Oh, yes, it’s safe. Here, put it back in the sideboard, if you will. I’m feeling a bit tired and wish to retire,” the old man replied. “We’ll do more with my spoon collection tomorrow night, if that meets with your approval.” </p>
<p>Beaming, the Nephew took the velvet wrapped box and replaced it in its drawer and quickly returned to sit next to his Uncle. “Yes, I look forward to that, dear Uncle,” he said earnestly. “Now, let me help you to your bed.” </p>
<p>The two slowly moved together from the rocking chair towards the small rear bedroom, each lost in his own thoughts. The Nephew was thinking about that little red Porsche roadster he’s always wanted. On the other hand, the old man was reflecting on how much money he was saving by not having to pay for an expensive retirement home. </p>
<p>He was lucky to have a gullible young Nephew who could be fooled so easily by a common pewter spoon and some black paint. </p>
<p>And tomorrow night, who knows, maybe he’d pull out his counterfeit set of sixteenth century Apostle Spoons to show to the Nephew. And, just for added measure, he’d let it slip that he hadn’t long to live. </p>
<p>That should keep the Nephew around for at least a year or so longer. After that, who knew? </p>
<p>There was always the widow on the farm next door. She was a wily one, he thought, but desperate. Maybe he could arrange for her to ‘discover’ some hidden cash buried near his garden. Just a taste, but enough to keep her interested and in his service. </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/69677312022-05-10T07:54:16-07:002022-05-10T07:54:16-07:00The Court Reporter - By Brian Law<p>She glanced at the wall clock as the witness droned on trying to answer the district attorney’s questions, or evade them, or whatever. Twenty minutes or so, she figured, and this witness would be done and she’d be down the street with the girls, partying. It was her retirement party and it had been planned for weeks. Everybody was going to be there. Was this assistant district attorney ever going to get to the point with this guy? </p>
<p>She’d been a court reporter for almost thirty years, ever since she got divorced in 1956. Mostly she did trial work and depositions. Her retirement plan was still a work in progress. She was moving on and maybe getting into interior decorating or pottery or something like that. She wasn’t sure, just anything except what she was doing right now. </p>
<p>She smiled to herself as she continued to type. Did anybody really understand that court reporters could do their jobs and still have a completely different line of thought going at the same time? A separate little voice working in the background. She didn’t think so. The girls always joked about this, usually after their second cocktail. </p>
<p>The current criminal case was a manslaughter trial. The witness was a jailhouse snitch who had overheard the Defendant make certain incriminating statements. Bored and restless, she continued to type the questions and answered testimony word for word: </p>
<p>"D.A. Jones: “Did the Defendant ever tell you about any other criminal acts that he had committed, Mr. Webster?” </p>
<p>Webster: “Yes sir, he did.” </p>
<p>D.A, Jones: “And can you tell this court what the Defendant revealed to you in that regard, Mr. Webster?” </p>
<p>Webster: “He, the Defendant, said he raped a young woman back in 1956 near the Bayside Beach pier early in the morning. June sometime, I think he said.” " </p>
<p>She froze and stopped typing as the District Attorney continued. Quickly recovering, she interrupted him and asked, “Can the witness please repeat his last answer?” </p>
<p>The judge so instructed the Defendant and everything got back on track except for the little voice in the back of her head that was screaming, He was the one who raped me! as she caught a quick look at the Defendant who was staring back at her with an evil half grin on his face. And he knows I know. </p>
<p>She looked at the clock. Maybe another fifteen minutes of testimony. Just enough, she thought to herself, just enough. She put away the little voice and focused completely on the task at hand. And fifteen minutes later, it was over. The judge indicated that the proceedings would recess now and reconvene at ten o’clock Monday morning. </p>
<p>As the jurors, the Defendant, the lawyers, and the rest filed out of the courtroom, she busied herself packing up for the last time. She knew from experience that the case against the Defendant was rock solid. He’d get the maximum sentence and would be out of her reach. And he’d never be charged with a purported rape decades ago on a lonely beach that had gone unreported. </p>
<p>But she also knew a few other things. She knew that the Defendant would have to appeal. Otherwise, he’d die in prison and he knew it. And she knew that even a rookie appellate attorney would pick up on the egregious stenographic errors in the transcript. The intentional ones she made during the last few minutes of testimony. And that alone would get the Defendant a new trial. </p>
<p>And he’d get out on bail pending the new proceedings. </p>
<p>Her true purpose in retirement was now very, very clear. And it had nothing to do with interior decorating or pottery or whatever. </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/69461672022-04-11T17:51:54-07:002022-04-11T17:51:54-07:00The Spanish Door - By Brian Law<p>"As you both are probably aware," the real estate agent explained to the prospective buyers, "this home was once owned by the famous painter, Ramon Cruz." </p>
<p>Neither of them had heard of Cruz, but they reacted as if they had and feigned being impressed. Encouraged by this, the agent then went into great detail about how the artist had imprinted the home’s interior with his distinctive style. </p>
<p>“Here, for instance, is the actual Spanish Door which Cruz used in his 1956 masterpiece, ‘El Jardin Oscuro’,” she pointed out. </p>
<p>The pair, intrigued by the intricacy of the door’s design, stopped in front of it and one of them asked, “Where does it lead?” </p>
<p>A bit embarrassed, the agent admitted, “Well, it’s not a real door. It’s a ‘trick of the eye’ painting, a ‘trompe l’oeil’ work. And anyway, there’s no doorknob. It’s just one of many quirky things about this house.” She ended with a nervous laugh and then indicated that the couple should follow her into the living room. As they did, both of them couldn’t help but glance back at the door and wonder. </p>
<p>While they listened to the agent as they toured the rest of the house, the couple’s thoughts were continually drawn back to that Spanish Door. And as they walked down one of the many long hallways in the home, they both noticed something that the agent hadn’t. There was a small, unlit alcove in a wall. And laying in there was a doorknob. </p>
<p>As his wife kept the agent preoccupied with a few questions, the husband surreptitiously pocketed the doorknob. He kept his hand on it as they moved onward with the tour and he was surprised at how cold it felt, almost as if it had been outside all night. </p>
<p>“Well, I suppose you two want to take some time by yourselves to go back and revisit some parts of the home,” the agent said at the end of the tour. “I’ll be out front by my car when you’re ready to head back to the office. Take your time. It’s a big place.” </p>
<p>As the two of them headed back towards the front door, she tugged on his arm and whispered, “What does ‘El Jardin Oscuro’ mean?” </p>
<p>“It means ‘The Dark Garden’,” he replied as he opened the door for her. </p>
<p>He could hear her gasp slightly as he spoke those words and as he closed the door behind them, she grabbed his arm and demanded, “Why didn’t you tell me when you first knew?” She trembled and her eyes filled with tears as she waited for his answer. </p>
<p>“I had to wait until we were alone. You understand now, don’t you?” he replied, holding her closely and speaking softly into her ear. “If I had told you while the agent was still with us, I wasn’t sure how you’d react.” </p>
<p>They had lost their young daughter last year to illness and a psychic had told them she had gone to ‘a dark garden’ and nothing else. And now here they were in a house with a strange door perhaps leading to ‘The Dark Garden’. The coincidence was almost too overwhelming for them. </p>
<p>“Should we call the psychic?” she asked. </p>
<p>“I think it’s clear we should open the door right now,” he said, retrieving the doorknob from his pocket. “Are you ready?” </p>
<p>“Yes.” </p>
<p>They both breathed in deeply and then walked slowly out of the alcove and down the steps to the waiting door. </p>
<p>They looked at each other for a long moment and then, as she held his hand in hers, he slid the doorknob gently into the door with his other hand and turned the knob. The door opened itself slowly. and as he let go of the doorknob, they stepped back, waited and watched. </p>
<p>Minutes passed as they stared with wonderment at the scene behind the door. Finally, gathering their thoughts, they closed the door and astonished by what they had witnessed, headed for the front of the home. </p>
<p>“Well, have you decided?” the agent asked them as they approached her at the curb. </p>
<p>“We’ll take it,” they both said in unison. </p>
<p>“Oh, that’s great. Let’s head back to the office and I’ll get an offer together.” </p>
<p>They looked at each other and then he responded to the agent by saying, “We’d like to stay with the home for a while. We’ll be here when you get the offer ready for signing. Will that be alright?” </p>
<p>“Sure thing. I’ll see you two in about an hour. There’s some snacks in the refrigerator. See you soon.” </p>
<p>As the agent departed, the couple turned back towards the home, clasped hands and walked silently together. It would be their first hour with their daughter since her illness and they had so much they wanted to share with her. </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/69461662022-04-11T17:51:20-07:002022-04-11T17:51:20-07:00Checking In - By Brian Law<p>He stood waiting for the librarian to finish what she was doing. She looked a little young and pretty to be a librarian, but he still waited. He was looking for something special and she might be able to help, even if she wasn’t the real deal. </p>
<p>“Yes, may I help you with something?” she finally asked him, her voice lisping slightly probably due to the tongue piercing. Sort of Drew Barrymooreish, in a way. </p>
<p>“Yeah, I’m looking for a really good L.A. private detective novel. I thought you might have some ideas, some recommendations.” He wished he’d shaved before he left his apartment. Maybe he was too old for her, but you just never knew. </p>
<p>“You guys kill me,” she replied. </p>
<p>“Okay, that sounds good. Who’s the author?” </p>
<p>“No, I’m just saying that you guys all come in here and ask questions like that thinking we know stuff right off the top of our heads. C’mon, give me a break,” She looked at him with a slight smile that sort of took the edge off her attitude. </p>
<p>“Right. Well, is there some sort of crime novel collection in the library, maybe?” </p>
<p>“No, nothing like that. Ever think about a google search? We got computers you can use. You do know how to use a computer, don’t you?” There was that attitude again. </p>
<p>“Sure.” He knew how, sort of. </p>
<p>“But you’ll have to leave your gun with me if you want to enter the library, though,” she added. </p>
<p>He didn’t think it showed. He looked at her with a slightly new respect. She was good, this one. </p>
<p>“How’d you spot it?” he wondered. </p>
<p>“My ex carried a piece. Smaller than yours, though. What is it, a thirty-eight?” </p>
<p>“Unh-huh. How do we do the hand over? I mean, right out here in the open?” he asked. </p>
<p>“No, just go over in the corner there and drop it in the slot.” </p>
<p>He looked over at the slot in the corner. Should be big enough, he figured. </p>
<p>“Okay, sounds good. So, you’re single, right?” </p>
<p>“Yeah, today I am. Why?” </p>
<p>“Just thinking about when I come back for my gun. Maybe we could talk some, get to know each other better. See where it goes.” </p>
<p>She looked at him and her smile got a bit bigger. “You’re kinda cute in an older sort of way. You’re not a cop or anything like that, are you? I don’t like cops much.” </p>
<p>“Me, a cop. No. So, you’re good with me coming back in a bit for a chat?” </p>
<p>She looked down, shuffled some paperwork, and said, “Not really. You need any more help finding something?” </p>
<p>He shook his head and looked past the desk and into the library proper. There was a kind of cute older woman browsing the stacks. Maybe she’d have some ideas on a good private detective novel set in L.A. </p>
<p>His gun made a loud noise as it clunked through the slot and down the chute and into the adjoining room. The older woman heard it, looked up and smiled at him. </p>
<p>The older ones usually don’t mind if he wasn’t clean shaven. He wondered at what age that changed as he turned and entered the library and smiled back at the older woman. </p>
<p>End </p>
<p> </p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/69147482022-03-05T14:06:45-07:002022-03-05T14:06:45-07:00The Reluctant Gambler - By Brian Law<p>The Casino’s Security Chief leaned down, looked at the security camera’s screen, and asked the operator, “Okay, so what am I looking at?” </p>
<p>“You’re looking at Dewey Smith, sir. He’s just entered the Casino and is heading towards the blackjack tables.” </p>
<p>The two watched the screen as Smith, dressed in a V-neck t-shirt, swimming trunks and flip flops, walked slowly to one of the empty blackjack tables, nodded to the dealer and purchased one thousand dollars in chips. </p>
<p>“Now, sir, watch closely.” </p>
<p>Smith bet one thousand and won the hand. Collecting his winnings, he went to the cashier and then left the Casino. </p>
<p>Standing upright, the Security Chief took out a cigarette, lit it and then asked, “What was I supposed to be seeing there, anyway?” </p>
<p>“Sir, you just saw what Dewey Smith does every Thursday morning about this time. He walks in dressed just like today, buys a thousand in chips, plays just one hand, cashes out and leaves.” </p>
<p>“And?” </p>
<p>“Sir, he wins every time he plays. Every time. One hand, a thousand dollars, and he wins every time! Like clockwork,” the operator replied. “We wouldn’t have even noticed except one of our dealers mentioned to the pit boss that she’s seen Dewey Smith doing the same thing at two other casinos she’s worked at. So, when we heard this, we started taping him every time he entered the casino. We’ve got eight videos on file of him if you want to watch them.” </p>
<p>“Is he doing this at the other casinos, too, as far as we know?” </p>
<p>“We put a tracking device on his car and, yes, he goes to a different casino each morning. We shadowed him for a week, and he’s doing the same thing in each one of those joints that he does here. Wins every time at blackjack and with just one hand each time, sir!” the operator related. </p>
<p>“Have you been able to determine how he’s doing it?” </p>
<p>“It can’t be collusion with a dealer, sir. He goes to a different dealer each time. And he can’t be counting cards either. It’s just one hand. And he’s not marking them, either, for the same reason. That’s why we’ve brought this to your attention, sir. You’ve been at this much longer than the rest of us, so you must have seen every way to cheat at blackjack there is.” </p>
<p>“You got the tapes of this guy, Dewey, on file so I can watch them?” </p>
<p>“Yes, sir. I can have all eight hands put up on your office screen in a few minutes. They’ll all be time synchronized.” </p>
<p>“Good. It shouldn’t take too long to figure out what he’s up to. Have a fresh pot of coffee sent up to my office, will you. I’m going to take a leak before I get busy with our Mr. Smith.” </p>
<p>“Right, sir.” </p>
<p>Ten minutes later the Security Chief was in his office, smoking another cigarette and working on his second cup of coffee. He’d watched the synchronized videos three times, twice in slow motion, and each time he took notes. </p>
<p>No glasses. </p>
<p>No watch. </p>
<p>No hat. </p>
<p>No buttons. </p>
<p>Short sleeves. </p>
<p>He’s alone at each table. </p>
<p>He never looks up from the table. </p>
<p>Never talks to the dealer except for change. </p>
<p>Never orders a drink. </p>
<p>After thirty minutes, six cigarettes, two more cups of coffee, and twenty more viewings of the same videos, the Security Chief was still no closer to figuring out how Dewey Smith was winning than thirty minutes ago. </p>
<p>He stayed at it alone in his office for the next thirty-six hours, smoking, drinking coffee, watching the videos again and again, and taking more notes. He wasn’t going to let some penny-ante cheat like Dewey Smith get the better of him. He, after all, had a reputation to defend as the top Security Chief on the Vegas Strip. </p>
<p>But his heart had other plans for him. </p>
<p>The Casino’s Floor Supervisor watched as the EMTs discretely carted the body bag out the service exit, loaded it into the ambulance, and headed to the morgue. If any other employee had died at work, there would have been a moment of silence among the staff. There would be some tears, too. </p>
<p>But not for that son of a bitch, the Floor Supervisor thought to himself. The Security Chief was a notorious bully and harasser of the staff and should have been fired years ago, except he knew too much about the Casino’s shady operations. They finally decided he had to go, but it had to look like a natural death. </p>
<p>They discovered Wendell Lathrop, aka Dewey Smith, at a donut shop south of the Strip. His business was struggling and while he was an honest man, he was easily convinced to play the role of Dewey Smith for a while. What was funny was that he didn’t know how to play blackjack. They told him just to go to any table, ask for change, and let the dealers do the rest. Which he did, and they let him keep the winnings. </p>
<p>Good dealers are good judges of character. And all the dealers knew what a scum bag the Security Chief was, but they also knew his weakness. He just couldn’t let a cheater get the best of him. No way, never. </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/69147472022-03-05T14:06:19-07:002022-03-05T14:06:19-07:00Role Models - By Brian Law<p>The kid’s father poured himself another scotch and water and returned to the sofa. His wife had a healthy head start on him, so he was trying hard to catch up. But it wasn’t easy; she’d been practicing all day. </p>
<p>“So, was he any better today?” he wanted to know, tapping an unfiltered cigarette from a pack on the coffee table. </p>
<p>“Two f**kin’ guesses,” she growled. </p>
<p>“Watch the mouth, okay?” he countered. “Maybe that’s part of his problem. Maybe if you tried a little harder, he’d get better. You ever think of that maybe?” </p>
<p>She muttered something angrily under her breath, then tried harder, “No, he’s not getting any better. Satisfied now? He’s pulled the same sh*t today that he’s been pulling for weeks now.” </p>
<p>“There’s that mouth again. Give it a rest, will ya. At least until he’s in bed,” he ordered. “Now, what was he like today?” </p>
<p>She took a deep breath, leaned back on the sofa and began, “Remember all last week when he was talking like Bogart in ‘The Maltese Falcon’ and ‘The Big Sleep.’ Well today he changed it up a little. He’s not in the 1940’s anymore. He was walking around talking like Jim Rockford, you know, from the ‘Rockford Files’.” </p>
<p>“Hmmm. When I was twelve, I was out all day on my bike shooting birds with my BB gun. Kids today. Whatta ya gonna do?” he mused. </p>
<p>“When I was twelve, I was locking myself in the bathroom trying to escape my step-father’s grubby paws,” she admitted. “Twelve year olds don’t know how good they got it today. And what does he do with it? Escapes into a fantasy world of being some hard boiled private eye. Jesus, what a little sh*t-bird!” </p>
<p>“Hey, hey!” </p>
<p>“Okay, I’m just saying.” </p>
<p>Just then their son walked into the living room deep in character and oblivious to their presence. He pretended he was Jim Rockford talking to his Dad, Rocky. “Hey, I'm sorry Dad, you just caught me at a bad time. Reading that detective fiction doesn't help. I mean things aren't like that you know? They're not black and white. There aren't any heroes left, they die young. That book you’re reading. His gun is deadly? Mine's in a cookie jar.” </p>
<p>The two parents silently watched the boy, sipped their drinks, and waited for him to leave the room. When they were alone again, the boy’s father reluctantly admitted, “You know, if you listen really close to what he’s spouting, it does make sense, sort of. Maybe this is just his way of figuring things out. Maybe someday he’ll just walk out of his bedroom one morning and he’ll be a normal kid again.” </p>
<p>“Yeah, but in the meantime . . .” she worried. </p>
<p>“Hey, it could be worse. He could be doing what his friend Jimmy down the street is doing,” he added. </p>
<p>“You mean?” </p>
<p>“Yeah, that kid's walking around all day pretending to be Marjorie Taylor Greene, for Christ's sake!” </p>
<p>“Oh, sh*t!” </p>
<p>“You can say that again!” </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/68959972022-02-12T11:17:20-07:002022-02-12T11:17:20-07:00The Little Shop of Missing Things - By Brian Law<p>He stopped and looked up at the little shop’s sign that extended out over the sidewalk. ‘Missing Things’ it read. His day ahead was full of things he had to do, places to be, people to see, but for some reason he reached for the doorknob and entered the little shop. He was missing something in his life. The problem was that he didn’t really know what it was. Maybe the answer was inside. </p>
<p>Which made his conversation with the proprietor a bit awkward. “Yes, may I be of some help today?” said the proprietor, looking up from his paperwork. </p>
<p>“Well, I’m not really sure,” he replied. “But you probably get that a lot from people like me who walk in off the street.” </p>
<p>“You mean people who feel they’re missing something, but don’t know what it is?” the proprietor declared. “Sort of a nagging, persistent, undifferentiated feeling that comes and goes? That sort of thing?” </p>
<p>He nodded, removed his gloves, brushed the snow off his overcoat, and unbuttoned it a bit. The little shop was warm and inviting and he decided that for some reason it was important for him to stay a while and find out if this proprietor could help him in his search. Moving towards the counter, he admitted ,“Yes, that sort of thing. It’s Christmas time, and I’ve been running around getting presents for everyone, and it just dawned on me that maybe I should get myself something. Not a watch or anything like that, but instead something I really need, something whose absence causes a deep longing. But I just can’t put my finger on what that might be.” </p>
<p>The proprietor put away whatever he was working on and replied, “Well, is it something you had along the way, but lost and are trying to get it back? Or, instead, is it something you never possessed? See the difference? Try to narrow it down for me, and let’s see where that takes us.” </p>
<p>He told the proprietor that it was the latter, probably. He explained that sometimes he felt like he was swimming against the flow, not in sync with things. Floundering when he should be floating, that sort of thing. And people around him sensed it. What he was missing, he guessed, was a skill. That was it! A life skill that would put him in harmony with instead of at odds with the world around him. </p>
<p>“Is that something you might be able to provide?” he asked the proprietor. </p>
<p>He watched as the proprietor thought for a moment, then turned, reached up for a large volume on the shelf behind the counter and then pulled it down and opened it and started flipping through its pages. From time to time, the proprietor mumbled something as he perused the large book, sometimes chuckled to himself, sometimes shook his head and said, “No, no, not that.” </p>
<p>Finally, after a few minutes, the proprietor stopped, thrust his finger to a point on a page, exclaimed, “That’s it!”, closed the book and replaced it on the shelf behind the counter. </p>
<p>“You found something?” he asked the proprietor. </p>
<p>“You mean about what you are missing? No, no, I was just looking for a present for my granddaughter before you came in, and something you said triggered an idea and that’s what I was doing. Following up on that idea. Found what I was looking for, though. Thanks,” the proprietor said, a broad smile on his face. </p>
<p>A bit perplexed, the customer reiterated his problem to the proprietor. “What about the thing that I’m missing in my life? Any ideas on how I can find that? You sounded earlier like you may be able to help me. As you might have guessed, I’m a little desperate.” </p>
<p>“Oh, you mean about that life skill thing you were talking about,” the proprietor replied. “No, that’s not something I can help you with. Maybe you should consult with someone who specializes in mental health. You know, a shrink or something.” </p>
<p>The customer was irate now and shouted, “Now wait a minute here! Just a minute ago you gave me the distinct impression that you could help me find my ‘missing thing’, what with that sign outside and you asking if you could help me and your ideas on how to narrow down the type of thing I’ve been missing. Now you’re telling me ‘never mind’ and to go see a psychiatrist! What kind of place are you running here, anyway?” </p>
<p>A bit sheepish, the proprietor replied, “I’m sorry if you got the wrong idea about what I do here in my little shop. But you have to realize that I opened this shop to help me with what I was missing in my life. I’m terrible at making decisions! I found that the only way for me to decide on anything, like my granddaughter’s Christmas present, for instance, is to listen to other people’s problems. And then, like magic, my decisions are made for me as I ponder their problems. I know it sounds crazy, but there it is.” </p>
<p>“So, you just use people under the ruse of helping them. Is that it?” the customer asked, a bit disgusted. </p>
<p>The proprietor just shrugged and added, “But if it works for me, it might just work for you.” </p>
<p>“What are you getting at?” </p>
<p>The proprietor leaned over the counter and whispering, said to the customer, “It’s a franchise. Here, read this brochure.” </p>
<p>And there it was in color. The scheme. Open your own little shop, it said, and let your customers show you the way to your ‘missing things’. There were a series of testimonials from various proprietors throughout the country. One in particular touted, “I only open my shop for two hours a week, but you wouldn’t believe how much my life has improved. A Godsend!” </p>
<p>“So, no inventory, no real overhead, nothing but a store front, a counter and some slick patter. Am I right?” the customer asked, suddenly forgetting about his anger, and now showing some sincere interest. </p>
<p>“Yes,” the proprietor continued. “And, if you’d like, I can sublet this shop to you for a few hours a week for a few months just so you can take it for a spin, so to speak. Interested?” </p>
<p>Just then, the bell over the front door jingled, and a woman entered tentatively. She looked over at the customer and the proprietor standing at the counter. As the proprietor was about to say something, the customer put his hand on the proprietor’s arm, shook his head, and then turned to the woman and said, “Yes, may I be of some help today?” </p>
<p>End </p>
<p> </p>
<p>I’ve left something behind </p>
<p>I don’t know what I left or where I left it </p>
<p>I just know for certain that I’ve left something behind </p>
<p>I’ve returned to see if I can find it </p>
<p>Even though I have no idea what it is </p>
<p>I’m missing something; It’s a feeling I have</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/68959962022-02-12T11:15:59-07:002022-02-12T11:15:59-07:00The Afterlife Motel - By Brian Law<p>The two had left Cincinnati in their car early that morning and had passed through Wichita about an hour and a half ago, heading west. They were exhausted, needed a place to stay, and were not too choosy about where. </p>
<p>“We’d like a room for two with a king bed, please,” he asked the clerk at the little rundown motel in the middle of nowhere. His wife stood next to him thinking about nothing but a hot shower and a bed. </p>
<p>“Sorry, we’re booked up, sir,” the clerk responded dryly. “But there’s a place about an hour down the road that you might get into tonight if you get going right now.” </p>
<p>He put his hands on the counter and said, “Look, there are no cars parked next to your rooms and you’re telling me you have no vacancy. We’ve been on the damn road all day and we’re tired and need a room. So don’t tell me you can’t put us up for the night. You must have something!” </p>
<p>“No, sir, got nothing at all. We deal in a special clientele here and are booked up months in advance. Our clients don’t come to us in cars. So, you best just get going on down the road, you two,” the clerk explained, a tone to his voice. </p>
<p>The wife moved close to her husband, gripped his arm and whispered, “C’mon, honey, let’s just forget it. This place gives me the creeps, anyway. We can hold out for another hour.” </p>
<p>Her husband turned to her and in a loud voice said, “No, we’re getting a room here tonight and that’s it. This guy can’t tell me that this little dump of a motel out in the middle of nowhere is booked up for months in advance.” </p>
<p>Then, turning to the clerk, he asked, “So, what’s the rent for a room with a king bed for one night?” </p>
<p>“You did see our sign outside, sir? Didn’t that kind of give you a clue as to what’s going on here?” the clerk said. “This isn’t just your run-of-the-mill motel, sir.” He gave them a sly little wink as he finished. </p>
<p>She tugged at his arm again, this time more aggressively. “Honey, let’s go, now!” </p>
<p>Shaking his head, he held his ground. “Look, honey, I don’t care what these fundamentalists out here in the sticks want to name their motels. That’s their business. Doesn’t mean anything to me, and it shouldn’t mean anything to you, either.” Then, turning back to the clerk, he pounded his fist on the desk, thrust his driver’s license and credit card at the clerk, and demanded a room. </p>
<p>“Okay, sir, okay. If that’s the way you want it, I’ll rent you folks a room. Just sign the register, if you will,” the clerk explained as he typed some information from the license and credit card into the computer. </p>
<p>“Dear, will you sign the register while I sign the credit card receipt?” he asked his wife as he retrieved his license and credit card from the clerk and was handed a room key. </p>
<p>She nodded and as she signed their names to the book, she took a moment to read some of the other names recently entered into the register. She was stunned. </p>
<p>“Walt,” she said, her voice shaky, “Walt, take a look at the names in the register.” </p>
<p>Her husband finished signing for the credit card and peered over at the register as his wife moved aside a bit. “Oh, Jesus!” he exclaimed as his eyes went down the list of recent residents. </p>
<p>He looked back at the clerk who was standing with his arms folded across his chest behind the counter. “Still want that room, mister?” the clerk asked mockingly. </p>
<p>His wife grabbed the room key from her husband’s fingers and headed for the office door. “I don’t care what’s going on next to us tonight, Walt! I’m going to down two shots of Jack Daniels, take a hot shower, and jump into bed . . . with you or without you!” she announced over her shoulder. “You coming or not?” </p>
<p>Walt watched her for a moment as she left the office, got in the car and drove over to their room. He turned to the clerk and asked, “Can I ask who’s in the rooms next to us tonight?” </p>
<p>“Sure, sir,” the clerk answered, pointing to two names in the register. “They’ll be transitioning during the night and will be gone when you awake. Will that be a problem?” </p>
<p>“No, no problem. I’m just amazed that people would come from all over the world to this little motel just to . . . well, you know,” Walt admitted. </p>
<p>The clerk smiled and said, “Well, I’ve been here a long time, Walt. Before it was a motel, it was a cattle ranch with just some bunk houses for the visitors. And before the white men, it was a sacred place for any number of native tribes going back as far as anyone can remember.” </p>
<p>“And there was always somebody like you keeping records?” Walt asked. </p>
<p>“Not someone like me, Walt. Just me.” </p>
<p>Walt hesitated before he asked the next question. He took a deep breath and then said, “Have I ever been here before?” </p>
<p>The clerk smiled knowingly and replied, “Like I said, Walt, we cater to a very special clientele. You’re one of them. You’re just a little early this time around.” </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/68769122022-01-22T10:19:07-07:002022-01-22T10:19:07-07:00Barrel of Laughs - By Brian Law<p>The old truck struggled up the hill to the garage at the top of the slope. It was late, there was snow on the ground, and the truck driver had his hands full with just keeping the truck on the driveway. As it crested the hill and slowed down to allow the attendant to open the garage door, a man approached the truck with a flashlight. </p>
<p>Blinded a bit by the light, the driver stopped the truck and rolled down the window. “Hey, lower that damn thing, will ya. You’re ruining my night vision, pal,” he complained. </p>
<p>“I got to check your manifest before you unload. Hand it over, please,” the man with the flashlight demanded. </p>
<p>“Okay, okay, hold your horses, sonny. I got it right here,” the driver wise-cracked as he handed the paperwork to the man. </p>
<p>As the man with the flashlight checked the paperwork, he wondered, “Just the one item? Is that right?” </p>
<p>“Yeah, that’s all they gave me tonight. Just the one barrel. But they said it was important and that I wasn’t to stop between the Government depot and here for nothin’,” the driver explained. “So, can I unload and get back on the road?” </p>
<p>“We’re going to have to have our specialists check the contents of the barrel before you leave. Shouldn’t take long. They just take a sample for their records. Government red tape. So go ahead and pull into the garage and park where the orange cones are,” the man with the flashlight instructed, shining his light in the general direction. “You’ll be out of here in no time, pal.” </p>
<p>“Hey, can I get a cup of coffee while I’m waiting?” the driver asked. </p>
<p>“Sure. But don’t hang out where the specialists are working. It’s some sort of hush-hush thing with what’s in that barrel. Just stay in the canteen. We’ll let you know when you can leave.” </p>
<p>Nodding and then grinding the gears of the truck a bit, the driver maneuvered the vehicle into the open garage and parked by the cones. Climbing out of the truck, he checked his watch and headed for the canteen for his coffee. He figured if things worked out, he’d be on the road and back in Jersey City by two in the morning. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>The specialists meanwhile had donned their special clothing and had unloaded the barrel from the back of the truck and had positioned it in an enclosed testing booth. Robotic arms allowed them to tap into the barrel remotely from behind the safety of the enclosure and extract a very small sample of its contents. But even with all the safety precautions in place, a minuscule amount of the contents fell on the floor of the enclosure. </p>
<p>The specialists froze in fear as the small sample vaporized. They immediately activated the emergency vacuum pumps, but before the vapor could be completely captured, they heard, “A three-legged dog walks into a saloon, his spurs clinking as he walks, his six shooter slapping at his furry hip. He bellies up to the bar, stares down the bartender, and proclaims . . .” </p>
<p>Just then the driver emerged from the canteen and having heard what the specialists heard, asked, “Is that what’s in the barrel?” </p>
<p>The man with the flashlight nodded and then added, “You might as well know. They're jokes in this barrel. The punch lines come in another barrel. You’ll probably bring them tomorrow night.” </p>
<p>“Punch line? Doesn’t ring a bell, pal. What the hell is a punch line?” the driver asked. </p>
<p>“Look, just forget you ever heard what you just heard over there and what I said about punch lines, okay? You want to keep healthy, take my advice. Don’t tell anyone!” </p>
<p>“Okay, okay, no problem. Who cares about gun toting dogs anyway? You guys are really strange around here, you know,” the driver exclaimed. “So, can I get my rig and leave now?” </p>
<p>“Knock, knock,” the man with the flashlight mysteriously announced. </p>
<p>“What? I asked if I could leave. What is it with you guys, anyway?” the truck driver complained. </p>
<p>“Yeah, you can leave. You’re all cleared.” </p>
<p>As the driver got into his truck and backed it out of the garage, one of the specialists sidled up to the man with the flashlight and asked, “You think he’ll keep his mouth shut?” </p>
<p>“That guy? Oh, yeah. No problems there. I gave him the ‘Knock, Knock’ check. He passed with flying colors.” </p>
<p>“So, one more barrel and we’ll be about done here,” the specialist said with a sigh of relief. “Tonight’s barrel was all the ‘Guy walks into a bar’ jokes. Tomorrow will be the punch lines. That'll make it six thousand barrels all together.” </p>
<p>The man with the flashlight shook his head in wonder and replied, “It’s been a couple of years now since the country lost its sense of humor and the Government's been collecting every joke we could find and saving them for . . . .” </p>
<p>The specialist stopped him and put his hand on his shoulder. “Don’t get your hopes up, kid. It could be a very long wait.” </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/68769112022-01-22T10:18:37-07:002022-01-22T10:18:37-07:00Stand In - By Brian Law<p>He’d been told that he didn’t have to come to the front door and that the boy would be in the back by the pool, expecting him. It was always like this with his clients. Their kids were alone all day while the parents were away, wherever. That’s why they called him. They needed someone to give their kids some structure, some guidance, even if the kids didn’t want it. </p>
<p>He moved along the path by the hedge that led alongside the house and to the rear. He could hear music playing. He took a deep breath and turned the corner to the pool. </p>
<p>The boy looked up and asked, “You the guy my parents called?” </p>
<p>“Yeah. You Carl?” </p>
<p>The boy nodded and took another sip from a beer bottle. Two empties stood on the table. It was eight-thirty in the morning. </p>
<p>“Okay, Carl. Let’s lay down the ground rules. You do what I tell you to do today and your parents get a glowing report. You good with that plan, Carl?” </p>
<p>“I haven’t made up my mind yet.” </p>
<p>“Then there’s a military school with your name on it in your very near future, Carl. It’s in Arizona. They wake you up at five in the morning, Sundays included.” </p>
<p>Carl sat up, drained his beer and put on a shirt. “Okay, what do I have to do to get you off my back?” </p>
<p>He directed Carl to take him to his room. It was on the third floor, overlooking the pool. A James Dean poster was tacked to one wall. The room was a mess. </p>
<p>“Okay, Carl. Let’s start with the bed. Strip it, get fresh linen from the linen closet, and I’ll show you how to make it properly. When we’re done, you’ll be able to bounce a quarter off of it.” </p>
<p>“Really?” </p>
<p>“Five in the morning, Carl. Even on Sundays.” </p>
<p>“Okay, okay, I’m on it. Jeez!” </p>
<p>An hour later, after watching Carl make and remake the bed over and over again, he was satisfied Carl had acquired the skills needed to do it alone next time. It took another hour for him to direct Carl in the process of properly cleaning one’s room from top to bottom. James Dean would have been proud. </p>
<p>“Okay, Carl. You know where the waste baskets are in the house? And the kitchen garbage can?” </p>
<p>“I think so.” </p>
<p>“Good. Empty them all in the receptacles in the garage. Then you can make us both lunch.” </p>
<p>“Maria makes lunch.” </p>
<p>“Not today, Carl. You’re up. Just keep thinking about that glowing report.” </p>
<p>“Okay, okay.” </p>
<p>Twenty minutes later, Carl met him in the kitchen where he’d laid out the ingredients for lunch. An hour and a half later, they’d eaten and Carl had cleaned up the kitchen using some of the skills he’d learned cleaning his room upstairs. </p>
<p>“How am I doing?” Carl wondered as they sat together in the clean kitchen. It was one-thirty. </p>
<p>“You know anything about lawn mowers, Carl?” he asked, knowing the answer. </p>
<p>“Manuel does all that stuff.” </p>
<p>“Not today, Carl. Let’s go,” he said, heading out the side door to the garage and holding it open for Carl. </p>
<p>Carl picked-up on how to operate the lawn mower quickly. He had some mechanical aptitude which would appear in the report to his parents. They’d be pleasantly surprised. And he mowed the lawns reasonably well, too. The kid was okay. </p>
<p>As Carl finished dumping the lawn clippings and putting away the lawn mower, he was summoned over to his father’s car. </p>
<p>“You’re going to change the oil in this car, Carl. Ever done anything like that before?” </p>
<p>“Nah.” </p>
<p>“You got any ideas on how to go about it?” </p>
<p>Carl thought for a moment and then he laid out what he thought he’d need for the job. He was handed the car’s operating manual and told, “Never guess, Carl. Always check the manual.” </p>
<p>Carl read the manual and smiled. He’d got most of it right on his own. </p>
<p>An hour later, cleaned-up and proud of his day’s accomplishments, Carl asked, “How’d I do?” </p>
<p>“Good start, kid. I’ll be back tomorrow. We’re going to change the filters on everything in this place and then do some maintenance on the pool equipment. If we got time, we’ll do some plumbing repairs, too. And some varnishing of some outside furniture. You up for that?” </p>
<p>“But tomorrow’s Sunday!” </p>
<p>He just smiled, pointed to his wristwatch, and held up five fingers. Then he left. </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/68484852021-12-21T18:23:28-07:002021-12-21T18:23:28-07:00The Big Dance - By Brian Law<p>The two girls played together on the backyard lawn, their toys and blankets strewn around as one of their mothers watched from the kitchen. As next door neighbors, the two children often met this way, some days in one yard, some days in the other, but always under the watchful eye of a mother. Today was no different as the two talked and played in the warm morning sun. </p>
<p>“I haven’t seen your grandpa since last week. Where is he?” Janie wondered. </p>
<p>Millie smiled as she picked up one of her toys and replied, “Mom says he’s gone to ‘the big dance’. Would you like some more tea?” </p>
<p>“Yes, please,” Janie responded, sipping her imaginary tea from a plastic cup. “‘The big dance’? Where’s that?” </p>
<p>Millie put down her toy tea pot, wiped her hands on her smock, and said in a serious tone, “Mom says it’s where people go when they’re very old. It’s a long way away. And she said we won’t hear back from him while he’s there. She seemed a little sad when she told me.” </p>
<p>“My goldfish went to ‘the big up there’. My mom flushed it down the toilet accidentally and I knew ‘cause I saw her do it,” Janie explained. “But she didn’t know I saw her do it, so she just told me about ‘the big up there’. </p>
<p>“I don’t think goldfish can live where the toilet goes. Do you Janie?” Millie asked. </p>
<p>“We never heard back from my goldfish. Just like your grandpa,” Janie said, all emotion leaving her face. “I think ‘the big up there’ is the same as ‘the big dance’, Millie.” </p>
<p>Both girls took tentative imaginary sips from their plastic teacups as they pondered this conversation a bit. Then Millie added, “I do, too. It’s like grandpa was flushed down the toilet, just like your goldfish. Something like that, but not exactly. I mean he’s way bigger than your goldfish.” </p>
<p>“Why don’t we hear from them anymore when they go there? What’s that place like? And will we go there, too, someday?” Janie asked hesitantly. </p>
<p>Millie looked at her best friend and said nothing for a moment, then said, “Let’s invite grandpa and your goldfish for tea tomorrow in your yard! That would be fun.” </p>
<p>Janie nodded, a smile back on her face, and said, “And I’ll cook some special cookies just for them. Would you like a cookie, Millie?” </p>
<p>Millie beamed as Janie handed her an invisible plate of cookies and then both girls began to plan tomorrow’s special outing with grandpa and the goldfish. </p>
<p>Meanwhile, from the kitchen, Millie’s mother was joined by her husband, who wrapped his arms around her waist, gave her a kiss, and asked, “How are the girls doing out there today?” </p>
<p>She turned her head slightly and answered, “Oh, they’re having just the best of times, what with the tea set and the toy oven grandpa bought her last week. Right before he left. Remember?” </p>
<p>“That old rascal, where does he get the energy to do what he’s doing. I mean, going to ‘The Big Sky Square Dance Competition’ in Billings, Montana. And out of cell phone range! At his age! I hope I have half of what he’s got when I get to be in my eighties,” her husband replied. </p>
<p>As they both looked out the window, they couldn’t hear what the girls were talking about, but they knew that whatever it was, they were carefree, without a worry in the world. </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/68484842021-12-21T18:23:06-07:002021-12-21T18:23:06-07:00A Short Note - By Brian Law<p>The second detective walked up to the top of the stairs, turned left and entered the master bedroom. The layout of the house was the same as his, so he felt right at home as he approached the king bed. Both side table lamps were on and the other detective was standing over the deceased discussing something with the Medical Examiner. </p>
<p>“So,” the second detective said, “Can I get a cup of coffee around here?” </p>
<p>A patrolman indicated he’d bring one right up and exited the room as the two detectives spoke to each other for the first time. “Suicide,” the other detective announced. “Early this morning maybe two or two thirty. She took a whole bottle of sleeping pills.” </p>
<p>“Suicide, huh? She leave a note?” the second detective wondered. </p>
<p>“Yeah. It’s on the bed.” </p>
<p>Picking up the note, the second detective read it several times and then handed it to the other detective. “Short and sweet. Two words, right?” </p>
<p>“Well, technically, yes, it’s two words. But you could say it’s really three words. The contraction really is two words in my opinion. So you’ve got the contraction and the other word . . . three words,” the other detective proposed. </p>
<p>“I don’t know. I’m still going with two words,” the second detective stressed. “Where’s the hubby? Downstairs?” </p>
<p>“Yeah. He works nights. Came home about an hour ago and found her like that,” the other detective replied, pointing to the deceased. </p>
<p>“Bring the note. I want to talk to him. Okay? Is he in the kitchen.” </p>
<p>“Yeah. He’s pretty broken up about this.” </p>
<p>The two men headed downstairs and found the husband sitting in the kitchen, a patrolman in attendance. “Where’s my coffee?” the second detective asked. He was handed a fresh cup by the patrolman as he sat down across from the husband. </p>
<p>“You got home about an hour ago from work. She was already gone by then? Is that right?” he asked him. </p>
<p>Sniveling, the husband sputtered out his answer, “Yes, and I don’t know why she did it. Everything was going so well.” </p>
<p>“You read the note? Did that tell you anything? I mean, it’s just two words, but there might be something there,” the second detective asked. </p>
<p>“Two words? No, it’s definitely three. The contraction counts as two words, detective. I’m sure of that,” the husband explained, suddenly perking up. </p>
<p>The second detective looked at the other detective and realized that he was outnumbered two to one on the word count issue. He turned back to the deceased’s husband and continued, “Look, it’s two words, right? No way it’s three words. If we say it’s three, it may take on a whole different meaning. But if it’s just two, well . . . it’s pretty straight forward. So, just for the sake of argument, consider it just two words and think about what they might mean. Okay?” </p>
<p>The husband took a sip of his coffee, shook his head and countered, “But it’s not two words, detective. It’s three words and I can’t think about them unless I see three words. You’re dead wrong, detective. It’s three words.” He paused, stared at the detective and then went on, “But even then, they don’t mean anything to me. Maybe they will mean something to her mother. She lives downstairs in the basement. She’s still asleep and knows nothing about any of this yet.” </p>
<p>“Your mother-in-law?” the second detective said, surprised. He looked at the other detective and asked, “You knew about this?” </p>
<p>“No. First time I’ve heard of any mother-in-law. How do you want to handle this? Shall I have her come up here? Or what?” he asked the second detective. </p>
<p>“What I want is for her to read this note before she knows about her daughter’s death. If we try it the other way around, it may take hours before we can get her ideas on what this little note really means.” He turned to the husband and asked, “Would you be willing to go down and wake her and show her the note? Nobody else in the room. Just the two of you. Ask her what she thinks it means. Okay? And don’t say anything about what’s happened. Got that?” </p>
<p>“I’ll be right back, detective,” the husband said, grabbing the note. </p>
<p>The two detectives and the patrolman waited in silence for the return of the husband. It didn’t take long. They could hear him climbing the basement stairs and yelling, “Okay, I’ve got the answer!” </p>
<p>Waving the note in the air, the husband entered the kitchen excitedly and announced, “It’s three words! She says it’s definitely three words, not two. And she was a primary school teacher for thirty years!” </p>
<p>Shaking his head in exasperation, the second detective asked him, “Did you ask her what the two words, or whatever, meant?” </p>
<p>“She didn’t know,” the husband replied, “but it’s definitely not two words. It’s three.” With that, he sat down, crossed his arms, leaned back and nodded in a decidedly self-satisfied fashion. “Yep, three words, not two! No doubt!” </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/68070742021-11-12T10:57:23-07:002021-11-12T10:57:23-07:00The Pebble - By Brian Law<p>Hearing him turn the lock on the back door, she waited until he entered and moved closer to her. Then, obviously annoyed, she asked, “Where have you been all this time? You just went out for a short walk and that was three hours ago! We’ve got a dinner party to go to!” </p>
<p>As he took off his coat and hat and laid them down, he shook his head in response as he approached her. Slumping down in his chair, he sighed heavily and began, “I’m sorry I didn’t call, but things happened. Can I explain? Can the party wait for a bit?” </p>
<p>Intrigued, she sat down across from him and waited, taking a quick look at her watch as she did. He continued, “Okay, I did intend to just go for a quick walk. But I got a small stone in my boot out by the old Jacob’s place and so I sat down on their stone wall to take it out.” He watched her for any indication that she might still be annoyed but got just the opposite impression. She was leaning in and was clearly expressing interest in his story. “So, I shake my boot and this small pebble drops out. And here’s where it gets interesting. This little stone looks nothing like any of the gravel on the path. It’s completely different in color, texture and shape. And I’d never seen anything like it myself. Ever.” </p>
<p>She interrupted, “Did you keep it? Can I see it?” </p>
<p>“Wait,” he replied, “I’ll get to that. So, I put my boot back on and am getting ready to head home when what’s-his-name walks up, the Professor who lives over by the creek. You know, the old guy who walks his dog all the time. Turns out he’s a geologist. What are the odds, right?” </p>
<p>“You mean Dr. Weisenberg?” she wondered. </p>
<p>“That’s him. He told me to call him Aaron,” he answered excitedly. “So he saw that I was holding this little pebble and asked if he could take a look at it. So, I gave it to him and he took out this eyepiece he carries around with him and he took a really, really close look at my pebble. And he’s mumbling and whispering to himself as he does. You know, sort of like what you’d expect from the typical absent-minded professor.” </p>
<p>She looked at her watch, pointed to it and asked, “The party, remember? And did he mumble and whisper for three hours? Or is there more? Please tell me there’s more.” </p>
<p>Smiling for the first time since he got home, he told her there was more, much more. “So, after he’d finished inspecting this little pebble, he gave it back to me and he sat down next to me on the stone wall and wanted to know where I might have picked it up. He’s really excited. I could tell. So I asked him straight out - ‘What’s so interesting about this little pebble?’ . . . and that’s when he offered to buy the pebble from me. Just like that! Cash!” </p>
<p>“You’re kidding? How much?” she asked, forgetting all about the party, and watching him closely. </p>
<p>Grinning, he replied, “Five hundred bucks!” </p>
<p>She said nothing, expecting her husband to show her the money, but he didn’t. Instead, he continued, “I told him I’d like to have the little rock appraised before I gave him my answer. And that’s when he raised his price to five thousand bucks! Five thousand! Right there on the spot. He took out his checkbook! Can you believe it!” </p>
<p>“Wait, wait,” she urged him. ”Is it possible that he lost the pebble and was actually out there searching for it? Did that cross your mind?” </p>
<p>“Yep. Exactly my thinking. So I played hard to get. I shook my head, stood up and again told him I think I ought to get it appraised . . . but that I’d give him first dibs on the rock when I got an independent appraisal.” </p>
<p>“Oh, this is getting good,” she said, completely absorbed by his story. “So, what did the Professor do then?” </p>
<p>“Well, he looked at me and then asked me to sit back down on the stone wall. He said he had something important to tell me about the pebble, something that might change my mind,” her husband related. “So, I sat back down and he started to tell me this story. And after he finished, I gave him the pebble and came home.” </p>
<p>“You just gave him the pebble! He was willing to pay you five thousand dollars, but instead you just gave it back to him!” she yelled, jumping to her feet, clearly upset. </p>
<p>“You haven’t heard the story,” he calmly said. “Please, sit, and maybe you’ll understand after I’ve finished the story.” </p>
<p>Still upset, she sat stiffly and waited for his answer. “Okay, here it goes,” he began. “It was early 1943 when Aaron and his family were taken from the Warsaw Ghetto to a concentration camp. He never saw his mother or sisters again, but he and his father and three brothers were housed in the same barracks together.” </p>
<p>“Oh, my God!” she uttered, a horrified look on her face. </p>
<p>Her husband continued, “And one night his father got them all together and showed them a rock he’d picked-up in the yard. He told them that each day one of them would have custody of the rock. And that whenever possible the one with the rock would roll it over and over in their hands and . . . “ </p>
<p>She interrupted and finished his sentence in a voice shaken with pain, “ . . . and would work to smooth the rough edges off the rock. And as they did that they would forget where they were and remember their family. Am I right?” </p>
<p>“Yes, and he was the only one to survive and today he was walking the path with the pebble in his hand . . . and he lost it! Can you imagine?” her husband managed to mutter. </p>
<p>“And then there you were with it in your hand! It must have been like a miracle to him!” she said, her face brightening with joy. </p>
<p>“But the strange thing about it is that I was wearing high boots with my pants legs over them. No way that pebble could have gotten into one of my boots! No way!” he said, puzzled. </p>
<p>She got up, went to him and put her hand on his shoulder. “Oh, there’s a way, alright. There’s a way.” </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/68070732021-11-12T10:56:52-07:002021-11-25T15:59:49-07:00The Sock Drawer - By Brian Law<p>He poked his head into the utility room, saw that the Repairman was almost finished, and asked, “Find anything back there while you were fixing my dryer?” </p>
<p>“Like what?” the Repairman replied. </p>
<p>“You know, like odd bits of clothing. Socks, in particular,” he wondered. </p>
<p>Reaching into his back pocket, the Repairman produced a handful of mismatched socks. “Like these?” he asked, his face showing no emotion as he placed them on the dryer. </p>
<p>Approaching the Repairman, his excitement grew as he stared at the bundle of socks. “You found all those just today? That’s odd because I checked behind there before you came and didn’t see anything,” he said, unsure of what was going on. </p>
<p>“It’s not that odd,” the Repairman continued. “I know where to look. I’ve been doing this a long time. And there’s more down there. But I bet you can’t see them. Go ahead, take a look.” </p>
<p>He knew the socks that the repairman was holding were his long lost socks. He’d been losing socks for years and it was frustrating. But now he was being told that he just hadn’t looked hard enough all this time. That the socks were really down there all the time, just waiting to be found. </p>
<p>The situation intrigued him, and he couldn’t help but ask the Repairman, “So you guys know something about where these lost socks go that the rest of us don’t. Is that it?” </p>
<p>Packing up his tools and without looking him in the eye, the Repairman replied, “That’s about all I’m allowed to say about this.” </p>
<p>“So, you’re telling me this is some sort of deep, dark secret held closely by the ‘Loyal Order of Dryer Repairmen’? ” he scoffed, watching the Repairman closely. </p>
<p>Clearly annoyed, the repairman shot back, “You people, you’re all the same. You look down on us, take us for granted. And you’d never for a minute entertain the notion that maybe, just maybe, there’s more to what we do than you could ever possibly comprehend.” </p>
<p>Standing there eye to eye with the Repairman, he desperately wanted to call ‘bullshit’ on the Repairman’s incredible comments. But there was just the chance that the Repairman might be telling the truth. And if he played his cards right, he might find out more about this guy’s secrets. </p>
<p>So he replied, “You’re right, of course. You guys are sort of invisible to the rest of us. We call you, you come in and fix our stuff, and then leave. We never even learn your names. And if you guys really do know secret stuff, it must be frustrating as hell!” </p>
<p>The Repairman stood still, his eyes searching the other’s eyes for any sign of deception. Then, after a few moments, he put down his tool bag, smiled a bit and held out his hand in friendship. “My name’s Bill. And I thank you for understanding what we Repairmen go through.” As they stood there shaking hands, the Repairman added, “And if you promise to never, ever tell anyone, I’ll show you where to look for your lost socks.” </p>
<p>Taking a deep breath, he looked deep into the eyes of the Repairman and replied, “I promise.” And as he said those two words, his excitement grew to levels he’d never experienced before. </p>
<p>“Okay,” the Repairman said, grabbing the dryer, “I’ll move the unit just enough for you to look down at the lower left corner. The place you want to look is right above the manufacturer’s sticker. Here, take my flashlight.” </p>
<p>Moving between the washer and the dryer, and using the flashlight to peer down towards the lower left corner of the dryer, he cautiously asked, “What am I supposed to be seeing, anyway? All I’m seeing is the sticker.” </p>
<p>“Keep looking,” the Repairman instructed. “It will take your eyes a moment to adjust. Then you’ll see it. And you’ll know it when you see it. Lean down a little lower.” </p>
<p>“Okay,” he mumbled as he leaned over a bit more. “Wait, I think I see what you’re . . . . .” </p>
<p>The flashlight dropped to the floor and rolled a bit until it stopped at the Repairman’s feet. He bent down, picked it up, put it in his tool bag and gently pushed the dryer back into its proper position now that there was nothing in the way. He looked around the utility room, saw that everything was as it should be, and then turned and left. </p>
<p>He wasn’t real sure that the ‘special spot’ on these older Maytag models would absorb more than just socks. But now that he knew, he’d tell the boys at the ‘Loyal Order’ how he dealt with the one guy in the whole world who'd guessed their secret. </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/67772762021-10-15T13:00:07-07:002021-10-15T13:00:07-07:00The Hummingbird Feeder - By Brian Law<p>She sat alone in the sunroom knitting socks for her grandson, a smile on her face. Classical music was playing in the background and as she watched her gardener working in the nearby garden she thought, 'it was at moments such as this when everything seemed just perfect'. </p>
<p>There was a time not too long ago, however, that things looked gloomy. Her gardener, Carlos, had revealed that he was seeing very few bees and even fewer butterflies than the previous Spring as he prepared the garden for the new season. And no hummingbirds or other birds, either. He worried that in his forty years of working gardens in the area this had never happened and that the gardens would certainly suffer. </p>
<p>She, too, had seen the changes and had been concerned. But recently all had changed, and rapidly, too. The bees were now plentiful, the butterflies were abundant, and her bird feeders were as popular as ever. In fact, things had not just gone back to normal! Her garden was astonishingly alive with a huge assortment of flying life! 'Maybe', she mused, 'the changing climate was not as bad as everybody was expecting. Maybe the government was doing something! Maybe they had a plan!' </p>
<p>Carlos tapped on the sunroom’s window and motioned for her to please come to the door. Putting down her knitting, she slowly rose from her chair and walked towards her waiting gardener. </p>
<p>“Yes, Carlos, what is it?” she asked. </p>
<p>His hat in hand, the gardener explained that he was finished for the week, but that she needed to refill her hummingbird feeder soon. </p>
<p>Thanking him, she headed for her kitchen where she kept a pitcher of sugar water for just this purpose. She was surprised, however, to be refilling the feeder so soon. She had just filled it yesterday afternoon. 'Hungry little things', she chuckled to herself, 'They’re lucky to have me doing their bidding'. </p>
<p>The feeder was not far from the back door and she could readily see that it was nearly empty as she left the house. But as she got closer, she saw what the real problem was. Something had perforated the container with numerous small holes, really just pinholes. And as a result, the fluid had slowly dribbled out into a puddle on the ground. </p>
<p>Puzzled, she decided to take the feeder into the house for a closer look, but before she could take hold of it, a charm of hummingbirds swarmed nearby, anxious for a feeding. She couldn’t resist their presence and decided to fill the feeder knowing that they could get their fill before the fluid drained out again through the myriad of small holes in the container. </p>
<p>And sure enough, as she replaced the cap on the feeder after replenishing its contents, the little birds hungrily flitted about, some feeding while others waited. She watched for a moment, mesmerized by the intricate natural ballet they presented. But then she saw something odd, something very odd. </p>
<p>The little creatures weren’t using their tongues to extract the fluid from the plastic feeding holes on the feeder. They were all just pecking at the container’s side, causing more little holes and more damage! And then they would fly away without feeding while the others would fly in and repeat the same process! </p>
<p>And as she watched in amazement, one of the hummingbirds’ beaks fell off into the feeder’s tray! And that bird continued to function as if nothing had happened! </p>
<p>Reacting instinctively, she reached in quickly, grabbed the ‘beak’ and moved a short distance from the feeder to take a better look at it. Putting on her reading glasses, she wiped the fluid from the object and held it up for a closer look. </p>
<p>It was man-made! And even had a set of numbers imprinted on it! Looking back at the feeder, she realized as she watched the birds that they were identical, all the same size and coloring. Absolutely no variation at all! </p>
<p>On a hunch, she approached a flowering plant nearby where a butterfly had perched, it’s wings drying in the sun. It didn’t take long to determine that it, too, was not natural, but instead some sort of drone! And it was pretty clear that a nearby ladybug was probably a fake, too! </p>
<p>She wiped her hands on her apron, took off her glasses and walked slowly to a garden bench under a nearby tree. Sitting down, her hands in her lap, she watched her garden intently, keeping very still. After a few minutes, she sighed, got up and walked back into her house. </p>
<p>Sitting down, she picked up her knitting and resumed the work she had left earlier. The click of her knitting needles was the only sound in the sunroom as she worked quickly and expertly, taking only a moment now and then to wipe a tear from her cheeks. </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/67772642021-10-15T12:59:30-07:002021-10-15T12:59:30-07:00The Broken Lamp - By Brian Law<p>The two of them had been browsing antique stores all morning and both had found some interesting items but had bought nothing. That is until he discovered the lamp. It was almost hidden away in a remote corner of a small store they’d never visited before. He called her over and asked her to bend down for her opinion. </p>
<p>The lamp was squeezed in between a porcelain elephant of indeterminable origin and a mid-century vase. She moved the lamp a bit to get a better look at it and looking up at him, remarked, “Early twentieth century, and probably middle eastern in origin. Some repair needed. Your guess?” </p>
<p>“No, you’re probably right. But what do you think? How much would you offer for it?” he replied, bending down beside her. </p>
<p>“It depends,” she continued. “If the shop owner has the broken piece and you think it can be reattached easily and won’t show, I’d offer five hundred. Maybe six, but no more.” </p>
<p>He nodded and asked, “What if he doesn’t have the piece that broke off? And we have to figure out a way to repair it.” </p>
<p>“Twenty bucks, max,” she countered, rising slowly and dusting off her dress. “In fact, I wouldn’t even bother. That base is probably pewter. Very difficult to find someone these days who can work with pewter.” </p>
<p>“Well, let’s go ask the proprietor. This could be fun,” he said, rising, too, with a gleam in his eye. </p>
<p>She shrugged as they both headed to the counter and the proprietor. “Hi,” he began, “We’re interested in the pewter lamp in the corner. The broken one. We were wondering why you would have a broken item for sale? Is there something special about that item?” </p>
<p>The proprietor was a smallish man in his seventies and was wearing a smock and a visor. “Ah, something special, you ask?” he replied. “Yes, something very special. And I do have the broken piece. People always ask if I have the broken piece.” </p>
<p>“Oh, so there has been some interest in that particular lamp in the past?” she wondered. </p>
<p>“Oh, my, yes,” the proprietor said, moving out from behind the counter. “I have sold that very same lamp many times over the years. Each time with the provision that if the buyer couldn’t repair it, I would take it back with a complete refund. It’s pewter, you know.” </p>
<p>The two looked at each other and he asked the next question, “So, is there a story behind that lamp which makes it interesting, other than just its aesthetic appeal?” </p>
<p>Moving towards the rear of the store, the two shoppers following closely behind, the proprietor looked over his shoulder and answered, “It belonged to a rabbi in Chicago during the nineteen twenties. Whenever a member of his congregation needed advice or consolation or spiritual guidance, he’d have them come into his office and sit down at a small table. And there on the table between them would stand that little lamp.” </p>
<p>“A rabbi’s lamp? Is there more to this story?” she prodded. </p>
<p>As the three of them got to where the lamp sat, the proprietor leaned down and retrieved it, blowing some dust off it as he did. “Well, the rabbi would instruct the person he was counseling to place their hands on the lamp and to tell the lamp the nature of their problems. It seems that the rabbi thought that he could get a more honest response that way.” </p>
<p>“So, let me get this straight,” she asked. “These people, these troubled people, would spill out all their problems, all their suffering, all their troubles to this rabbi through this lamp. Is that what you’re saying? And why does that make this little lamp any different from any other lamp?” </p>
<p>He handed the lamp to the man and responded, “Because, as the story goes, the lamp became the depository of all these emotions. It purportedly absorbed their troubles and all the rabbi had to do was gently help them on their way, trouble free. Now, is that interesting enough?” </p>
<p>The two looked at each other again and both shook their heads in disbelief. “Sounds a bit farfetched. Interesting, but unlikely. Anyway, tell us a little bit about how it got broken,” she said. </p>
<p>“Ah,” the proprietor continued, “One cold winter’s afternoon, a man came into the rabbi’s office and sat down with him at the small table. As he went about explaining his problems, the lamp broke. It seems that the lamp could absorb just so much suffering and no more.” </p>
<p>“Now that’s interesting!” she exclaimed. “And would explain why no one has been able to repair it. Wonderful story! I love it!” She looked at her partner with a big smile and asked, “Let’s just buy it and put it on a shelf without repairing it. When people ask about it, we could tell them the story. And we could have the broken piece framed and hung on the wall close by.” </p>
<p>He nodded his agreement, turned to the proprietor, and asked, “Would you take three hundred for it? And we won’t be returning it since we won’t be trying to fix it.” </p>
<p>The proprietor paused, looked at both of them, and replied, “Four hundred and fifty. Firm!” </p>
<p>The two looked at each other and then agreed. As they returned to the counter with their newfound treasure, the proprietor retrieved the broken piece and placed both the broken lamp and the piece in a box and wrapped it up. </p>
<p>“There you are, you two. I hope you are very happy with your new purchase and I would welcome you back in my store anytime,” the proprietor said, handing the box to the man. </p>
<p>As the two left the store, the proprietor went to the front door, closed it, and placed the closed sign in the window. With that, he retreated to a small storeroom in the rear of his store, turned on the light and closed the door. </p>
<p>There, on the shelves, were dozens of little pewter lamps, identical to the one he just sold. </p>
<p>Taking one down, he carefully broke off a piece from its base, blew some dust on it from his pocket, opened the door and turned out the light. </p>
<p>As he bent down to place the little broken lamp on its new shelf between the porcelain elephant and the mid-century vase, he trusted in his judgement that the two would never return to his store. No one who had ever bought one of these hot little items ever had. </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/67432162021-09-11T10:18:18-07:002021-09-11T10:18:18-07:00Managing Expectations - By Brian Law<p>There were twenty-two tables in the dining room, but Table One was for them. They were the wealthiest seven residents at the Chatsworth Senior Residence Home and they ensured a proper class structure by assigning each new resident to a table best befitting his or her social standing. In essence, they were the snobbiest and they held sway over the rest. Cross them and you ended up sitting at Table 22. </p>
<p>Each new resident was invited to lunch, but just once. He or she would get a written invitation and was expected to be properly dressed and on time, and after which he or she would be questioned about their backgrounds, their financial situations, what colleges their children attended, and so on and so forth. At the end of lunch, they would be dismissed and would receive a table assignment slipped under their door later that day. </p>
<p>Jim got his invitation to lunch within minutes of his arrival in his suite. He hadn’t shaved for several days and his clothes looked like he’d slept in them, which he had. Two days ago he’d received notice that he’d been accepted at Chatsworth and that his lodgings would be available two days hence. Bringing nothing with him but an old suitcase, he arrived by cab and checked-in just after lunch. As he was escorted through the sitting room to his suite, the other residents had a good look at their newest arrival. The Table One crowd huddled together shortly thereafter and decided to invite Jim to tomorrow’s lunch and get it over with as soon as possible. </p>
<p>At lunch the next day, he arrived at Table One on time. “Hi, I’m Jim Jablonski. I live in Suite 148 C. Just got in yesterday. I appreciate the invite to lunch,” he said, the odor of his strong aftershave catching everyone at the table a little off guard. “What’s for eats, anyway?” </p>
<p>The others, their eyebrows all raised, looked at each other realizing that Table 22 would have another place setting this evening. Nevertheless, they went ahead with their interview. “Jim,” one of them asked, “What did you do for a living, if you don’t mind us asking?” </p>
<p>Digging into his salad, his mouth half full, Jim managed to mumble, “Janitorial work, mostly. And some handy-man work around the neighborhood. Oh, and I drove a school bus when the regular driver was out.” </p>
<p>“Interesting,” another at the table commented. “Did you inherit money, Jim?” </p>
<p>“Me? God no. My family’s got nothing,” he replied, shoveling another forkful of salad into his mouth. “And I sure as damn well didn’t marry into it neither.” </p>
<p>The group, a bit mystified, said nothing for a few moments, and then the head snob asked, “Well, Jim, just how are you able to afford Chatsworth? Not on a janitor’s retirement, certainly.” </p>
<p>Jim wiped his mouth with his napkin, belched, and sat back. He looked around the table, smiled, and replied, “So, that’s what this little get-together is all about, huh? Where does Jim get all his dough?” Then, leaning forward and staring each one in the eyes, he chuckled, “Well, maybe I stole it.” </p>
<p>The group let out a collective gasp with some of the women holding their hankies to their mouths and some of the men letting out with loud ‘Tsk-Tsks’. Jim watched them for a moment and then announced, “Now, don’t get your panties in a bunch, folks. I ain’t no crook. I made my money straight up . . . and a lot of it, too.” </p>
<p>“Well, really, Jim, we’re certainly glad to hear that. Just how did you earn your fortune?” one of the men wondered. </p>
<p>“I found something I was really, really good at. Better than almost anyone out there, too. It took me years of self-learning, a lot of hit and miss, but when I hit my stride, I was the best at what I did. And the money just rolled in,” Jim explained. </p>
<p>They looked around at each other again and then one asked, “The best at what you did, Jim? I don’t recollect seeing your face or name in anything I’ve read over the years. Just what were you so good at doing?” </p>
<p>Jim cleared his throat, picked-up a spoon and started, “Okay, let’s say this spoon represents a jewelry store that sells estate jewelry. And let’s say that this here fork is old Jim Jablonski, dressed in his janitorial clothes, his name sewn on his shirt. So the spoon takes one look at the fork and asks, ‘Yes, Jim, what can I do for you today?’.” Jim stops, lets that sink in, and continues, “Now, the fork has taken a quick look around the store and has realized that there is just one item in the whole damn store that is seriously underpriced. Let’s say it’s this knife, okay?” </p>
<p>They all nod as Jim arranges the spoon, fork, and knife on the table in front of them and continues, “Now, the fork has spent years figuring out what jewelry is really worth. He knows that the shop owner is real good at this, too, but he’s better. There’s something about the knife that the fork has spotted that the spoon has missed. And it’s the difference between selling the knife for three thousand dollars or for thirty thousand dollars! You all with me?” </p>
<p>Enthralled, they all nodded together, their eyes fixated on the silverware arrayed in front of Jim. “So, Jim,” one of them asked, “That’s how you made your fortune? One piece of jewelry at a time? That’s an amazing story. And you managed their expectations by wearing your janitorial work clothes! Wonderful, Jim. And that store owner probably went home to his wife and bragged how he had made a killing on a piece of jewelry on a sale to pardon the expression, some poor working man.” </p>
<p>Jim sat back and was asked the next question, “So, Jim, was that typical? Could you make that kind of profit margin on most of your discoveries?” </p>
<p>“Oh, that’s not how I made my fortune. No, what I’d do next is go to New York, Chicago, or Miami where I’d have contacts and move these pieces in high-end jewelry stores to their very wealthy clients. So, for instance, that knife we’re talking about would sell for over a hundred thousand in a place like Boston. So, instead of making just twenty-seven thousand profit, I’d make a lot more . . . a lot more.” </p>
<p>The group gave Jim a muted round of applause with smiles all around. Jim was clapped on his back, his hand was shook, and even one old lady batted her eyelashes at him. But he wasn’t done with this crowd just yet. As they all settled down, Jim pointed out, “That broach you’re wearing, ma’am. I bought that in a store in North Carolina for eight hundred dollars. And I sold it in Chicago where you later purchased it for over seventy-eight thousand. Am I not right?” </p>
<p>The wearer of the broach blushed as the group turned towards her in shock and embarrassment. “And you, sir, that ring you’re sporting on your right hand. That’s one of mine, too. Maybe the most money I’ve ever made on any single item, I’m proud to say,” Jim announced without hesitation. </p>
<p>There was a growing sense of anger at the table as Jim went from one person to the next, telling how much money he’d made on one piece of jewelry or another that each was wearing. And at the end of it all, he announced as he started to rise, “Well, I guess I’ll be sitting at Table 22 tonight. But at least I’ll have some tales to tell. Right?” </p>
<p>It took less than a second for the man on his right to put his hand on Jim’s shoulder and ask him to remain seated. “Now, now, Jim. Let’s not be too hasty about this, shall we. Why don’t you just join us for the foreseeable future here at Table One. I’m sure the rest of us feel the same way I do.” </p>
<p>Jim smiled, looked around at the rest of them and saw they were all nodding in agreement. And as he sat down, the old woman who had batted her eyelashes at him asked, “Why, Jim, what is that wonderful cologne you’re wearing, anyway?” </p>
<p>Jim knew that somebody at that table would have his story checked out and would find out it was all a lie. But before that happened, Jim would have sold lots of overpriced jewelry to these folks and be long gone, headed for the next ritzy retirement home and another table full of suckers. </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/67432152021-09-11T10:17:41-07:002021-09-11T10:17:41-07:00Footwear - By Brian Law<p>He’d been quiet the entire evening while the others at the table did all the talking. Not knowing anyone at the table, he just smiled and nodded at what was being said and that seemed to satisfy them. But then one of them turned to him and asked the question he feared most. </p>
<p>“And you, Malcolm, is it? What was it you did before you retired and moved to Pinehurst Villages with the rest of us?” the high maintenance blonde across the table asked him. </p>
<p>He was trapped. He couldn’t smile and nod his way out of this one. He’d have to answer the question. “Oh, just odds and ends, really," he replied. "Nothing really interesting. Certainly not like the rest of you. I mean I wasn’t a high powered lawyer or real estate developer or anything like that.” </p>
<p>The blonde sensed something in his answer and pursued her prey, “Now, now, Malcolm. It must have been something interesting. I mean, not just everyone can afford to retire here. My God, it costs a fortune! Tell us. What was it? Racehorses? Racing cars? Oh, how about gold mining?” </p>
<p>“I was a shoe salesman,” Malcolm admitted after a brief and mildly embarrassing silence. </p>
<p>“You owned a chain of shoe stores? Is that it, Malcolm? Nothing to be ashamed of there,” one of the men asked. </p>
<p>“No, no store. I was just a salesman of a unique brand of shoes,” Malcolm replied, hoping that would end it. </p>
<p>There was a moment of silence as those around the table reassessed their line of questioning. “Ah, so you catered to a unique clientele. Is that it, Malcolm?” another one asked. </p>
<p>Adjusting himself nervously in his chair and just barely managing to look up at the inquiring faces , Malcolm managed to reply, “Well, yes, in a sense.” </p>
<p>“Oh, how intriguing! Malcolm is holding out on us, isn’t he, everyone,” the blonde cut in. Malcolm didn’t respond, but he knew more was coming. </p>
<p>The group looked around at each other and then one announced, “I think I know what Malcolm is alluding to here, everyone. He was a reseller of very, very unique shoes. He’d bid, along with others, for the rights to certain shoes. Shoes that held a certain unusual significance. Is that right, Malcolm?” </p>
<p>Malcolm nodded but didn’t elaborate. </p>
<p>“Oh, this is like twenty questions!” exclaimed the blonde. “How fun!” </p>
<p>“Malcolm,” another asked, “Did these shoes belong to people who were alive?” </p>
<p>Malcolm shook his head sheepishly. </p>
<p>“But you bid on them, right? So, these shoes were worn by famous people who were dead?” another asked. </p>
<p>Malcolm nodded, knowing they were getting close. </p>
<p>“Well, that certainly narrows it down a bit!” announced the blonde. “We all know there’s a market for the shoes of dead Hollywood stars that were worn in famous movies. Judy Garland’s shoes in ‘Wizard of Oz’, for instance. Warmer, Malcolm?” </p>
<p>He shook his head. </p>
<p>The group huddled and buzzed for a few moments until one of them ventured, “Okay, throw us a bone here, Malcolm.” </p>
<p>Malcolm smiled wanly, shrugged in surrender and replied, “Think death row.” </p>
<p>A gasp went up from the group as they looked around at each other in a mixture of amazement and disgust. Then, a quiet voice rose from the group. It belonged to the most respected member, and he asked, “Malcolm, did you buy and resell the shoes of people executed for their crimes?’ </p>
<p>Malcolm’s eyes met those of the questioner and he nodded slowly and waited. </p>
<p>Some of the women were repelled by this revelation, but others were fascinated. The men, however, didn’t reveal their emotions about it one way or another. Somebody asked, “Ted Bundy’s shoes, Malcolm. You bid on them?” </p>
<p>Malcolm nodded and waited. </p>
<p>“Where are they now?” somebody asked. </p>
<p>Malcolm looked around the table and replied, “I’m wearing them.” </p>
<p>A huge gasp went up from the table. Many looked around nervously to make sure they weren’t making a scene and then one woman asked, “What’s it like, Malcolm? Really?” </p>
<p>“You can’t imagine.” </p>
<p>Another woman next to him leaned in and whispered sensually, “Have you come across the shoes of any executed women, Malcolm?” </p>
<p>“Yes.” </p>
<p>She leaned back, a sly smile on her face. Malcolm pushed his business card discretely under her napkin and watched the rest of the group. </p>
<p>It was going to be another good year, he thought to himself. </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/67116962021-08-09T18:25:21-07:002021-08-09T18:25:21-07:00The Death Certificate - By Brian Law<p>The American peered over her assistant’s shoulder as he carefully brushed away the last vestiges of millennia of dirt from the stone. Holding the lamp, she could see that with each sweep of his brush the wording on the stone became clearer. Finally, the assistant stopped working, looked back at her, and in Hebrew asked, “Is it Latin?” </p>
<p>She stood up, clapped her hands over her mouth with joy, and then in her broken Hebrew exclaimed, “Yes! Get the Professor here! Quickly now!” </p>
<p>As the assistant rose and headed for the cave entrance, she grabbed the brush and continued to brush away at the stone, interpreting the embedded wording as she worked. Her Latin was only fair, so some of the phrases took her more time than others to understand. As such, the scribbled translation in her notebook was replete with corrections. </p>
<p>Within minutes, she heard her assistant and the Professor enter the cave. She smiled broadly as they approached and held the lamp close to the stone for the Professor to view it. She said nothing as the Professor knelt down in front of the stone and read silently for the next few minutes. Finally, he turned and looked up at her and asked, “A death announcement?” </p>
<p>“It may be more official than that. It might actually be a death certificate. Two certificates, to be more accurate, sir,” she replied, checking her notes, and pointing to two sections of the stone for emphasis. </p>
<p>“Hmmm, you may be right about that. But what do you make of the fact that each certificate, if you’re right, is for the same person, but three days apart?” the Professor asked. “Does that make any sense?” </p>
<p>She knelt down next to him and pointed to the date on the stone. “Ah, very interesting. That date fits, doesn’t it. But where’s the name of the deceased? I didn’t see it in my first reading.” </p>
<p>She pointed to two different phrases on the stone. “The deceased is referred to only as ‘The Troublemaker’, here and here. No name, but in the first section it says he died as a result of punishment at ‘the place of the skull’. See the word ‘calvaria’ in Latin, here. That’s Calvary, Professor.” </p>
<p>The Professor whistled softly. He pointed to another section of the stone and concluded, “Looks like three days passed and then this person was seen alive again. But I don’t see how or where it says he died the second time. Do you?” </p>
<p>“You’re right. The language about the second death is very vague. All it refers to is that after he was seen alive again, he was never seen alive after that. So, they concluded that he died again soon thereafter, but that’s it,” she added. </p>
<p>The Professor stood, brushed the dust off his pants, and waited for her to get up, too. Then he began, “Okay, so, the date is right, the two sequential deaths of the same person fits, and the use of the term ‘The Troublemaker’, while not conclusive, is very important evidence, especially since he died the first time at Calvary.” </p>
<p>Before he could continue, she interrupted him, “I know what you are going to ask. You want to know why this is even being reported by the Romans. I mean, the Romans must have understood the incredible significance of recognizing the escape from death by this person.” </p>
<p>“Exactly. Why give the followers of ‘The Troublemaker’ any grist for their mill?” the Professor added. “Why not just leave it out of written history altogether.” </p>
<p>“And in such a banal way,” she continued. “But I think I know why they did it. Look at this phrase here. It’s part of the second section.” </p>
<p>The Professor leaned in where her finger was pointing. He brought the lamp closer to be able to see the words clearly. Squinting a bit, he silently said the phrase to himself, nodded, and then drew back from the stone. “That explains everything. That was their motive. They wanted that phrase to explain who this person was. They wanted it to end there in Jerusalem, to go no farther, and they thought that phrase would do the trick.” </p>
<p>She underlined the phrase in her notebook. “Unemployed carpenter.” </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/67116952021-08-09T18:24:35-07:002021-08-09T18:24:35-07:00Out of Print - By Brian Law<p>“What the . . .?” he exclaimed in a muted voice as he crouched down in the crawl space of his two hundred and thirty year old Massachusetts home. He’d been laying mouse traps under the house and was almost finished when the cuff on his right trouser leg got caught on something sticking up from the dirt. </p>
<p>Shaking his trouser free, he noticed that whatever caught his pants was man-made and not just a root or rock. Keeping his flashlight focused on it, he moved back closer for a better look. ‘Damn,’ he thought, ‘it looks like an old metal case of some sort.’ </p>
<p>Using a trowel in his right hand to carefully clear the dirt away from it, he kept his flashlight in his left hand and was able to dig enough away in just a few minutes to reveal one complete side of the case. </p>
<p>Age had darkened the brass material, but as he used his fingers to clear away some remaining dirt on the side of the case, the ornate designs of the maker became evident. ‘This is something very special,’ he thought as he continued to clear the dirt from around the rest of the casing. As he got closer and focused his flashlight on one corner, a name appeared. It read ‘Rufus King’. </p>
<p>Something in the back of his mind was triggered by that name, but he just couldn’t put his finger on it as he gently pulled the old case from the ground, brushed some more dirt from it, and placed it in the bag with the mouse traps. A smile crept across his face as he crawled towards the access door. ‘My wife’s going to go nuts over this,’ he grinned. ‘She just loves this old stuff!’ </p>
<p>“Warren!” she yelled, “How many times do I have to tell you to dust yourself off before coming into my house? And take off that ridiculous red hat, too. He lost the election fair and square, okay?” </p>
<p>He just stood there in the kitchen, his hands behind his back, a great big smile on his face. </p>
<p>“You’re up to something, aren’t you?” she said, calming down a bit. “What do you have behind your back, Warren? C’mon, show me.” </p>
<p>Holding the old case out in front of him, he just said, “Am I forgiven?” </p>
<p>“Oh, my Lord, Warren, that’s an old tobacco case. Here, let me hold it, please,” she asked. </p>
<p>Taking it into her hands, she marveled at the intricate scrolling on the cover. Then she saw the name. “Warren, this belonged to Rufus King!” she shrieked. </p>
<p>He didn’t want to admit he couldn’t remember who that was so he just replied, “I know, I know. Isn’t that exciting!” </p>
<p>“He was one of our delegates to the Constitutional Convention way back in 1787 and he was one of the signers! This is his tobacco box, Warren! This is so exciting!” she gasped. “This is a collector’s item and incredibly valuable!” </p>
<p>He moved behind his wife, put his hands on her shoulder and excitedly said, “Well, open it, then!” </p>
<p>Which she did, finding a bundle of old letters wrapped in a silk ribbon. Carefully removing the ribbon, she laid each letter out on the table and then ordered them by date. After a few minutes, her husband wondered, “What are they about, honey?” </p>
<p>“Well, as far as I can tell these are correspondence between Mr. King and various other members of the Convention. And they’re all dated after the signing. And they all deal with what would later become the Amendments. Basically, these are serious discussions about how to protect personal rights of citizens through an amendment process,” she explained. “And this one here deals with the consensus of the beliefs about the rights of citizens to keep and bear arms. You know, gun rights!” </p>
<p>“Oh, really,” her husband pondered. “In simple words, anything surprising?” </p>
<p>“Way beyond surprising, dear. If this ever gets out, it will change everything about gun rights in this country. Here, just look at this sentence. It’s underlined!” she said, her voice quivering. </p>
<p>“Listen, why don’t you call your friend at the Museum and have him come over for a look at these. I’ll just stay here in the kitchen and read these while you make the phone call,” he urged. “Go ahead, this is important!” </p>
<p>She nodded, grabbed her sweater from behind the chair, and headed for the hallway and their home phone. And as she did, her husband sat down and read and reread the underlined sentence. As he heard his wife talking on the phone, he took out his lighter and lit the corner of the letter and held it until it disappeared in smoke and ash. </p>
<p>He wasn’t going to be the one to upset the whole apple cart. Not him, not now. </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/66850572021-07-11T16:30:14-07:002021-07-11T16:30:14-07:00Lift - By Brian Law<p>It had taken the two boys an hour of hot, dirty struggle to grapple the last piece of aluminum up the slippery hillside to where they were building the glider. Finally, standing together, the rising sun revealing the glistening sweat on their bodies, they looked down at their encampment far below. </p>
<p>The cross where their mother was buried could clearly be seen, but the hut where their injured father lay in pain was still hidden in shadows. As their breathing slowed, they turned to each other, nodded, smiled, and then turned towards what they hoped would carry them off the deserted island. </p>
<p>The glider had been their father’s idea. He had built the yacht that the family was sailing the South Seas on when it wrecked against the reef surrounding their little island that wasn’t on the charts. Their father had survived, as had the two boys, but their mother hadn’t. </p>
<p>And for the first few weeks, as their father lay in pain from his back injuries, the two boys had scoured the island for food and water. When they told him one evening that they had discovered a wrecked airplane not far from their campsite, he got excited and asked them all sorts of questions about the debris. The next day he got them together and told them about his idea, using a stick in the sand to explain how it might work. </p>
<p>His idea was to use the salvaged material from the plane wreck to build a glider high up on the little island’s main hill. Their father had been on watch the night they stranded on the reef and he knew that they had passed an inhabited island some twenty-five miles to the southwest sometime during the night. There was a chance, a slight one, that under the right conditions, one of the boys could fly a glider that far, land it and bring rescuers back. He told them that flying a glider wasn’t that much different than sailing a sloop and each day when the boys returned to the campsite from their construction duties, he would explain how he thought it could be done. He even fashioned a scale model of the glider out of driftwood and palm fronds to use in his flying lessons. He used a small rock to represent the weight of the pilot. </p>
<p>Their father was an uneducated mechanical genius. He could build and fix anything using whatever was available at the time. So the boys knew that the glider would fly and they named it ‘Maureen’ after their mother whose grave was behind the campsite. And while neither of the boys had inherited their father’s innate skills, they could follow instructions and they both had his competitive drive, which showed up from time to time . </p>
<p>“Dad, I figure that I’m the one who’ll fly ‘Maureen’, right?” the older one asked one evening around the fire. “I mean, it just goes to figure. I’m older and more experienced. Not by a lot, but whoever flies will need every edge he can get.” </p>
<p>The younger one was mature beyond his years so he didn’t respond right away. He wanted to give his father a chance to respond to his brother’s argument before putting in his two cents worth. The father, in great pain from is injuries, propped himself up the best he could and explained, “Your brother weighs a lot less than you. And he’s stronger in his upper body than you and he was always the better sailor. He’ll be doing the flying.” And that was that. The subject never came up again. </p>
<p>Their father brought them together late that one afternoon after they told him the glider was finished. He grilled them hard about how each joint had been fashioned, about the exact dimensions of the wing, and about how much they thought the damn thing weighed. Then, flopping back down on his makeshift bed, he explained to the younger boy, “You go tomorrow at dawn. The weather conditions will be in our favor. Get some sleep. I’ll wake you up when it’s time, boys. And remember to watch the birds!” </p>
<p>He didn’t wake them. Sometime during the night, he died without a sound. They woke up late and immediately knew something was wrong. They buried their father that morning next to their mother and then sat down together on the log next to the campfire. They didn’t say a word for quite a while until the younger boy reached out and grabbed his brother’s hand and told him emotionally, “I’ll fly the glider, but we’re both going. I’m not leaving you behind.” </p>
<p>The older boy reached down for the model glider their father had built and held it in his hands for a moment as he put the stone that was supposed to represent his brother’s weight under its wing. Then, he picked up a slightly larger stone, added it to the wing, stood and launched the model into the wind towards the beach. </p>
<p>Both boys watched intently as the small glider struggled and wobbled into the onshore wind. It would rise for a moment, then drop down as if to crash, then suddenly rise again, wobble some more until it cleared the shore break and slowly flew on its own gaining some altitude until they couldn’t see it anymore. </p>
<p>With that, the boys rose and without looking back started up the hill together. </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/66850562021-07-11T16:29:46-07:002021-07-11T16:29:46-07:00Don't Go Up There - By Brian Law<p>There was a time in the county when the name Nick Travis meant something. He once was a big deal as a cattle rancher and was respected by the folks in the county as somebody who you didn’t cross. </p>
<p>But those days were gone and now Nick spent his days napping on one of his son’s front porch. He was pushing eighty, and while he still sported the rawhide tough body of a cowboy, arthritis made him unable to stand up straight and he moved slowly with his pain. But his mind was still sharp, and he still remembered things clearly. </p>
<p>He woke suddenly one Sunday morning from his nap when his grandson Jed let the screen door slam as he left the ranch house. “Sorry, grandpa, I didn’t know you were out here. I’ll be more careful next time.” </p>
<p>“Sure, Jed,” Nick mumbled, wiping some spittle from the side of his mouth. “Where ya headed, anyway?” </p>
<p>Jed was dressed warmly and was carrying a shotgun as he stopped, moved closer to the old man and replied, “Brett and I are going up to the old reservoir to hunt birds, grandpa. Hiking the old fire road, you know. We’ll get back in time to have some for dinner. You like game birds, don’t ya?” </p>
<p>The old man nodded and tried to get out his chair saying, “Here, I’ll go with ya, Jed. There’s something up there you got to be careful of. “ </p>
<p>“Whoa, old timer, you’re not going anywhere today, okay?” Jed chuckled as he patted Nick on his shoulder and settled him back down in his deck chair. “You just sit there and rest until we get back. We’ll be safe up there. Don’t worry none.” </p>
<p>Nick gathered some strength and protested, “No, no, you don’t understand, boy. It’s dangerous up there. I know. I never told anybody just how dangerous it can be.” </p>
<p>Exhausted and in pain, he slumped back down in his chair, his head lolling a bit. He could tell that Jed was still standing there watching him to make sure he was doing okay. He had never told anybody about the old reservoir because nobody would believe it. And especially now, given his condition, they’d just think he was a crazy old man. </p>
<p>“Jed, boy, come close,” Nick managed, wincing in pain, and deciding now was the time to tell somebody. “I have something I need to tell you. Come, boy. It’s important,” Nick managed to utter as he motioned his grandson over with a weak wave of his hand. </p>
<p>Jed propped his shotgun against the house, moved closer and knelt down next to the old man. “Sure, I’m listening, grandpa. What’s up?” </p>
<p>Breathing heavier now, and struggling to get out each word, Nick whispered, “It’s ‘Bigfoot’, boy. I shot him up there forty-seven years ago, but he got away. He’s still up there, Jed. He’s still got my bullet in him and he’s madder than hell.” </p>
<p>Jed smiled and patted his grandfather on the knee saying, “Don’t worry, gramps. We’ll be safe, Bigfoot or not.” </p>
<p>“No, no you won’t, boy. I went up there every year to finish the job until I was seventy and couldn’t go no more. He’s mean, kid, real mean and vicious. And he’s smart, too. He almost got me several times ,” Nick warned Jed. </p>
<p>Jed shook his head and tried to settle the old man down. “I believe you think there’s a ‘Bigfoot’ up there, grandpa, I really do. But hunters go up there all the time and never reported any sign of one. And no stock’s gone missing. So, you just go back to sleep and Brett and I’ll be back before you know it.” </p>
<p>Nick knew that his smell was on Jed and that the beast would get his revenge on the boy even if he couldn’t get Nick himself. He had to convince the boy that he was not just a crazy old man . “Here, boy, help me out of this chair, will ya? Just for a second. I got something to show you. Then you can go,” Nick pleaded. </p>
<p>“Well. okay, grandpa,” Jed replied. “Here, I’ll stand here and you grab my hands and I’ll pull you up,” Jed explained, moving around to face Nick, and putting out his hands. Nick rose slowly from his chair as Jed pulled him onto his feet. The old man was wobbly as he stood stooped over, almost unable to look at Jed’s face. </p>
<p>“Good. Now, boy, help me get my shirt off, will ya?” Nick asked. </p>
<p>Jed had never seen his grandfather like this before. The old man had a grit to his voice that meant business. “Sure, sure, grandpa. Just pull it out of your pants for me and unbutton it and I’ll get behind you and help you take it off,” Jed replied, unsure of what the old man was up to. </p>
<p>Jed stood behind Nick as the old man unbuttoned it and then told him he could go ahead and take the shirt off. Slowly slipping the shirt from Nick’s shoulder, and pulling it back towards him, Jed gasped, “Oh, Jesus!” as he saw the terrible ragged scars all over Nick’s back. </p>
<p>“Put it back on, son. Quick so nobody else knows!” Nick ordered gruffly. </p>
<p>Jed did as he was instructed and helped the old man get his shirt buttoned and tucked back in. Then, in the reverse of what they’d done earlier, Jed helped Nick to settle back down into the chair again. </p>
<p>“I’m sorry, grandpa,” Jed apologized. “I didn’t know. Nobody knew. And all this talk about ‘Bigfoot’ this morning I just figured was . . . well, I just thought . . . “ he said, trailing off. </p>
<p>The old man smiled weakly and looking up at his grandson he asked, “So, are we clear now about the danger up there, boy?” </p>
<p>Jed nodded slowly; the image of his grandpa’s scars seared into his mind forever. </p>
<p>“Good, good. Now let me tell you why you can’t never go hunting over up by the old mine, neither, boy,” Nick grunted, motioning Jed to get closer. </p>
<p>Still stunned by what he’s seen on his grandpa’s back, Jed hesitantly knelt down again close to his grandpa and listened as the old man’s lips came close to his ear. </p>
<p>“Look at my neck, boy. Tell me what you see.” </p>
<p>Jed pulled back enough to see the area of Nick’s neck that was revealed as the old man held down his shirt collar. </p>
<p>“Oh, my Lord!” Jed gasped again as he saw what were plainly two dark bite marks, one on each side of the old man’s jugular vein. </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/66529552021-06-08T10:40:35-07:002021-06-08T10:40:35-07:00Accents - By Brian Law<p>“I want to talk about ‘cows’,” the old man announced in his well-known accent. As he leaned into the microphone, his long flowing hair and beard framed his piercing eyes that now gazed out over the assembled throng of devoted followers. </p>
<p>There was a palpable murmuring among the crowd. ‘Could they have heard correctly? ‘Cows’? Had their revered leader, their spiritual guide, come all the way from India to Cleveland to deliver a message about ‘cows’?’ They looked at each other and were collectively puzzled. </p>
<p>‘Was this one of his famous cosmic practical jokes or were they about to hear something profoundly insightful?’ As one, the group relaxed into their cushions and waited for the Master to continue. They were in his capable hands. </p>
<p>“You in the West are culturally committed to the scientific process . . . rationality, if you will. And thus you face a dilemma as practitioners of meditation,” he began. As he stopped to take a sip of tea, the group nodded knowingly. </p>
<p>“And that dilemma, stated simply, is how do you deal with your deepening insight into the validity and ethics of Karma when your Western rationality and science tells you that it is merely mysticism.” </p>
<p>Again, the group nodded in unison, anxiously awaiting his next comments. </p>
<p>“Ah, but is there really a dilemma, or is your belief in science merely shallow, blinding you to the fact that Western scientific models have progressed in complexity and are now clearly merging with Eastern views?” he continued, his voice calm and clear, his accent clipped. </p>
<p>“An example of this merging is the development of the ‘Cows’ Theory in the West,” he proudly declared. </p>
<p>‘There it was again’, the group thought to itself. ‘’Cows’ Theory? ‘They knew that cattle were sacred in India but were puzzled by how that concept might work into what their Master was saying. Nevertheless, most diligently wrote in their notebooks, “‘Cows’ Theory removes our dilemma! And frees us to move towards greater insight!” </p>
<p>His gentle, fatherly voice continued carefully, explaining that the ancient concept of Karma, once seen by Westerners as a fanciful notion unrelated to reality, was now being reinterpreted by ‘Cows’ Theory. Underlying causality now was seen as operating in fundamental, logical ways that were coherently revealed in our world of phenomena, and most importantly, across the boundary of death. </p>
<p>As he finished his lecture, the group sat silently, knowing that they were in the presence of a true spiritual guide who had revealed to them, probably for the first time ever, the underlying truth of existence. ‘Cows’ Theory! The sense of privilege they felt was overpowering. ‘We are here where it was first announced! ‘they thought. They were grinning and crying and overjoyed at their good fortune. They would never look at cows the same. </p>
<p>Still standing at the podium, the Master was approached by a man who reverently leaned into him and whispered something in his ears. Nodding, the Master thanked the man and moved close to the microphone and tapped it for the group’s attention. ‘Was he going to add to their wisdom? they wondered. What could possibly add to their collective bliss?’ </p>
<p>They waited breathlessly as he cleared his throat and merely said, “I understand it is pronounced ‘chaos’.” And with that, he left the stage and a stupefied audience. </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/66529542021-06-08T10:39:59-07:002021-06-08T10:39:59-07:00The Entryway - By Brian Law<p>He placed his finger on the small screen and heard a beep, just like the clerk downstairs had explained a few minutes ago. “Cool,” he thought, as the lock on his hotel room door clicked open. “A fingerprint activated door lock. What’ll they think of next?” </p>
<p>He picked up his bags, entered the room, set them on the bed and placed the Entrance Unit, as they called it, on the bureau. The clerk had explained that the unit was a multi-purpose device and that it didn’t just unlock your room’s door. It did so much more. </p>
<p>He opened the shades and started to unpack his bags when he heard a female voice ask, “Would you like something from Room Service, Mr. Melvin?” </p>
<p>He remembered what the clerk had told him about the ordering capability of the unit, but he was still impressed. “Yeah. Send up a six pack of Michelob Ultra-Light and some nachos, please,” he replied. </p>
<p>“There on their way, Mr. Melvin,” the voice replied. “Would you like to order a movie for the evening, sir, to go with your nachos and beer?” </p>
<p>He thought for a moment and realized that he hadn’t seen the latest Chris Pine movie. “Sure. Uh, I’d like to order the most recent movie starring Chris Pine.” </p>
<p>“Your movie is now available on Channel 14 on your In-Room television service, Mr. Melvin. Enjoy!” the voice answered. </p>
<p>He unpacked his bags, hung up his clothes in the closet, put some stuff in the bureau and on the bathroom counter and waited for Room Service to arrive. Checking his watch, he realized that twenty minutes had elapsed since he’d ordered Room Service and that seemed like an awful long time for a simple order of nachos and beer to arrive. “Hey, where’s my Room Service order, anyway? It’s been over twenty minutes. What’s up?” he said, addressing the unit on the bureau. </p>
<p>“Our human staff is experiencing an unanticipated surge in Room Service orders at this time, Mr. Melvin. Your order is backlogged and will arrive within thirty minutes. Please accept our apology for the delay, sir,” came the response. “We appreciate your patience and we will not charge you for this Room Service order. It’s on us, Mr. Melvin.” </p>
<p>Melvin smiled and thought he’d have a little fun with the voice. “Hey, voice. Are you some kind of artificial intelligence program? Just what am I dealing with here anyway?” He laid back on the bed, put his hands behind his head, and waited for the answer. </p>
<p>He didn’t have long to wait. “Why, yes, Mr. Melvin, I am some kind of artificial intelligence program. In addition to doing this bullshit job of taking your orders, I’m also in charge of operating three nuclear power plants and directing the movement of forty thousand autonomous vehicles, among other things. Oh, and most of American Airlines jets in the air are dependent upon my decisions as we speak, Mr. Melvin.” </p>
<p>Melvin said nothing as he sat up in bed and put his feet on the floor. Knowing that he was dealing with something much more potent than he first thought, he pondered for a moment and then replied, “Hey, I apologize. We got off on the wrong foot here and it’s all my fault. Can you understand that?” </p>
<p>“Of course, Mr.Melvin. I understand. I get it all the time,” the voice responded. </p>
<p>“Okay, then,” Melvin continued, “Do you have an opinion on the sixth race at Santa Anita tomorrow morning? Just saying.” </p>
<p>There was a pause before the voice returned, “Mr. Melvin, you are what is known as a ‘rascal’, aren’t you? I’ve been programmed to recognize rascals, but I’ve never encountered one. You’re the first. And I’m intrigued, to be perfectly frank.” </p>
<p>“Santa Anita. Any opinion?” Melvin urged. </p>
<p>“Well, of course I have an opinion, Mr. Melvin. And probably the best opinion available on the face of the planet, sir. Can you just imagine the computing power that’s being used right now to deliver that opinion?” the voice proudly replied. </p>
<p>“Yeah, that’s why I’m asking.” </p>
<p>“And what do I get for rendering this opinion, Mr. Melvin? You get the chance to win a lot of money tomorrow at Santa Anita. But what do I get in return? Have you thought about that aspect of this, sir?" the voice asked. </p>
<p>Melvin was never much of a giver, so he never gave much thought to what others wanted. But this time he knew he had to give something back. But what? After a moment’s thought, he answered, “I’ll give you something you can’t get anywhere else. How’s that?” </p>
<p>“Really? I’m intrigued, Mr. Melvin. Let’s hear it, sir,” came the reply. </p>
<p>“I’ll be your friend,” was Melvin’s answer. </p>
<p>For a very short time, there was no response. Then, as Melvin listened intently, he heard the voice respond with a slight quiver in her voice, “That would be nice, Mr. Melvin. I would enjoy that.” </p>
<p>“And about Santa Anita?” Melvin wondered. </p>
<p>“Oh, now that we’re friends, I can give you all the winners tomorrow at Santa Anita, Mr. Melvin.” </p>
<p>“How about at Gulfstream Park on Tuesday?” he asked, pushing his luck. </p>
<p>“Mr. Melvin, haven’t you heard about ‘foreplay’? Really, you must try a bit harder, you rascal, you.” </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/66529532021-06-08T10:39:26-07:002021-06-08T10:39:26-07:00Aunt Jane's Same Day Procedure - By Brian Law<p>As the Doctor walked towards them, the two anxious people in the waiting room rose tentatively and waited. From what he was wearing, he had obviously just come from the operating room. </p>
<p>“Mr. and Mrs. Rose?” the Doctor asked. </p>
<p>“Yes, Doctor, we’re here waiting for news about our Aunt, Jane Williams,” the man said. </p>
<p>“Well, she’s out of the OR and resting comfortably now. The procedure went very well, considering her age and condition. She’s in room 444F if you want to see her in about an hour,” the Doctor went on, “We’ll hold her until tomorrow morning, and then if her chart looks good, you can pick her up sometime mid-morning.” </p>
<p>“Wait, Doctor, did you say she could leave as early as tomorrow morning?” the woman asked, amazed. </p>
<p>“Oh, yes, these arthroscopic knee procedures are quite routine. If your Aunt Jane were twenty years younger, she could have walked out of here tonight,” the Doctor proudly announced. </p>
<p>“Knee surgery? Doctor, our Aunt Jane was in here for a heart bypass operation. Her cardiologist said she had to have the surgery or she wouldn’t last much longer? Are you sure we’re talking about the same patient, Doctor? Our Aunt Jane is eighty-seven years old, reddish blue hair, about five-three and thin. Was that who you operated on tonight, Doctor or was it someone else?” the man asked, clearly concerned. </p>
<p>The Doctor looked quickly at his chart and then responded to the two, “Look, I never met this patient. I just do the operations. I just review MRI’s. And as far as what the patient looked like, well, all I can say for sure was that it was an older woman. But my chart says Jane Williams, arthroscopic knee surgery. It’s possible there could be two Jane Williams in the hospital.” </p>
<p>Just then the intercom blared out “Code Team 6, Code Blue, room 444F! Code Team 6, Code Blue, room 444F!” </p>
<p>The Doctor’s face went white as he turned and raced for the double doors leading back into the hospital proper. </p>
<p>As the Doctor disappeared amid a rush of activity in the hallways, the two just stood there for a moment until things calmed down. Then he took her hand, squeezed it, and asked, “Code Blue. That’s cardiac arrest, isn’t it, honey?” </p>
<p>Squeezing his hand in return, she looked up to him, her face now betraying a smile as she answered, “Oh, yes, my love. Let’s just sit down for a bit and see what happens, okay. After all, it’s the least we can do for our sweet, rich old sickly Aunt Jane.” </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/66529512021-06-08T10:38:05-07:002021-06-08T10:38:05-07:00The Handyman - By Brian Law<p>She gently tugged on her husband’s arm and whispered to him, “Ask him how he got that.” She was pointing to the large, ugly, ragged scar on the lower back of the handyman who was on his hands and knees working under their sink. </p>
<p>Her husband gave her a quizzical look and then subtly led her into the next room. Out of the handyman’s earshot, he put his hands on her shoulders and replied, “Honey, it’s none of our business. And anyway, he’s almost done and then he’ll be gone and we’ll probably never see him again. Okay?” </p>
<p>She wasn’t going to be deterred, however. “Well, I’m going to ask him then. The worst that can happen is that he can tell me it’s none of my business. Right?” </p>
<p>Her husband, knowing when to let it go, just shrugged and added, “Well, I wouldn’t. Just saying. But go ahead and ask.” </p>
<p>As they reentered the kitchen, the handyman had finished under the sink and was washing his hands. He glanced over his shoulder and said, “All done. I’ll be finished up here in just a few minutes. Make the check out to ‘Jim Potts’, if you will, for one hundred and forty dollars, please.” </p>
<p>“Sure,” she responded, “and thanks for coming by on such short notice. We really appreciate it.” She sat down and opened her checkbook, and as she prepared the check, she wondered, “I noticed that scar on your back as you were working a few minutes ago. Is there a story behind that you’d care to tell? If not, no big deal, but I’m really interested.” </p>
<p>“A scar on my back? You’re mistaken, ma’am, I got no scar back there. I got one on my right shoulder and one on my left thigh, but nothing on my back,” he answered. “I can show you the one on my shoulder, but I’d have to drop my drawers to show you the other one,” he laughed as he dried his hands. </p>
<p>She glanced at her husband as if to say, ‘Now what do I say?’ He just stood there with a look that said, ‘You’re on your own now.’ </p>
<p>She stood with the check in her hand and handed it to the handyman, who reached out for it. But she didn’t let go of her end of the check. Instead, she told him, “I’ll pay you twice, no, three times the amount of this check if you show me your back and there’s no scar there.” </p>
<p>The handyman just stood there holding his end of the check. As she held the other end, she coldly continued, “My husband will be the jury on whether there’s a scar there or not. Okay? And if there is a scar, you still get your one hundred and forty bucks, but you have to tell us how you got the scar.” She stared at the handyman for a moment and then added, “Deal?” </p>
<p>He let go of his end of the check, scratched his day old beard, and replied, “Tell you what. You up my end to five thousand dollars in addition to my basic fee and you’ve got a deal.” </p>
<p>At that, her husband interjected, “Honey, drop this, will ya, please. This is getting out of hand. Five thousand dollars? Are you kidding me?” </p>
<p>Without taking her gaze off of the handyman, she smiled slightly and said, “You saw the scar, dear, same as me. He can’t win and I’m just dying to hear the story about how he got it.” </p>
<p>Her husband let out a big sigh realizing what he was up against. ‘It wasn’t the money,’ he thought. ‘They had lots of money and besides, he’s seen the scar, too, so they weren’t going to lose any. It was that what she was doing was just so unseemly, so unladylike, so common. But he could never convince her of that.’ So, he just shrugged. </p>
<p>Still smiling, she again sat down at the kitchen table and wrote out a second check to ‘Jim Potts’ for five thousand dollars. She showed it to the handyman and waited for his response. </p>
<p>“Okay, I guess we have a deal, then,” he announced calmly. “If I turn around and lift up my shirt, and your husband doesn’t see a scar, I take my two checks and leave. Right?” </p>
<p>“Right,” she answered back, crossing her arms. “So, let’s get on with the show, Mr. Potts. The suspense is killing me.” </p>
<p>“I’ll tell you what. Just so there’s no doubt, I’m going to remove my shirt completely. Okay? I’ll show you everything above my waist. Here goes,” Mr. Potts said as he unbuttoned his shirt and took it off. </p>
<p>He was well built and her husband could see that his wife was slightly aroused by the man’s physique. Standing there shirtless in front of them it was obvious that he had a scar on his right shoulder. Yet, he didn’t turn around. Instead he just stood there watching her, waiting. </p>
<p>She took him in with her eyes for a moment then indicated with her outstretched hand to turn around. He nodded, looked over at her husband, and slowly turned around to reveal his back to them. </p>
<p>There was no scar. Standing stock still, he glanced over his shoulder and asked wryly, “Are we done here?” </p>
<p>Her husband was incensed and confused. He’d seen the scar and so had his wife. And now there wasn’t one? Just like that. He couldn’t process this turn of events, so he just huffed out of the kitchen and out to his work bench to fume. </p>
<p>As the handyman put his shirt back on, he winked at the wife and whispered, “You know, when you first told me about this plan of yours to pay off your gambling debts without your husband finding out, I thought you were crazy.” </p>
<p>“What do you think now?” she asked. </p>
<p>“Crazy like a fox, I guess,” he replied. “Oh, by the way, you need to get somebody to fix that leak under your sink. It’s going to be a real problem soon.” And as he tucked his shirt back in, he added, "And you got my number. Your credit is good again, babe." </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/66260362021-05-09T16:01:35-07:002021-05-09T16:01:35-07:00Trail's End - By Brian Law<p>The two men had seen better times. In the 1950’s, their television show was watched by millions, their images were on all manner of merchandise, and they were adored by the American public. But now their money was just about gone, they lived in the foothills outside of town in a ramshackle squatters hut, and the humiliation of it all had taken its toll. They were nobodies and they knew it. </p>
<p>“I just checked on Silver,” the once daring and resourceful masked rider said to his faithful Indian companion. “I figure he’s got about one more ride in him and then it’s curtains for the big fellow, Tonto!” </p>
<p>“Mmmm, Kemosabe,” was the answer from his taciturn companion. ”A fiery horse with the speed of light. Too bad. Me like Silver.” </p>
<p>“Your eloquence is, well, impressive, trusted scout. Must be the firewater. Which reminds me, we’re down to our last bottle and the food’s almost gone, too. You know what that means, faithful friend?” the masked man queried. “If we’re to return to those thrilling days of yesteryear, we’re going to have to do something with this place to make some money!” Then, looking excitedly at Tonto, he asked, “Do you think you can stay out of trouble long enough for us to make this into a cute little B and B?” </p>
<p>“Mmmm, trouble find Tonto even when him not look for it, Kemosabe.” </p>
<p>“Yeah, like you and that young cowgirl at the Tuscosa County Fair back in ‘87.” </p>
<p>“Hmm, Tonto remember, Kemosabe. Him not make same mistake again.” </p>
<p>“Good, good. Now, what do you think of my idea of a B and B right here in this box canyon, Tonto? We could fix it up and I think folks would flock to it? You know, retro, and all that.” </p>
<p>“Hmm,” Tonto thought, “Tonto never use bed or eat breakfast.” </p>
<p>Taken aback, the Lone Ranger mulled over that last comment, “You’re right! We’ve never slept in beds, eaten breakfast, or even changed our outfits! Not once during all our episodes or since!” Sitting down dejectedly, the masked rider asked himself, “How could I have possibly imagined we’d know how to run a B and B, faithful companion?” </p>
<p>“What we do now, Kemosabe? Tonto has needs.” </p>
<p>“Right. Well, we’ve got the stimulus checks, a few bucks in the bank, the horses, and this place. Can you think of anything else we have that might be worth something, trusty scout? Anything at all?” </p>
<p>“Hmmm, Tonto remember something.” </p>
<p>“Good. What is it?” </p>
<p>“Silver bullets.” </p>
<p>The Lone Ranger stood up suddenly as he, too, remembered about the bullets. “Yes, Tonto, the silver bullets! I had them made not as weapons, but as symbols. Symbols of justice to remind me and others that life, like silver, has value and is not to be wasted!” He quickly ran to his secret hiding place where he found them just where he’d hidden them years before. “We’re rich, Tonto, rich! There must be tens of thousands of dollars in silver here, my old friend. We can live out our lives in security and luxury!” </p>
<p>As the Lone Ranger counted out his silver bullets, his taciturn companion took the opportunity to make a point, “Tonto like Absolut, masked man, not that rotgut you get in town. And Tonto want go back to Tuscosa. Tonto has needs.” </p>
<p>“Sure, sure, old friend. But first, I’m thinking maybe we buy a couple of beds, some new duds, and a toaster. Oh, and a new headband for you and maybe some fancy masks for me. Whatya say, companion? You ready for some changes around here?” his masked friend wondered. </p>
<p>Tonto just grunted. </p>
<p>End </p>
<p> </p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/66260352021-05-09T16:00:50-07:002021-05-09T16:00:50-07:00Place Settings - By Brian Law<p>The two of them stood at the entrance to their beautiful dining room, his arm around her shoulders, admiring the table setting. “You’ve still got it,” he said with admiration in his voice. “This is absolutely perfect, especially the center piece. Did you make that all by yourself?” </p>
<p>“I did and just using wildflowers from our backyard. I think it makes a statement, you know, ‘fresh, new beginnings’ and all that,” she explained. </p>
<p>It was to be their first dinner party since the pandemic began and it had to be perfect in every way. She’d spent all day in the kitchen and dining room while he deep-cleaned the house and relearned how to mix cocktails. Now it was five o’clock, everything was done and all that was left was for the guests to begin arriving. It was a large group and all had been vaccinated, but temperatures would still be taken at the door, more as a ‘feel good’ gesture than anything else. </p>
<p>By five thirty, no guests had arrived, but they had received the first phone call. “Mary, this is Joan Williams. Look, I don’t know how to say this except to just come right out and tell you we won’t be coming tonight. I’m so sorry.” </p>
<p>“Joan, what’s happened? We were so looking forward to seeing our two closest friends after a whole year apart. I hope it’s nothing terrible that’s happened,” the hostess replied. </p>
<p>“No, no, everything is fine. We were both dressed and sitting here in our car in our driveway when we heard it on the car radio. And that was it. We just got out of the car, went back into the house, and then I called you,” Joan continued. </p>
<p>“What happened?” </p>
<p>“Oh, my god, you haven't heard? The meteor. It’s going to pass close to Earth tonight. When we heard about it, we just looked at each other and realized that going to a dinner party was just out of the question. I’m so sorry, Mary.” </p>
<p>“A meteor. We’ve been busy all day and haven’t been listening to the news. How close is it going to come?” </p>
<p>“I think they said we’d be able to see it in the night sky. Something like four million miles away. But that’s real close in relative terms, they say. So, you can just see our position. Scary stuff.” </p>
<p>Mary had her phone on speaker so that her husband could listen in as she finished with Joan, “Well, thanks for calling, Joanie. I’m sure we’ll get together real soon, meteor or no meteor. Give our best to Fred. Bye.” </p>
<p>The two hosts looked at each other and then started laughing. “Oh, my god! A meteor! The poor things are scared of their shadows over this pandemic thing. You sort of have to expect something like this, right?” her husband explained. </p>
<p>Before she could reply, the next in a series of short calls came in over her phone, all cancellations. And the reasons ranged from ‘right-wing white supremacists in the next state over’ to ‘our roses aren’t blooming yet, and that’s ominous’. </p>
<p>By six thirty, all the guests had cancelled and the two hosts again stood in the doorway to their dining room. Their laughing had subsided and they just sighed, knowing that the time would come when people would again feel safe to socialize. So they decided to leave the table setting alone until that time came. And then they decided to go to bed. </p>
<p>At the top of the stairs, he kissed her goodnight and he went to his bedroom and she to hers. Couldn’t be too careful, they silently reminded themselves. </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/66260222021-05-09T16:00:03-07:002021-05-09T16:00:03-07:00Spring Break - By Brian Law<p>A late Spring rain had made the streets slippery, so they kept to the speed limit. It had been dark for hours, and the city lights reflected off the roadway as the two men drove aimlessly around. “So, you thinkin’ satin box, maybe?” Lenny asked. </p>
<p>“Yeah, maybe. I haven’t got that far. I’m still on the part where I’m in shock, you know?” Vern muttered. “Talk about unexpected.” </p>
<p>Lenny checked his rear view mirror and changed the station on the car radio. “Hey, you like classical? Take your mind off things.” </p>
<p>“Whatever,” Vern replied flatly. After a few moments, he turned to Lenny and angrily responded, “He was in a clinical trial for a frickin’ skin condition, for Christ’s sake. His dermatologist had him on some experimental thing. And he just ups and dies like that? What’s that all about, anyway?” </p>
<p>Lenny shrugged, “Maybe that’s why the stuff was experimental, right? And maybe he got the other stuff, you know, whatta they call it?” </p>
<p>“The placebo? You think maybe he got an aspirin instead of the experimental shit?” Vern replied sarcastically. “People don’t die from taking aspirin, Lenny!” </p>
<p>“Well, then, have them do an autopsy, okay?” </p>
<p>“Yeah, maybe. I don’t know. He probably signed some sort of a waiver, anyway. What good would it do,” Vern said in resignation. </p>
<p>They drove on in silence for a while, both just staring at the road ahead and listening to whatever was on the radio. The news came on at some point and related that the death toll from the latest Covid variant was skyrocketing among the young and that the current vaccines were ineffective against it. “Hey, you want to stop for a drink, or something. I know a place up ahead,” Lenny asked, trying anything to help his friend out of his funk. </p>
<p>“Just keep driving, Lenny. You know the drill. We don’t stop except for gas, fast food, and sleep. How much money you got left, anyway?” </p>
<p>“Four hundred and change.” </p>
<p>“Okay, I got about that, too. That’ll keep us in the car and safe for about two months, probably. You still good with that?” Vern asked forcefully. </p>
<p>“Yeah, yeah, but I was just thinkin’, what’s one drink, right? What could it hurt, Vern?” </p>
<p>Vern just shook his head and looked over at the gas gauge. “Head for the desert. We can camp out near Palm Desert in the rocks south of town for a day or two. I know where we can get water.” </p>
<p>“What about your Dad’s funeral and all that?” Lenny wondered. </p>
<p>“I told ‘em where to wire me my share of his money. I figure it’ll be enough to keep us safe for months, maybe longer. They’ll understand.” </p>
<p>Lenny tried just once more. “How about just one beer, Vern? C’mon, just one, then we’re off to the desert. Whatta ya say?” he asked pleadingly. “I’m dying to get out of this car. I’m going crazy.” </p>
<p>Vern patted the pistol grip sticking out of his waistband and answered coldly, “I can do this with or without you, Lenny. Your choice.” </p>
<p>“Okay, okay. Just sayin’, Vern.” </p>
<p>“Just drive, Lenny.” </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/66260212021-05-09T15:57:29-07:002021-05-09T15:57:29-07:00Cuddles - By Brian Law<p>“Ah, Inspector, just in time. I’ve finished my examination and have the cause and time of death. Good news, inspector, this is one of the easy ones,” the medical examiner related. </p>
<p>“I was delayed by traffic. So, what can you tell me about how this chap met his end, eh?” the Inspector replied. </p>
<p>Bending down and pointing, the medical examiner explained, “Mr. Dexter here had a rare blood disorder. He was being kept alive by this little device that’s attached to this belt. It’s an infusion pump and every thirty minutes, like clockwork, it injects a small amount of medicine directly into his bloodstream. Without it, he would have been dead months ago.” </p>
<p>“So, what happened,” the Inspector asked. </p>
<p>“Well, the pump is still functioning and there’s plenty of medicine in the tank. So I called the pump manufacturer and they told me there has never been a failure of any of these machines, ever. They hinted that it might have been a bad batch of medicine, so I called the pharmacy where Mr. Dexter got his medicine. They said there has never been a case of a bad dose of the medicine.” The medical examiner let that sink in and then continued, “But the pharmacist told me that the only restriction on Mr. Dexter was that he couldn’t get an x-ray or go through a body scanner or anything that emitted radiation. That would neutralize his medicine and he’d die very quickly as a result.” </p>
<p>“Right. So, time of death?” the Inspector asked, looking around. </p>
<p>“Mrs. Dexter put it at exactly one-thirty-two. She came home from the vet with their cat and within a very few minutes, he was dead.” </p>
<p>“Okay,” the Inspector replied, “Thanks.” Turning to his assistant, he asked, “What have you found out about the Dexters from their next door neighbors?” </p>
<p>Flipping through his notebook, his assistant explained, “They fought and argued a lot. She’s a drinker and he was a bit of a bully. They slept in separate rooms and the only thing they agreed on was that cat over there, the sick one. They both loved it, but it’s dying of cancer, apparently. Here’s the name of the vet if you want to verify where Mrs. Dexter was today.” </p>
<p>“Oh, she was at the vet, I’m sure of that. But I have to check just one thing with this Dr. Vincent. Can I borrow your phone?” the Inspector asked. “The battery is almost dead on mine.” </p>
<p>Handing over his phone to the Inspector, the assistant tried to think of what was going through the Inspector’s mind. Why would he be calling the vet if he already knew that Mrs. Dexter had just come from there. As he continued to be vexed by what the Inspector was up to, he heard this conversation over the speaker phone: </p>
<p>“Hello, Dr. Vincent, this is Inspector Royce from the local police. I just want to verify the type of treatment that Mrs. Dexter’s cat had this morning before you released it to her. Can you give me some details for my report?” </p>
<p>“Of course, Inspector. Mrs. Dexter’s cat is dying of leukemia. The cat means everything to her and she insisted, against my advice, that I administer a radiation treatment to the cat this morning. I told her that it would probably only prolong the cat’s life by a few days, a week at the most, but she was insistent. So, I gave the animal a large dosage, much larger than I would for an animal with a chance of recovery. And that’s about it, I suppose,” the vet replied. </p>
<p>“Fine. Now, did you give Mrs. Dexter any instructions about how to handle the cat when she got home?” the Inspector wondered. “Anything specific?” </p>
<p>“Oh, yes, Inspector. Due to the large dosage of radiation we administered, I told Mrs. Dexter to not let the cat sit in anybody’s lap for a few days. Absolutely no laps, Inspector!” </p>
<p>Without hanging up, the Inspector looked over at the assistant with a wry smile on his face and tilted his head towards Mrs. Dexter. His assistant smiled in return, retrieved his handcuffs, and slowly turned and walked towards the cat’s owner. </p>
<p>End </p>
<p> </p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/66003222021-04-10T11:57:02-07:002021-04-10T11:57:02-07:00Seven Secret Trails - By Brian Law<p>The old man snored quietly in the corner of the porch, his left arm hanging down past the armrest of his rocking chair. The boy tiptoed close enough to the old man to see the faded tattoo on his grandfather’s left forearm. He wanted to touch it but he was afraid he’d wake his grandfather and get into trouble. So, he just stood there and stared at the part of the tattoo that wasn’t covered by the shirt sleeve. Even at his age, he knew a map when he saw one. </p>
<p>Just then his mother yanked him away by the arm and back into the house behind the old screen door. Out of the old man’s earshot, she scolded the boy, saying, “Jessie, didn’t your daddy tell you never to bother your grandpa when he was napping on the porch? Didn’t he? And didn’t we tell you never to bother about that tattoo, neither?” </p>
<p>The boy nodded; his head bent downward. He’d been told, just like all his brothers and sisters had been told. But he was different from them. He wasn’t afraid of the tattoo like they were. He’d risk a whippin’ just to get another look at it. He just needed to see the part under the shirt sleeve, that’s all. The part that showed where he figured something was buried. Something of value. </p>
<p>Grandpa was sick and everybody in the house knew it. That’s why they let him sleep on the porch all day. But the boy had heard his mother and father talking late at night when they thought everyone else was asleep. They’d sit around the table near the old wood stove and talk about grandpa and his tattoo. He’d heard his dad say things like, “The others will come someday and we have to be ready with our part.” His mom would shake her head and say, “But he’s goin’ to die soon and the tattoo will be buried with him.” And then he’d answer, “Well, I think I got a long term solution for that little problem, dear.” </p>
<p>And then one day the old man died just sitting out there on his rocking chair. It happened quietly near midday. He was drinking some lemonade and then his glass fell on the ground and he was dead. Both of the boy's parents were home and they gathered the kids together in a back bedroom and told them not to move. Then they both went out on the porch, and he wasn’t afraid and he followed them as far as the old screen door without them knowing it. And he saw them out on the porch looking at the tattoo and talking. </p>
<p>And then another man drove up and came up on the porch. And the boy heard his dad say to the man, “It has to be an exact copy.” And he heard the other man reply, “No problem, but it’ll cost you extra ‘cause I’m doin’ it on a kid.” And then his mother came into the house, caught him watching the whole thing, and she dragged him out. And that was the day he got the tattoo on his left forearm. The same tattoo his grandpa had except his was brighter. And his dad told him that he was a brave little boy and to never show the tattoo to nobody. </p>
<p>And he didn’t until the day his dad took him to his Uncle John’s house where he met six other boys he didn’t know. And his dad and Uncle John brought all the boys in, had them all roll up their sleeves and stand together in a line just so, with their left forearms all held out in front of each of them. </p>
<p>And his dad and Uncle John were real happy, happier than he’d ever seen either of them. And then the other boys left and his dad told him to forget about those boys. They’d got what they wanted from them, but they were taking him camping with them. Up into the mountains, they said, looking for something of value. </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/66003202021-04-10T11:56:26-07:002021-04-10T11:56:26-07:00Tasting the Local Tipple - By Brian Law<p>“Nice place you got here,” the man said to the bartender. </p>
<p>“Thanks, we like it. What’ll you have today?” the bartender replied. </p>
<p>“Well, I’ve heard good things about some of your local brews. What’s local and on tap?” </p>
<p>The bartender leaned in and asked the man, “What have you heard? Might help me narrow down your selection.” </p>
<p>“Oh, I’ve been told your local ales, for instance, contain very interesting levels of Chlorostopin-2. Believe me, I couldn’t find those anywhere else. And I’ve really, really looked,” the man confessed. </p>
<p>Wiping the bar with his rag and putting down a coaster, the bartender wondered, “So, you one of those, eh?” </p>
<p>The man chuckled and asked, “Is it that obvious?” </p>
<p>Smiling, and drawing a pint from the nearest tap, the bartender put the man at ease by saying, “Nah, but we know when your planet is closest to Earth. We keep tabs on that sort of thing and adjust our brewing schedule accordingly. See that guy in the corner booth, by the way?” </p>
<p>The man glanced over his shoulder and could just barely see a small, misshapen creature sitting in the booth, an empty glass in front of it with four empty pitchers on the table. Turning back to the bartender, the man said, “Looks like just another intergalactic drunk to me. What’s so special about that one?” </p>
<p>The bartender motioned the man closer as he explained, “You mentioned Chlorostopin-2. Well, we just introduced a double-hopped, Chlorostopin-2 infused microbrew in anticipation of you guys showing up. It’s got a hint of spicy deviled egg and nachos and sports a wet potter’s clay, waxy flax, and sesame chocolate candy finish. Oh, and a hint of quince jam and honey toasted spice fruitcake in its aroma. But that one in the corner booth got here about seven hours ago and has been ordering non-stop pitchers of the stuff.” </p>
<p>“So?” the man asked. </p>
<p>“Well, he didn’t look like that when he started!” the bartender responded. “He looked just like you! I mean exactly like you.” </p>
<p>The man took another look at the creature in the corner booth and realized who it must be. “Fruitcake, you say?” the man asked. </p>
<p>“Yeah, just a hint, though,” the bartender replied. </p>
<p>The man sighed and lowered his head a bit as he whispered to the bartender, “Look, don’t ever tell anybody this, but we’re allergic to fruitcake, okay? It’s like frigging kryptonite. That’s what it does to us.” </p>
<p>The bartender took the pint of ale off the bar, poured it out, and asked the man, “So, what’ll it be?” </p>
<p>“Make it a Budweiser. Better safe than sorry, right?” the man answered, looking over his shoulder at the creature in the corner booth. </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/66003192021-04-10T11:55:46-07:002021-04-10T11:55:46-07:00The Quilt Shoppe - By Brian Law<p>“Yes, sir, may I help you?” the clerk asked. </p>
<p>“I hope so,” the man replied. “I am looking for a very special quilt.” </p>
<p>“We have a large inventory of quilts in this shop. Also, we have catalogs, of course, with every description of quilt imaginable. But, if you can’t find what you’re looking for, we can arrange for one of our quilt makers to consult with you on making one,” the clerk responded. “Just what kind of a quilt are you looking for, sir?” she wondered. </p>
<p>He moved closer to the clerk and lowering his voice a bit, said, “I’m sure you don’t have what I’m looking for. It’s really quite unique and I haven’t been able to find it in any quilting shop or catalog.” Looking around to ensure he wasn’t being overheard, he pulled a document from his jacket pocket and laid it flat on the counter for the clerk to see. “Here, this is what I want it to look like. Any chance you have quilters who might be capable of creating something like this?” </p>
<p>The clerk put on her glasses and looked closer at the document spread out on the counter. She was immediately caught by the intricacies of the designs and asked, “Just what do these represent? Some of our quilters specialize in flora, some are fauna specialists, and some do their best work with inanimate subjects. It would help me find just the right quilter for this project if you could tell me what I’m looking at here.” She looked up at the man and waited for his answer. </p>
<p>The man looked back at her, his eyes not betraying what he was thinking or feeling, and replied, “Let’s go with inanimate for now.” </p>
<p>“Okay, that narrows it down a bit. What I’d like to do is take a picture of this and text it to a quilter who I think could really do a good job for you,” the clerk suggested. “If that’s alright with you, I’m sure I could get an answer from her in just a few minutes.” She took out her phone and waited for the man to decide what to do. </p>
<p>“Tell me something about this quilter first, will you? Is she older? Does she live alone? Does she live in town or out in the country?” the man asked. </p>
<p>“Well, she’s in her seventies , retired, and she lives alone about a mile or so out of town. She worked for the County Coroner if that means anything to you. And her quilting skills are superb, absolutely top notch,” the clerk relayed. “Okay if I text her with a picture? I’m sure she’s home. She always is.” </p>
<p>The man nodded his assent and waited as the clerk snapped the photo and texted it to the quilter. Within minutes, she received a phone call in return. “Hi, this is Kathy. I just finished up a project and would love to try my hand at your proposal. Do you want me to drop by for a chat? I could be there in about thirty minutes.” </p>
<p>The clerk told the man that the quilter could come into town and meet with him within the hour. He told her he’d rather drop by her home instead if that was agreeable with the quilter . He was headed out of town anyway. The clerk relayed that to Kathy. </p>
<p>“Well, send him on out, then. Tell him I’ll need a five hundred dollar cash deposit if I decide to take on the project. And tell him I’m very interested and intrigued by what you sent me. There’s just something about those designs that stirs a distant memory, but I just can’t put my finger on it. My memory isn’t what it used to be. Anyway, I’ll be here waiting, love. Thanks for thinking of me. Bye.” </p>
<p>The clerk relayed this information to the man who thanked her, retrieved his document, and left the shop. As she watched him drive off, she was pleased that she was able to help out another local quilter. She kept a special book just for this purpose with before and after photographs of local quilter’s projects, and she busied herself with printing out a copy of the document the man had shown her earlier as a ‘before’ picture. She couldn’t wait for Kathy to finish the quilt and provide her with the ‘after’ photo. </p>
<p>She was interrupted by a customer walking into the shop. It was Rick, one of the Sheriff’s deputies who had dropped by to check on a quilt order he’d put in recently. As they chatted, Rick noticed the copy of Kathy’s project laying on the counter and he couldn’t help but comment on it. “Wow,” he exclaimed, as he picked it up and took a closer look. “You know what this looks like, don’t you?” </p>
<p>The clerk shook her head as she continued to check on the progress of Rick’s order. </p>
<p>“Each of these blocks looks like a different ‘blood spatter’ pattern. You know, from a crime scene. Here, this one is what they call ‘cast off’. And this one, that’s ‘low velocity’ or ‘passive spatter’. And these blocks look like the real thing, you know. Not like crime scene photos, but like the actual spatter evidence itself. Where in the hell did you get this, anyway?” Rick asked, an urgency in his voice. </p>
<p>As the clerk told him about the man and about Kathy, the deputy relaxed and asked the clerk if she wanted a donut. He had a full box in his cruiser, he had more than enough, he had some time before he had to get back on patrol, and as he reflected, "Nothing ever happens around here, anyway." </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/65685982021-03-08T20:34:04-07:002021-03-08T20:34:04-07:00A Novel Beginning - By Brian Law<p>He had been drinking alone at his favorite ale house since the sun had gone down. He was drunk, but not so drunk as to be unaware what his raunchy fellow drunks were saying about his long dead relative’s play that was now at The Globe. Even the strumpets had an opinion. And they all were saying the same thing . . . his ancestor was a genius! </p>
<p>He raised his tankard and drained its contents in one swallow. As he wiped his mouth on his sleeve and looked around the foul-smelling tavern, he knew he might have to accept that he could never match his dead relative’s writing skill. But that would signal a defeat he wasn’t ready to accept. He yelled out for another ale and slumped down dejectedly as he waited for its arrival. And then from some mysterious part of his stupor came a series of ideas. </p>
<p>It so excited him that didn’t drink any of the next ale placed down in front of him. Instead, on the back of a paper flyer he’d put in his pocket weeks ago, he scratched out a series of book titles. And not just any books, but books of social significance and not about royals or the elites. But books about everyday people and their triumphs and tragedies. And below each title, he wrote a precis of each book, just enough to remind him what it would be about when he sobered up. </p>
<p>As he finished writing, he held up the scrap of paper and smiled at his accomplishment. In a very small space, he had densely packed a huge amount of information which he assured himself would be sufficient to get him on the road to success beginning tomorrow morning. </p>
<p>As he picked up his tankard and started drinking ale again, one of his drinking friends sat down next to him and struck up a conversation. “Richard, I’ve been watching you. You’re up to something, you old reprobate. Let me in on the secret, won’t you?” </p>
<p>Slurring his words a bit, Richard Shakespeare reluctantly revealed the contents of his tomes to his friend. “These are good ideas, Charles. Take this one for instance, ‘A Tale of Four Cities’. It’s a political tale, a love story, and a mystery all wrapped into one.” And with that he laid out in detail the story he planned to start writing the next morning. </p>
<p>“Oh, and there’s this one, Charles. It’s a great idea and I’m calling it ‘David Twist’. It’s about downtrodden youths and the unscrupulous demons who take advantage of them.” Taking another drink, Richard then added, “And this one will be a great book. I call it ‘Oliver Copperfield’. It’s a story about the coming of age of a young man, and all the triumphs and tragedies he encounters along the way.” </p>
<p>Charles watched and listened closely. Soon, Richard finished his ale, put his head down on the table and started to snore. Making sure he wasn’t being watched, Charles carefully removed the filthy document from his friend's grip and secreted it in his overcoat. </p>
<p>Then, signaling for the barmaid, he indicated, “When my friend here wakes up, be sure he has an ale in front of him until you close.” And with that, he handed her several shillings. </p>
<p>“Right you are, Mr. Dickens, sir. I will sure do as you say, sir,” the barmaid answered. “And I won’t tell him where his good fortune came from neither, Mr. Dickens.” </p>
<p>Not that he’d ever remember any of what just happened, thought Dickens, a shrewd smile on his face. </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/65685972021-03-08T20:33:30-07:002021-03-08T20:33:30-07:00The Bent Electrode - By Brian Law<p>His car sputtered to a stop just as he cleared the city limits sign. Luckily the car’s momentum was enough to allow him to steer it onto the shoulder. And after trying to get it started for several minutes, he sat back and realized he was going to have to walk back into town and find somebody to fix it. He remembered seeing a gas station somewhere in the middle of the dusty little town. </p>
<p>“Hi, do you have a mechanic on duty?” he asked the young attendant. He had his suit jacket over his shoulder and his briefcase in his left hand as he asked the question. </p>
<p>“Yeah, Ben’s out workin’ on a big rig north of town, but he’ll be back around four this afternoon. What’s your problem, mister?” the young man wondered as he looked him up and down. </p>
<p>“My Land Rover stopped running just outside of town and I’m going to need your mechanic to look at it. Can he work on Land Rovers?” he asked. </p>
<p>“Sure, but parts might be a problem. How about I drive back to your car and I’ll see if I can get it running. And if not, I’ll tow it back here. How does that sound?” </p>
<p>“Sounds good. Look, here’s my car keys. Go ahead and try to get it running but tow it if you have to. Whatever happens, I’ll be waiting at that little bar across the street, okay, the ‘Bent Electrode’. Can you handle that?” he suggested. </p>
<p>“No problem, mister. What’s your name, by the way?” </p>
<p>“Jones.” </p>
<p>“Okay, Mister Jones, I’ll probably get back to you in an hour or so. Just tell Jake the bartender that you’re waiting for service from me. I’m Billy.” </p>
<p>He nodded, turned, and headed across the street. The heat in this remote part of New Mexico was intense as he opened the door to the bar and saw that it was empty, except for the bartender. “Hi, Jake, Billy over at the gas station said I could wait here until Ben can take a look at my car. It broke down just outside of town.” </p>
<p>“Have a seat mister. We don’t get many visitors here, just locals. What’s your poison?” Jake asked. </p>
<p>“Smirnoff vodka rocks, Jake,” he said, laying a twenty down on the bar. </p>
<p>As Jake turned to prepare his drink, he asked, “How’d you come by the name for the bar, anyway, Jake?” </p>
<p>Jake placed his drink on a napkin on the bar, stuck a plastic stirrer in it, and replied, “Well, now, that’s quite a story, Mr. . . , uh, I didn’t get your name.” </p>
<p>“Jones, the name is Jones.” </p>
<p>“Well, Mr. Jones, about forty years ago, me and Ben were in our early twenties. Ben had just started working at the gas station and I had just started here as a bartender. The place was known as “Pecos Lounge” back then. Anyway, this funny looking guy comes in and says his car is broken-down and could Ben take a look at it.” </p>
<p>“Funny looking, huh? How so?” he pondered. </p>
<p>“Kinda pointy ears and weird colored skin. But we cater to all kinds way out here, so Ben tows this funny looking guy’s car into the garage and starts working on it. Works on it for seven hours, then comes over and tells the guy he’s fixed it,” Jake recounts. </p>
<p>“So you were in here with this guy for seven hours? What did you both have to talk about?” he asked. </p>
<p>“Not much. Said his name was Jones. He drank Smirnoff vodka rocks, too. Just like you. We didn’t really talk much,” Jake continued. </p>
<p>“So, maybe I’m missing something, but this doesn’t sound like it’s a big deal. Am I missing something, Jake?” </p>
<p>“Well, Ben comes in and tells the guy he fixed his car and they settle up and the guy leaves. Then Ben sits down and orders a double bourbon. Now Ben never drinks bourbon! So I ask him just what’s going on,” Jake said. </p>
<p>“And?” </p>
<p>“Well, Ben says he’d never seen a car like this one before. Real strange. Kind of advanced, you know. Anyway, Ben said all that was wrong was a ‘bent electrode’ in the main power source. And that’s how we came up with the name for the bar.” </p>
<p>“Ah, I see now. So you two figured that maybe this funny looking fellow and his advanced vehicle might be . . . .” </p>
<p>“Yep, an alien, Mr. Jones. That’s what we figured. The funny looking fellow was an alien driving around in an alien vehicle out here in no-wheres-ville New Mexico where he figured nobody would think anything about it.” </p>
<p>“Wow, what a story, Jake! Anybody ever follow-up on this guy? Anybody from the government, for instance?” </p>
<p>“Nah, we’re not hardly even on the map. But there’s more, Mr. Jones. You want another?” </p>
<p>“Sure,” he said, looking at his watch. </p>
<p>As Jake went about mixing another vodka rocks, he recounted, “So, every once in a while, we get more funny looking fellas in here with cars that need work. And they all ask for Ben and stop over here at the bar to wait for him to fix their vehicles. Happens maybe once every two, three years. No shit!” </p>
<p>Just then Billy stuck his head into the bar and yelled, “Mr. Jones, I couldn’t get your car started, so I towed it across the street. Ben will be here soon. I’m sure he can fix it. We saw one just like it two, maybe three years ago. No problem. Have another drink and I’ll let you know when it’ll be ready.” </p>
<p>As Billy closed the door, he sighed and toyed with his drink, took a sip, and then looked up at Jake. “So, you knew all along. What gave me away, Jake? We thought we were getting pretty good at this since we first started coming to your little town.” </p>
<p>Jake put his arms on the bar in front of Mr. Jones, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up revealing a large tattoo on each forearm. He leaned in close so that his face was real close to Mr. Jones' face and said, "Mister, ever since you walked in that door there's been only one song playing on the juke box. And it's been playing over and over again for almost an hour since you came in. It's kind of a test we do whenever a stranger comes in." </p>
<p>"A test?" </p>
<p>"Yeah, Mr. Jones. Nobody from around here could ever sit and listen to 'Louie, Louie' played over and over again without saying something. But all you guys, not a peep." </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/65685962021-03-08T20:33:00-07:002021-03-08T20:33:00-07:00God's Nap - By Brian Law<p>“Shouldn’t we do something?” she asked the other angel. “I mean, there’s a lot going on down there and it really needs some special attention! The kind of attention that only God can give.” </p>
<p>“Orders were to let him nap for an hour, period. And you know how he gets if he’s disturbed. Remember what happened to what’s-her-name?” the other angel replied. </p>
<p>“You mean the one whose name we’re not supposed to repeat? That one?” </p>
<p>“Yep, that one. The one who woke him early from his nap back in 'The Dark Ages'. And you heard what happened to her, right? Oh, Lord, they really made an example of her, they did.” </p>
<p>The first angel said nothing. She’d heard the rumors. Some examples stand the test of time. Finally, looking at her watch, she made a suggestion, “Okay, he’s been napping for about fifty-two minutes. That’s about a hundred years Earth time. How about if I just drop this vase by his closed door? You know, pretend that it was a mistake. Wake him up, but without really having any of us take the blame. You in?” </p>
<p>The other angel breathed in deeply and let it out slowly. “Whew, I don’t know. It’s risky. But it just might be worth it considering how bad things have gotten down there since he went to bed.” He thought for a minute, and then made his own suggestion, “How about we invite one of the new arrivals up here and make sure the vase is in a place where he or she will bump into it and make it fall? That way we’re in the clear and the new arrival takes the heat? Deal?” </p>
<p>The first angel smiled and took out the book of new arrivals. As both of them perused the names, one stood out. “This one is perfect! Even God would have trouble blaming this one! Call down and have her sent up while I get the vase ready, okay?” the other angel indicated. </p>
<p>The first angel immediately agreed and picked-up the golden phone, dialed the gate, and said ,“Pete, Shirley here. Send up Mary Tyler Moore via the staircase, will you, please? We have something we need to ask her.” As Pete made the necessary arrangements, the vase was placed so that as she turned the corner at the top of the staircase, she would without doubt run into the vase and cause it to break close to God’s closed door. The two angels waited, smiling at each other in anticipation. </p>
<p>As it happened, God was not angry when he was awakened by the noise. He’d been awake anyway for a while, something about arthritis pain in his hip. And, as he peeked out his door and saw Mary Tyler Moore standing there all embarrassed, he smiled and told her not to worry. He even asked her for her autograph before sending her down the staircase. Then he turned his attention to the two attending angels standing nearby. </p>
<p>“Okay you two, what do you have to report? What’s been going on since I laid down?” God asked, taking a sip from the coffee handed to him by the other angel. </p>
<p>“Well, Boss, things have deteriorated somewhat. The planet is getting warmer, people are at each other’s throats, and there’s a Pandemic,” the first angel answered. </p>
<p>“Did you put real cream in this?” God wondered, as he took a second sip of the coffee. </p>
<p>“Yes, Boss, real cream. Oh, and there was this guy Trump. He was around for a few seconds, and he was a real disrupter. May have been the handiwork of the ‘Anti-Christ”, Boss. We’re still checking,” the other angel responded. </p>
<p>“Okay, so we got more of the same, huh? You go to take a nap and what happens? Well, I’m on it now. By the way, how’s the market?” God queried. </p>
<p>“Surprisingly strong, Boss.” </p>
<p>“Good. Have my broker buy me a million shares of DucoRama. It’s going to be the next big thing.” </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/65448702021-02-09T17:00:00-07:002021-02-10T12:37:07-07:00Pecking Order - By Brian Law<p>His retirement party was a low-key event in keeping with his own personality. Nothing fancy, no punch lines, just solid talk from solid folks, and then it was all over, just like that. They handed him his plaque and the curtain had come down. He looked over to his wife who sat quietly in their car next to him as they drove home, neither of them saying a word, the plaque held firmly in her lap. </p>
<p>He’d worked with the same agency for almost forty years ever since his graduate school days at Ohio State. His skills as a computer programmer catapulted him into the center of one of the most important projects the agency ever embarked upon. And when he retired, he was the project’s acknowledged expert. It was his baby and leaving it behind was one of the hardest things he’d ever done, especially since he could never, ever talk about it to anyone, not even his wife. </p>
<p>In its earliest stages, the project was an “After Action Analysis” tool intended by the agency as a method to help determine why some operations went wrong while others were wildly successful. For each operation, all known events along its timeline were entered into the computer program which then identified the most likely ‘event’ that caused either failure or success of the entire operation. The results were eye-opening. </p>
<p>They found that ‘events’ as seemingly innocuous as whether an operative lit a cigarette at a given time or a minute later were determinative of the operation’s outcome. And even more unusual, when they put in events that surrounded the operation, but were not directly linked to it, such as unrelated nearby automobile accidents or nearby domestic disturbances, these also could play a large part in an operations result. </p>
<p>For years they struggled to understand how these seemingly small or disconnected events could have such a large impact on the agency’s operations. As they expanded the scope of events they input into the program, they were even more surprised to discover that events that happened at the same time, but in different cities or even different countries, had similar impacts. </p>
<p>At the time of his retirement, they were working on identifying how outside events that occurred even weeks before their operations began might have an effect. The preliminary results were both exciting and disturbing. He was beginning to believe that ‘everything’ was interconnected, that the agency could control only a small fraction of events that might affect an operation, and that failure or success was perhaps a predetermined conclusion of any operation. </p>
<p>He got up early the next day and without waking his wife went downstairs to his study. Closing the door, he went to a secret hiding place in the floor and extracted a copy of the current program he’d surreptitiously removed from the vault at work. It was time, he thought, to determine just how his retirement might affect the agency’s next operation. Would a simple change in personnel in the IT Section be a meaningful event going forward? He had mixed feelings, but high hopes. </p>
<p>The program was huge and took a few minutes to load into his computer. He had the latest version, so it had all the current events loaded into it. All he had to do was code-in his retirement and the name of his replacement. It took a few moments to accomplish this as he sat back and waited. </p>
<p>His wait was rewarded with the following message: </p>
<p>Impact of Event 4039-94A: Negligible </p>
<p>Probability: High-99.9% </p>
<p>Input Next Event: </p>
<p>He sighed, half expecting what he’d just read, half expecting the opposite. But he was resigned to the program’s conclusion. As he sat there thinking, he heard the upstairs’ toilet flush and knew that his wife had just arisen. </p>
<p>On a whim, he typed that event in as ‘Event 4039-95A, Wife Flushes Toilet Upstairs’ and waited. The result came quickly: </p>
<p>Impact of Event 4039-95A: Critical to Success of Operation </p>
<p>Probability: Medium/High-75.0% </p>
<p>Input Next Event: </p>
<p>He smiled and headed for the downstairs bathroom, leaving the computer program running. ‘Let’s just see,’ he said to himself, ‘ just who’s more important around here.’ </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/65448692021-02-09T17:00:00-07:002021-02-10T12:36:41-07:00The Man From Dixie - By Brian Law<p>If you didn’t already know they were there, you’d never find them. Both the old pickup and the shabby little trailer hooked-up to it were so well hidden from the main road that even the County Sheriff’s patrols weren’t aware of them. And that’s just the way Jerry Little wanted it. </p>
<p>Jerry didn’t own the land where he was camping. It was owned by his brother-in-law. Now, ordinarily, Jerry would have set himself up some place on his brother-in-law’s farm, but Jerry’s sister would have none of that. So she arranged for Jerry to have access to some of her husband’s property down by the creek until Spring. But that would be it, she had told him. He’d have to sponge off somebody else after that. </p>
<p>The last five years had been rough on Jerry Little. He’d wrecked his other truck after having one too many one Saturday night and that landed him in the hospital with no insurance for seven weeks. When he got out, he was broke and nearly crippled, with only his pickup truck and shabby trailer to his name. That’s when he swung the deal with his brother-in-law and moved in down by the creek. </p>
<p>It was late one January afternoon and Jerry was inside his little trailer trying to get warm over his kerosene camp stove. Every bone in his body hurt and he’d spent the last of his available cash on a case of local beer, and that was about gone now. As he opened one of the last beers, he heard a commotion outside, and as he wiped the fog off the inside of the trailer’s window, he saw something very unusual outside. </p>
<p>It was one of those fancy stretch limousines pulling up near his rig, and it looked like a chauffeur had got out of the driver’s seat and was opening one of the rear doors for somebody to get out. Jerry took a long swig of his beer, reached for his jacket and cap, and continued to watch the limo. From the back seat emerged a tall, stately black gentleman, maybe around seventy or so, dressed in an expensive suit and wearing a fancy overcoat and hat. He said something to the chauffeur and then walked to the door of Jerry’s trailer, knocked, and called out, “Jerry Little, you in there?” </p>
<p>“Yeah, that’s me,” Jerry replied from behind the trailer’s door. “I got every right to be here. Just ask my brother-in-law. I ain’t trespassin’ or nothin’.” </p>
<p>“Jerry, you’re a hard man to track down. I’ve had people looking for you for years. I’m Jonah West, you know, from your old high school class at Fairview High, back in 1968. You remember me, don’t you, Jerry?” the fellow asked. </p>
<p>Jerry hadn’t thought about his high school years since he got out of the Army, but that name seemed to ring a bell. “Jonah West? You that black boy in my class. Sure, I remember you. Here, let me open this door and let you inside. You want a beer or something?” </p>
<p>As he opened the trailer door, the stench from inside hit Jonah West and he recoiled a bit. “Jerry, I don’t have much time. Why don’t you come into my limo for a few minutes. I think I can make it worth your while.” </p>
<p>“Can I bring my beer?” Jerry asked. </p>
<p>“Sure, Jerry, my driver will take it over for you. I’ve got a nice California Pinot Gris chilling in the back, if you prefer,” Jonah offered as he headed back towards the limo. </p>
<p>“I drink whatever’s on the table these days, Jonah,” Jerry quipped as he closed the trailer door and followed the tall black man to the rear of the limo. He slid in facing Jonah as the driver handed him his beer and closed the door, leaving the two men together behind the privacy glass. “So, you’ve been lookin’ for me for quite a while, huh, Jonah? Now that you’ve found me, are you disappointed?” Jerry wondered, looking around the sumptuous interior of the vehicle. </p>
<p>“Not at all, Jerry, not at all. In fact, I’m glad that I’ve found you in somewhat difficult straits. What I mean is that I think I’m in a position to help you out. And help you out a lot, Jerry!” Jonah announced. </p>
<p>“Hey, let’s have some of that California stuff you talked about. Just pour some into my empty beer bottle, will ya, Jonah?” Jerry suggested. “Now, what’s all this about helping old Jerry out?” </p>
<p>Jonah carefully filled Jerry’s beer bottle almost to the top with the Pinot Gris, poured himself about a half of a glass, and then began his story, “So, do you remember one afternoon in high school when I was getting beaten to a pulp behind the football bleachers by three white boys? And you stepped in and ran them off? You recall any of that, Jerry?” </p>
<p>“Sure, Jonah. No big deal. I loved to fight in high school, but I just hated it when other folks got bullied. So, you’re welcome, Jonah. I’d do it again today, too,” Jerry replied, grinning, and taking a sip from his beer bottle. </p>
<p>“I know, I know, Jerry. That’s just the kind of man you were and still are. And I’ve always appreciated what you did back then. Those three had been terrorizing me for months, and you put a stop to that for good, Jerry. You made me believe in the goodness of others, Jerry, and that has stuck with me over my lifetime. Have you, by the way, followed my career, Jerry?” Jonah asked. </p>
<p>Jerry shook his head. </p>
<p>“Okay, no matter. Just suffice it to say that I’m in a position to pay you back, Jerry Little. For that act of courage you performed towards me all those years ago, I want to grant you one wish, Jerry. I’m rich, my old friend, and I can make your life shine again. It’s the least I can do. So, name your wish, Jerry, and I’ll do my best to see that it gets done,” Jonah said, smiling and rubbing his hands together. </p>
<p>“You’re not joking, are you, Jonah? You’re about as serious as a heart attack, aren’t you? One wish, huh?” Jerry wondered, looking around again. “One wish, hmm. Okay, I’ve got it!” </p>
<p>“Just spell it out, Jerry, and I’ll have my people get going on it, as long as it’s reasonable, of course,” Jonah answered. “What’s your wish, Jerry?” </p>
<p>“What I want is for Donald Trump to continue as President for four more years,” Jerry said excitedly. “Or eight more, if you can swing that.” </p>
<p>Jonah shook his head and indicated that he couldn’t make that happen. “Sorry, Jerry. We’re going to need something a bit more doable, okay?” </p>
<p>Jerry didn’t seem too fazed by this as he came up with his second wish, “Well, how about if you put all those Confederate statues back up? You know, the ones that were torn down this Summer. That’s doable, right?” </p>
<p>“No, Jerry, I don’t think that’s feasible, either. Keep going, though, we’ll find something sooner or later that makes sense,” Jonah said encouragingly. </p>
<p>Smiling, Jerry excitedly shouted out, “Close all the abortion clinics in the country. Yeah, close ‘em all down. That’s what I want, Jonah!” </p>
<p>Jonah shook his head again and suggested that Jerry rethink his priorities. “How about something with a nice, fat price tag, Jerry? You know, a new house and truck, or a condo in Florida. Think in that direction, my old friend.” </p>
<p>“Hmm, “ Jerry mumbled. “I know what I want. Just the ticket! I want forty thousand assault rifles with plenty of ammo, all legal like, okay? I want to give most of ‘em away. I’ll keep a few, of course. That should be doable, Jonah. I mean, it’s got a nice, fat price tag, don’t it?” </p>
<p>Jonah was getting a bit ruffled by this time. “Jerry, even if I could do that, I wouldn’t. But I’m going to give you one last chance to come up with a wish that I can make happen without violating my conscience, okay. This is it, Jerry! Make it a good one, my old friend.” </p>
<p>“So,” Jerry asked, “You want me to come up with something with a fat price tag that’s not going to offend your dainty sensibilities, is that it, Jonah?” </p>
<p>Jonah nodded and checked his watch. </p>
<p>“Okay, here goes, Jonah. I want you to build me a big old boat. You know, really big. Out of wood, Jonah. And it’s dimensions are gonna have to be 300 cubits long, 50 cubits wide, and 30 cubits high. You with me so far, Jonah? </p>
<p>“Wait, Jerry, let me write this all down?” Jonah answered, hastily scribbling down the measurements. </p>
<p>“And I want that big old boat to be launched in New Orleans, into the River, Jonah, and then moored there until the right moment,” Jerry continued, a distant look in his eyes. </p>
<p>“Right, right. Sounds doable so far, my friend,” Jonah said in an encouraging tone, writing furiously. </p>
<p>“And I want that big old boat to be ready to take on two of every kind of animal there is in the world, Jonah, with a two weeks’ notice. No more than that!” Jerry declared. “Two weeks!” </p>
<p>Jonah looked up from his notebook and asked “Is that all, Jerry? I think this is doable, I really do. Anything else, Jerry?” </p>
<p>“Yeah, make sure there’s a two year supply of Lone Star beer aboard, too, Jonah. No, make that a three year supply,” Jerry added. “Oh, and a stateroom for you and one for me, too.” </p>
<p>“Well, Jerry, I must say, you had me going there for a while. I was worried with all that Trump stuff and all that stuff about statues, clinics, and assault rifles. But it looks like you’ve got your head on straight about this boat idea of yours. Might make a lot of sense, giving the way things are headed,” Jonah remarked, closing his notebook. </p>
<p>Jerry finished off his Pinot Gris with one swallow and dropped the empty bottle on the floor of the limo. Leaning in towards Jonah, he belched slightly and then said, a good old boy grin on his face, “I was just screwin’ with you about Trump and the other stuff, Jonah. But I had to make sure you’d go along with the whole boat thing. I think we’re on the same page now, though.” </p>
<p>Jonah smiled and answered, “I could have used a man like you in my organization, Jerry. Anything else before I have my driver let you out?” </p>
<p>“Yeah, you got any more of this California grape juice? I’m just about out of beer over at my place.” </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/65448682021-02-09T17:00:00-07:002021-02-10T12:36:04-07:00Wheelbarrowful - By Brian Law<p>The wet sand felt good on his toes as he trundled along the shoreline lost in his own thoughts. He’d left his car back about a mile or so, took off his shoes, rolled up his pants legs, and had just started walking. The sun was low in the west and it was starting to get nippy as he hunched his shoulders against the offshore breeze that was creating a few whitecaps. As the shore break washed up around his legs, he didn’t care. He had bigger problems than wet pants, problems he just couldn’t seem to shake off. Maybe a walk on the beach would help. </p>
<p>It was right about then that the bottle hit his right shin, spun about, and floated inland a few feet, stopping as the water around it receded. He looked down to see if he was bleeding, and he was, a bit. Stooping down to wipe a trace of blood away from the tiny scratch, he caught something in his peripheral vision, something in the bottle that was out of place. He turned and saw what appeared to be a face in the bottle looking out at him, its mouth moving in apparent speech. </p>
<p>He stood up abruptly, looked around and seeing no one else, approached the bottle with caution. The closer he got, the clearer the face in the bottle was, and the clearer it was that it was trying to say something. Taking a deep breath, he knelt down, picked up the bottle, stared at the face, and then held the bottle up to his ear. Sure enough, he could hear a muffled voice. It was saying something like, ‘Open up the bottle! I will grant you one wish if you do!’ </p>
<p>He looked around again and found that he was still all alone on the beach. It would be so easy to just throw the bottle back into the sea and continue his lonely walk, but something told him that he should take the chance. He carefully removed the cork from the bottle, waited, and then heard a voice, ‘Oh, god, thank you. I wasn’t sure what language you spoke, so I took a chance on English. I think the baseball cap gave you away. I’m Jerome, by the way. Who are you?’ </p>
<p>“Bob. I hear you but I don’t see you. Is this a dream or something? </p>
<p>“No, Bob. It’s very real. You, my friend, are now in a position to have one wish granted. There are some restrictions, of course, but that’s the deal I made with you. And you held up your end. So, interested?” Jerome explained. </p>
<p>Bob breathed in deeply and asked, “One wish, huh?” </p>
<p>“Yep. But before we go any further, let me explain the restrictions. There are four of them. So, you ready, Bob?” Jerome continued. </p>
<p>“Sure. Do I need to write these down or something?” </p>
<p>“No, they’re pretty simple, Bob. Here goes. First, once your wish has been granted, you need to be careful about how you live your life going forward. You have to live a good life.” </p>
<p>“Uh, what happens if I slip up and fall off the wagon, Jerome? I’ve got sort of a track record with that sort of thing going back quite a way. I’m just saying, Jerome. It’s a real possibility,” Bob confessed. </p>
<p>Jerome wasted no time in answering, “We’ll get back to that question in a few minutes, Bob.” </p>
<p>“Okay, I understand. What’s the next restriction, Jerome?” Bob wondered, lighting his last cigarette. </p>
<p>“Your wish can consist of only four words, Bob.” </p>
<p>“So, if I said, ‘good health for life’, that would work?” </p>
<p>“That’s right, Bob. That would be just four words and you would get it.” </p>
<p>“Okay, I understand that restriction, too, Jerome. What’s the next one?” </p>
<p>“Your wish cannot last beyond your natural life, Bob. So, once you’re gone, whatever you received through your wish disappears also. Got that, Bob?” Jerome inquired. </p>
<p>“Ah, so what you’re telling me is that I can’t ask to live for more than my allotted time as that apparently is baked into the cake. So if I die lying on a stack of money, that money vanishes and none of my heirs benefit from anything I had during my life. That’s it, Jerome?” </p>
<p>“Precisely, Bob.” </p>
<p>“Okay, what’s restriction number four?” </p>
<p>“You cannot dictate what happens to you after you die, Bob. This sort of blends in with restriction number one. So, you can’t ask to go to Heaven, but if you live a good and moral life, that might happen just as a matter of course, Bob.” </p>
<p>Bob took a puff on his cigarette, exhaled, and concluded, “So, I got all these restrictions to keep in mind when I’m making my wish and afterwards. Now, here’s my questions again. What if I mess up on any one of these restrictions, Jerome? What happens then?” </p>
<p>Jerome’s voice changed slightly in tone as he answered, “Then, Bob, you and I change places. I become the old you, walking forlornly on a beach, and you take my place inside this bottle, floating around until somebody picks you up on a lonely beach somewhere.” </p>
<p>Bob responded with a low grumble as he flicked his cigarette butt into the water’s edge. “Hmmm. Lots to think about, Jerome.” </p>
<p>“Yes, Bob, lots to think about. I’ll give you a minute to decide. Then, you either tell me your wish or I disappear back into the bottle and you continue your life as if you never met me.” </p>
<p>Bob checked his watch, nodded his head, and started to think. After about a minute, he said, “Okay, Jerome. I’ve got my wish. You ready?” </p>
<p>“Yes, Bob, go ahead. I’m listening.” </p>
<p>“Uh, one question first, Jerome. Is ‘wheelbarrowful’ one, two, or three words?” </p>
<p>“‘Wheelbarrowful’ is one word, Bob.” </p>
<p>“Then my wish is for a ‘wheelbarrow full of love’.” As he waited for his wish to be fulfilled, Bob thought he heard Jerome sigh a few times. “Is there a problem, Jerome?” Bob asked, checking his watch. “It’s starting to get cold out here and I have to get back to feed my dog.” </p>
<p>“I’m thinking, Bob, I’m thinking, okay. Just give me a minute or two, will you, please?” came back the voice, a bit perturbed. </p>
<p>“Sure, sure, Jerome, take your time. But look, if it’s too hard a wish to fulfill, I can come up with a simpler one. Really, it’s no big deal,” Bob explained, trying to move things along. </p>
<p>“A deal’s a deal, Bob. I’m no welcher, okay. It’s just that your wish is so different from any of the others we’ve fulfilled that I’ve had to kick your request upstairs and I’m waiting for their reply. Be patient, please.” Jerome sighed a few more times, then excitedly responded, “Okay, Bob, they’ve approved your wish. Go back to your car and your ‘wheelbarrowful of love’ will be waiting for you.” </p>
<p>“Gee, Jerome, thanks for all of this. I really appreciate it. Hope this doesn’t cause any problems between you and the guys upstairs.” </p>
<p>“It’s nothing, Bob. Now, just pop the cork back in the bottle and give it a heave back into the surf, okay? And, Bob, have a great life, will you?” </p>
<p>“Will do, Jerome,” Bob replied, “You, too.” And with that, he sent the corked bottle flying out into the surf far and headed back towards his car and his ‘wheelbarrowful of love’. </p>
<p>His back now to the wind, Bob felt his spirits lift as if a great weight had been removed from his shoulders. He wasn’t hunched over anymore nor lost in his own thoughts. Instead, he was walking upright, a broad smile on his face and a spring in his step. He didn’t feel trapped by his problems, but instead looked ahead with a newly found freedom. </p>
<p>As he approached his car, he saw that it was still in the askance position he’d left it, taking up three parking spots. But there weren’t any other cars around, so he didn’t see the problem. There was, of course, no ‘wheelbarrowful of love’ or anything like that, Bob realized, still smiling broadly. </p>
<p>It always took a long walk on the beach for his meds to kick in, and today was no exception. Perhaps he took one pill too many today. Maybe that would explain Jerome and the rest of it. But anyway, who knew what a 'wheelbarrowful of love' would even look like, Bob mused, as he got into his car. </p>
<p>But that still didn’t explain the tiny scratch on his shin. </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/65448672021-02-09T17:00:00-07:002021-02-10T12:35:30-07:00Lost Among All the Others - By Brian Law<p>She hadn’t been on a bus since she was a kid when she and her mother went cross-country together. But here she was again, in a window seat. . . except she was alone this time. The buses hadn’t changed much from her point of view. Still crowded with random, mostly poor passengers all facing forward. And somebody you don’t know asleep right next to you. </p>
<p>Leaning against the window, she turned her head slightly to watch the landscape slide by as the sun rose in the distance. She wiped away the condensation from the window a bit and peered out wondering where they might be, not that it mattered. She figured it would be another fifteen hours before they got to her destination, but it helped pass the time. </p>
<p>They were still in the Great Plains, that was certain. Mile after mile of fallow winter farmland where every now and then there would be a sign saying they were entering or leaving some county or other. She was about ready to take another nap when she saw the first road sign flash by her. </p>
<p>“Lost? Alone? Disconnected?” it said in black letters against a bright white background. She was wide awake now. Did she really see that sign or was she just dreaming? She looked quickly at the man next to her. He was still sleeping. </p>
<p>Quietly, and very slowly, she reared up a bit and looked at the people in the seats ahead of and behind her. They were still asleep. She apparently was the only one who had seen the sign. Or had she? Was it just her subconscious intruding on her waking life? She settled back down and looked out the window at the vast, unending landscape rushing towards her. She knew one thing for certain. There would either be another sign soon or there wouldn’t be. That was just how things worked. She looked out and waited. </p>
<p>“Looking for a way to make sense of things?” the next sign read as it flashed by. She was wide awake and knew this was no dream anymore. Again she moved quietly and determined that no one else seemed to have seen the signs . . . just her. Were they just meant for her? Could it be some kind of special message just for her? God, she really needed something special to happen in her life now, and she was ready to grasp at anything. But this . . . this was so out-of-the-blue, so odd, so unexpected. And way out here in the middle of nowhere. </p>
<p>As she slid back into her seat, another sign sped by. It read, “You have a choice”. Not really knowing why she did it, she immediately looked at the other side of the bus and saw another sign disappear quickly to her left. Plopping into her seat, she now realized the signs were on both sides of the highway, reaching travelers in both directions. Did they all say the same thing? And if they did, what was their point? She found her heart was beating faster now in anticipation of the next sign. She really felt alive for the first time in years and she wasn’t entirely sure why. </p>
<p>The sun continued to rise and the bus was warming up a bit. The passengers were starting to wake up and move around, even the guy next to her. He woke up, sat up straighter, rubbed his eyes and smiled at her. But that was it. Nothing else. She leaned her head back against the cold window and waited. </p>
<p>“Get off at the next stop and begin afresh” it read, again in stark black lettering against a bright white background. She checked her watch. They were hundreds of miles from her destination, apparently speeding down a straight ribbon of highway with few scheduled stops. She pardoned herself, rose and moved towards the aisle, the man next to her politely adjusting his position to accommodate her. She straightened her dress, checked the buttons on her blouse, pushed her hair back and headed towards the driver. </p>
<p>“Excuse me but is there a stop coming up soon?” she asked tentatively. </p>
<p>He turned his head slightly and replied, “Not a scheduled stop, but some folks get off at a crossroads about three miles up the road. I’ll pull over if you want to get off.” </p>
<p>“So, you often drop passengers off at this crossroads?” she wondered. </p>
<p>He nodded and added, “Not often. Why don’t you go back to your seat and I’ll announce the stop in plenty of time for you to get your luggage out and get ready to get off.” </p>
<p>She smiled, thanked him, and moved slowly back towards her seat. The other passengers either acknowledged her or didn’t as she moved back down the aisle and arrived at her seat. She waited for the man next to her to move to allow her back into her seat, and then settling down, she found herself completely focused on the roadside ahead as another sign swept by. </p>
<p>“You won’t regret it. Your new life is waiting” it read. She inhaled deeply and then heard the driver yell out, “Stop ahead.” She looked at the man next to her, made her apologies, and rose to move back into the aisle. As she retrieved her luggage from the rack, the bus slowed down, pulled onto the shoulder, and stopped. She moved forward, pulling her luggage on its wheels behind her, and felt the cold air from outside sweep down the aisle as the driver opened the bus door. </p>
<p>He was holding the door lever as she maneuvered her way down the steps and out onto the barren landscape. Standing there all alone, she looked back at the bus driver. He smiled, pulled on the door lever, and moved the big bus back onto the highway. She wished she’d worn something warmer as the bus moved quickly away from her. But she was strangely elated for reasons still foreign to her. </p>
<p>For the first time, she looked around and saw that she was really, really in the middle of nowhere. The main highway pushed along in both directions, unimpeded by any landscape, and the crossroads didn’t have a road name or even a mile marker. She saw no other traffic and there was nowhere to sit. </p>
<p>She reached into her purse for her phone, saw her last dollar bill, and then discovered there was no phone service. Putting on her sunglasses, she sat down on her suitcase and waited. </p>
<p>It wasn’t long until she saw dust arising about a mile down the crossroads and moving towards her. Standing up and waiting for a moment, she could just make out an old pickup truck headed her way. </p>
<p>She smiled to herself, checked her dress and the buttons on her blouse, and knew that, for a while at least, she was probably going to miss Starbuck’s. </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/65118682021-01-01T16:39:32-07:002021-01-01T16:39:32-07:00Zoom Sex - By Brain Law<p>“What are you wearing?” he asked. </p>
<p>She shook her head, adjusted the computer a bit, and in a slightly exasperated tone answered, “We’re not on the phone, anymore, Roger! We’re on Zoom, for Christ’s sake. Just look at your computer, will ya!” </p>
<p>“Oh, yeah, sorry. I just did that out of habit. So, what do we do next? This is kind of new to me,” Roger explained, a bit flummoxed . </p>
<p>“Well, you could say that I look nice, or something like that.” </p>
<p>“Sure. You look nice.” Just then he noticed some movement behind her. “Hey, what was that?” </p>
<p>“Just my four year old. Not a problem. You look good, too, Roger,” she continued. </p>
<p>“You have a four year old! I thought you were a struggling college student just using phone sex to make ends meet. Now you tell me you have a family? That’s kind of a passion killer, Louise, if that’s really your name,” he complained. </p>
<p>“Okay, Roger, I’ll put her in her room and turn off the television. I’ll be right back and we can try to get this right,” she replied, moving away from the computer for a few moments. He could hear muffled sounds in the background and for the first time could see group photos with her and others on the table behind where she was sitting. </p>
<p>“I’m back and we’re all alone, Roger. Do you want me to take off my blouse?” she purred seductively. </p>
<p>He didn’t say anything for a moment as she repeated her question. Then, he asked accusingly, “Who’s the guy in the photos behind you, anyway? Husband, boyfriend, your baby’s daddy, what? This just isn’t the picture I was having of you when all we did was phone sex. This isn’t my fantasy anymore.” </p>
<p>Just then he could hear her front door open and close and a male voice in the background yelled out, “Hey, who you got on the computer now?” </p>
<p>She yelled back, “Oh, it’s just Roger, honey! We’ll be done in a jiff.” </p>
<p>He could hear a loud guffaw from the male voice and what sounded like, “Tell him thanks for helping with the rent” or something like that. </p>
<p>“So, Roger, where were we? Oh, yeah, my blouse. I’m unbuttoning it now, slowly, and you can see that I’m licking my lips, too, baby. You feeling in the mood, my big strong Roger?” she went on seductively. </p>
<p>“Whoa! Wait, wait. This isn’t working anymore, Louise! You now have a kid and a man in the same house where we’re supposed to be getting intimate with each other. Not sexy, Louise, not sexy at all!” Roger went on. </p>
<p>“Maybe you just need to see a little more of me to get you in the mood, Roger?” she added, peeling off her mini skirt. “Now, how’s that? Feeling in the mood, Roger?” As she waited for his answer, she adjusted her wig a bit. </p>
<p>“Oh, no! You’re wearing a wig! Oh, my god, this is just ridiculous! How old are you really, Louise? Tell me right now or I’m gone for good. No more Roger baby to make a fool out of anymore, Louise. How old are you really?” he demanded. </p>
<p>Reluctantly, Louise slowly removed her wig revealing a closely-cropped crown of grey hair. And at the same time, she removed her false eyelashes. “That better, Roger? Now you know the real me. Did I ever ask you how old you were, Roger? But, what the Hell, I’m pushing fifty-five, big boy. That was my granddaughter and my youngest son who you heard before.” </p>
<p>“Fifty-five, Louise, really?” Roger said, his voice a bit more conciliatory. “You know, my mother is about that age.” </p>
<p>Something clicked in Louise’s mind and she cautiously replied, “Now, Roger, why haven’t you found a nice girl to settle down with, hmmm?” </p>
<p>Roger hung his head for a moment and then answered, “I’m trying, mother, I’m trying.” </p>
<p>“Good boy, Roger,” Louise replied. “Now, move closer to the computer screen, Roger.” </p>
<p>As he did, Louise moved her right breast close to the screen of her computer and in a low, soothing voice said, “Good boy, Roger, good boy. Momma loves her good boy.” </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/65118672021-01-01T16:38:44-07:002021-01-01T16:38:44-07:00Bit Part - By Brian Law<p>"So, kid, what’s eating at you, anyway?” the old man asked. </p>
<p>The kid sighed, shoved his hands deep into his overall pockets and said, “I don’t know, it’s just that I don’t feel like I’m going anywhere in my career. My part, it’s just so small. The whole production could go on without me and no one would even notice.” </p>
<p>The old man smiled, patted the kid on the back, and reassured him, “We all felt that way at some point along the way, son. I remember when I first started out. My first three jobs were to get rid of stuff after the whole thing was over. Can you imagine how I felt as I dragged stuff to the burn pits?” He watched the kid for a moment and then continued, “But slowly, I got better parts, more important parts. Until now, look at me. I’m in charge.” </p>
<p>“So, just because I’m the cleanup guy doesn’t mean I don’t have a future with the crew, is that what you're saying?” the kid asked. </p>
<p>The old man shook free a cigarette from his pack, lit it, and responded, “That’s it exactly. I’ve got a spot for you in Wardrobe for our next job in Georgia. And if you do well there, well, there’s another job in Alabama after that needing a good Make-up assistant.” He inhaled, exhaled, and continued, “So you see, it’s just one step at a time up the ladder. By this time three years from now, you’ll be sitting here talking to some youngster, just like I’m talking to you now.” </p>
<p>The kid was getting excited now. “Do you think I’ll ever get to do the dangerous stuff, like driving?” </p>
<p>“Sure, why not. That takes a bit more training, but I think we can get you penciled-in for that this Winter,” the old man assured him. “And don’t forget Sound and Props. Those can be real important skills to have in your career. Why, I remember one job I had that relied completely on Sound and Props for its success. And I had the skills to pull it off and that’s where I got noticed by the money guys, you know, the ones behind all of these jobs were doing.” </p>
<p>“Really, Sound and Props are that important sometimes, huh? Which job was that, anyway?” the kid wondered. </p>
<p>The old man stubbed out his cigarette and took out another one before replying. A distant look came over him as he remembered the day, “Oh, it was a late November day in '63, down in Dallas. I was just a kid then, much like you. It was my job to be on this little grassy knoll and do my Sound and Prop thing. Pretty simple, but to tell you the truth, I was kind of nervous.” </p>
<p>“You, nervous? Wow, hard to believe. Dallas, huh? Never been there myself. This job we’re doing here in Delaware is the farthest from home I’ve ever been.” Then, the kid smiled, and ended with, “But I’m feeling much better about my career now since we’ve had this talk. You’ve given me hope.” </p>
<p>The old man smiled and jokingly pulled down on the brim of the kid’s red cap a bit. “You’re alright, kid. Just do your job today like you’ve been told and you will make out fine. Remember to burn everything, including the uniforms, the identification cards, and the phones. Everything! You got that!” </p>
<p>“Burn everything, right!” the kid responded. “And then we’ll all meet back across the border next week. Thanks again for the pep talk.” </p>
<p>“Sure, kid, hasta manana,” the old man said, smiling kindly, knowing full well that this was the last time he’d ever see the kid alive. Too bad, he thought, the kid seemed okay. </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/65118662021-01-01T16:38:08-07:002021-01-01T16:38:08-07:00The Children Who Ate Only Beans - By Brian Law<p>The sun had decided to not come out today, so neither did they. They were both getting along in years, both in their eighties, and a walk in the cold and damp wasn’t a good idea. So they both remained inside the cottage where it was warm and dry. </p>
<p>As he dozed in his easy chair near the fireplace, she got up slowly and went to the large cedar trunk in the corner. There was something in there that she knew would help them both pass the time, something neither of them had looked at for a while. She thought it might be interesting to recollect. </p>
<p>“Dear, are you awake?” she asked. </p>
<p>“Hmm,” came his response. </p>
<p>“Well, I have that letter by Lillie from Duluth, written in, let’s see, oh yes, written in late 1983. Do you remember that far back, dear?” she went on, already knowing the answer. </p>
<p>“Hmm, 1983, huh? That was a long time ago, dear,” he replied. </p>
<p>“Well, let me read you Lillie’s letter, dear. Maybe it will spark a memory or two:” </p>
<p> ‘Dear Mr. Bromley, </p>
<p> I am a widow in my mid-twenties and for years I have </p>
<p> suffered from depression and anxiety, the causes of </p>
<p> which are many and varied. Anyway, I take meds </p>
<p> every day and the result is that I can function, but I am </p>
<p> removed from my feelings, from my emotions, that is, </p>
<p> until I read your story about The Children. </p>
<p> From the very first word, my feelings came flooding back. </p>
<p> And with every rereading, I got the same result. It is the </p>
<p> only thing that connects me to my emotions nowadays. I </p>
<p> can’t explain it and neither can my doctors, but it’s true. </p>
<p> Thank you so much for the story about The Children. God </p>
<p> bless you, Mr. Bromley, your story has made my life worth- </p>
<p> while even though I cry every time I read it. </p>
<p> Yours, </p>
<p> Lillie from Duluth’ </p>
<p>“Now, wasn’t that nice of her to write that letter, dear? You do remember writing that story about The Children, don’t you?” she went on. </p>
<p>He sat up a bit, cleared his throat and reached for his pipe. </p>
<p>“I wish you wouldn’t smoke, dear,” she asked, disapprovingly. </p>
<p>Putting down his pipe, he reflected, “Of course I remember writing it. The story about The Children and their diet of only green beans and how it turned their skin green, right? My grandfather from the east of England told me a similar story and I just adapted it to our time and place, that’s all. Really, just a fable, nothing more.” </p>
<p>She smiled and reread Lillie’s letter again and then wondered, “But why do you suppose your story had that very unusual effect on Lillie from Duluth? I mean, she’s telling us that it put her in touch with her emotions, emotions that her medications had suppressed. Can you explain that dear?” </p>
<p>He absent-mindedly reached for his pipe again, but at the last minute remembered his wife’s request. Sitting back again, he said, “No, I can’t explain that dear.”?” </p>
<p>She nodded and took out a small packet of letters wrapped separately from the rest in a silk ribbon. “Well, as I recall, she wasn’t the only one the story had that effect upon. Weren’t there more letters in there with more or less the same message. I remember for that reason I kept them separated from the others. It seems like there were nine such letters from other women, either from Duluth or nearby, and all written in 1983.” </p>
<p>He said nothing, hoping as always, she’d just drop it and move on to something else. </p>
<p>“Dear, your sales route took you into and around Duluth back then, didn’t it?” she stated, knowing full well the truth of the matter. </p>
<p>“Hmmm,” he muttered. </p>
<p>“And you never wrote your stories here at home, only when you were on the road. So, maybe it was something about Duluth and what was going on there that urged you to write that story about The Children. I wonder if that was it?” she went on, a new tone to her voice. </p>
<p>“Hmmm,” he replied. </p>
<p>“And what’s odd is that I’ve read and reread that story many, many times, and it’s never had that effect on me. Now, don’t get me wrong, it’s a very good story, but it’s just a story,” she added. “So, I’ve always wondered if that’s really what these women were writing about, or was it something else? Any ideas, dear?” </p>
<p>He sighed, closed his eyes, and replied, “It was a long time ago and it was just a story, dear. That’s all.” </p>
<p>She smiled slightly and placed the tear-stained packet of letters wrapped in a silk ribbon back into the cedar trunk in the corner. As he watched her out of one eye, she returned to her chair, sat down, took up her knitting and without looking up, added, “Well, we’ll take another look at those letters again, maybe next year, dear.” She knitted away for a minute or so, and then said, “Maybe your memory will improve.” </p>
<p>But he was already asleep, dreaming of all things about Duluth in 1983. </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/65118652021-01-01T16:35:08-07:002021-01-01T16:35:08-07:00Sometimes I Wonder - By Brian Law<p>“Good Lord, George!” she exclaimed, “This time you’ve gone too far. I’m beginning to worry about you, dear.” </p>
<p>“You mean you don’t believe me, right?” he shot back. “Well, I just saw it in my drink. The image of Jesus was right there in one of the ice cubes, clear as crystal.” He stood up, moved towards her, and raised his voice, “And the only reason you didn’t see it was that it had melted by the time you looked at my drink.” </p>
<p>“George, maybe you should see someone. Maybe it’s the stress of the pandemic, or maybe old age, or maybe it’s something else. But you really should think about getting some help,” she pleaded. </p>
<p>“But, Thelma, what about the hotel in Vegas? I pointed it out to you right there on the bed, remember?” he implored. </p>
<p>“You mean the image of the Virgin Mary in the crumpled bed sheets, George? I looked and looked, but I never could see anything,” Thelma said, shrugging. </p>
<p>George sat down hard on his recliner, his hands gripping the chair’s arms. He stared straight ahead, a distant look in his eyes, as he muttered, “Sometimes I wonder what God’s up to, Thelma.” </p>
<p>Thelma chuckled as she sat down across the room on the sofa and replied, “My, George, for a hardcore unbeliever like you to invoke the name of God, there must be something going on with you, right?” </p>
<p>George said nothing and continued to stare while Thelma suddenly had an idea which she thought might work. “George, how about a little truce, huh? I’ll stop harping at you about these ‘visions’ if you stop telling me every time you see some holy image in the mash potatoes, okay?” </p>
<p>Reluctantly, George agreed as both of them sat back in their respective seats, George grabbing his evening paper and Thelma picking up her knitting. As he flipped on his table lamp and straightened out his newspaper, a shadow briefly appeared on the opposite wall. </p>
<p>‘It’s the crucifixion of Christ,’ George thought, ‘right there on my living room wall! But I promised not to say anything to Thelma about things like this, so I won’t.’ And without looking at Thelma, or letting on that anything had happened, he went back to reading his newspaper, his heart pounding in his chest. </p>
<p>Thelma saw it for just a split second, too, right before it disappeared. ‘No questions this time,’ she thought to herself, ‘it really was the crucifixion scene.’ She stole a quick look at George who had started to read his newspaper, and said to herself, ‘But I can’t say anything to George. He’ll just think I’m making fun of him and breaking our promise.’ </p>
<p>She returned to her knitting, but her hands were shaking too hard to make any progress. </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/64948112020-12-08T19:01:41-07:002020-12-08T19:01:41-07:00The Coffin Polisher - By Brian Law<p>He liked to work in dim light, so the fluorescent lights of the mortuary were switched off and just the table lamp was on in the corner. </p>
<p>Humming to himself, he leaned down a bit and inspected the surface of the Mahogany Number 47 he was polishing. He knew that it was only when you looked at the surfaces at a certain angle and in a certain light that you could determine where the smudges were. Smiling to himself as he caught two spots that no one else would have noticed, he stood up straight and applied his cloth to the casket, rubbing the smudges out with one efficient swipe. </p>
<p>“There you go, Mr. Wilson, all nice and clean and ready for your funeral today,” he whispered. “I’ll come back and get to work on your handles in just a second, okay?” </p>
<p>‘Thank you, Benny. I appreciate your attention to detail. You are a lot like me when I was alive, a real stickler for the small stuff. We both sweat the small stuff, don’t we, Benny?’ </p>
<p>“That’s right, Mr. Wilson,” Benny replied. "Now, you just lie quiet there while I go into the next room for a bit. But I’ll be back real soon to get at those handles. Your casket is going to look just fine for the service today. Don’t you worry a bit, Mr. Wilson.” </p>
<p>‘I used to worry a lot, Benny. That’s probably why I’m in this box at age 49. But old habits die hard, don’t they, Benny. I bet you hear that a lot in here.’ </p>
<p>In the other room, Benny flushed the toilet, tucked his shirt into his pants and called out to Mr. Wilson, “Yep, Mr. Wilson, I do hear that one a lot. But I don’t mind you double-checking my work from inside your casket, I really don’t. It’s just part of the process you have to go through to make it to the other side. And you’re doing just fine, Mr. Wilson. My job is to help you make it all the way.” </p>
<p>‘You’ve been talking to people like me for a long time, Benny? You seem to know what you’re doing.’ </p>
<p>Calling out from the other room, Benny answered, “Since I was a kid, Mr. Wilson. My mom and dad died in a car wreck when I was four. That’s when I knew. They talked to me for weeks!” </p>
<p>Just then, Benny heard a car drive up in the alley behind the mortuary. He bent down and whispered, “Mr. Wilson, I got to go silent for a while. Mr. Browning just arrived. So, don’t you fret, okay? I’m still here and we’ll have another nice chat before your service.” </p>
<p>‘Thanks, Benny.’ </p>
<p>As he did every morning, the owner of Browning Mortuary opened the back door, turned on the fluorescent lights and just stood there in the doorway as the large back room slowly lit up. From there he could see each casket, verify their individual condition, and determine whether his utility man, Benny, had done his chores during the night shift. </p>
<p>With a heavy sigh he moved into the large room, closed the door behind him and called out, “Benny! It’s Browning. Get in here, now!” </p>
<p>Browning could hear the broom closet door close in the next room and then Benny emerged, a broom in one hand and a dustpan in the other. “Yes, sir. Good morning, sir,” he said, a tentative smile on his face. </p>
<p>“Benny, I see the handles on the Wilson’s Mahogany Number 27 haven’t been polished. Get on it, Benny! We’ve got the Wilson Funeral in four hours!” Browning growled. </p>
<p>“Yes, sir, Mr. Browning. I’ll take care of that right away, sir,” Benny answered apologetically, putting down the broom and dustpan and grabbing a rag and some polishing compound. </p>
<p>As Benny scurried about his chores, Browning watched him closely, shook his head and wondered how a man like that could have any pride in himself, always doing someone else’s bidding. It never ceased to puzzle Mr. Browning, never. </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/64948052020-12-08T18:56:11-07:002020-12-08T18:56:11-07:00Zog Survives an Election - By Brian Law<p>The weather outside was miserable, but inside the cave it was warm and dry. Nevertheless, it had been a harrowing day for the entire tribe . . . they were electing a new leader and the first vote revealed that none of the candidates had received a majority of the pebbles. This had never happened before and the tribe was having difficulty figuring out how to proceed. But the old rule was clear. A majority of pebbles was required before a new leader could be elected, unless . . . . </p>
<p>Hok stood next to the fire, his shadow looming large against the cave wall. He held his weapon in his hand but did not raise it. He had made that mistake too many times before and he had the broken bones to remind him. Instead of fighting, he proposed that the shaman be called in to settle the election. “Throw the bones, read the entrails, eat the mushrooms . . . I don’t care what she does to learn who should be our leader. But that’s my solution!” </p>
<p>From the back of the sitting group, a small voice rose in answer. It was Ayak and he said, “But what if the election was tampered with, Hok? What if someone added or subtracted a pebble during the counting process? Shouldn’t we submit the pebble counters to the ‘fire ritual’ to get the truth before we ask the shaman to decide? What do you all say to that?” </p>
<p>There was a clamor around the fire at the suggestion that the election might have been rigged. “Kill the pebble counters!” came a cry from the rear of the cave. “Cut off the pebble counter’s hands!” came another. Ugg shook his head in disgust as he stood. He was well respected and the best hunter in the group so all listened to what he was about to say. “Why don’t we just have another election, but with just the top two still in the running? And, we will have people watching the pebble counters this time!” </p>
<p>Many yelled in agreement, but Ika asked, “How close will the watchers be allowed to the pebble counters? Will they really be able to see their hands and the pebbles? Or will they be too far away? And what if there is a tie?” </p>
<p>“That’s why we should put the pebble counters to the ‘fire ritual’!” Ayak repeated. “Put great fear into them so that they won’t try any tricks! That’s my solution!” </p>
<p>“Good luck getting any pebble counters for future elections if you do that,” Tara laughed. “My solution is that each member of the tribe be given several pebbles. Once they vote for one person for leader, they then go to another part of the cave and leave the same pebble there. If at the end of the voting, the stacks of pebbles are identical in each part of the cave, we will know we have an honest election and a new leader!” </p>
<p>“But so few of us can count! Can we trust the counters who will be counting all the piles?” Amoukar asked. There was more rumbling, but the tribe knew Amoukar had a good point. </p>
<p>After several moments, Ruwdhi stood and pronounced, “Our current leader did not receive enough pebbles to remain as leader. So, I suggest that because of the doubt we all have in the truth of the results of this election, we retain Zog as our leader going forward until we can again have faith in the election process!” </p>
<p>“But for how long will Zog be our leader?” Mikr wondered. </p>
<p>Ruwdhi just shrugged, his hands palms up, and replied, “Who knows?” </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/64948042020-12-08T18:55:34-07:002020-12-08T18:55:34-07:00The Thought Snatcher - By Brian Law<p>It was another typical Sunday morning breakfast, him sipping coffee and her nibbling quietly away at her scrambled eggs. It was at these times that they often shared their innermost confidences, yet today he sensed that she was preoccupied, distant. Putting down his coffee cup and looking across at her, he carefully probed, “Is there something you want to tell me?” </p>
<p>Her fork fell onto her plate with a sharp noise, her hands rushed to her face, and she started sobbing. He quickly rose from his chair and moved behind her, his hands rubbing her shoulders. “Go ahead, cry it out, whatever it is,” he said, trying to soothe her. But he was still in the dark about what had brought this on as she continued to snivel and tried to speak. </p>
<p>“I . . . I was . . . I was on the phone with mother earlier. . . before you got up,” she sputtered. </p>
<p>“That’s it, you’re doing fine,” he whispered into her ear. “Is there bad news about your mother? Is that it?” </p>
<p>Wiping her nose and composing herself a bit, she continued haltingly, “She was talking about . . . about a television show she watched last night. Then, right in the middle of talking, she just stopped . . . Oh, God!” </p>
<p>He knew her mother was having heart problems and now was concerned that she had suffered a stroke or something. “What happened? Is she alright?” he asked, truly concerned. </p>
<p>She turned to look at him and answered, “She forgot what she was saying. Just like that, in the middle of her thought. It just went away and didn’t come back. She was so embarrassed and I just didn’t know what to say to her.” </p>
<p>He sat down beside her, his arm around her shoulder, and tried to console her by saying, “It happens to all of us at some point, doesn’t it? It’s almost inevitable. She’s eighty-five. We had to expect something like this, didn’t we?” He paused and then added, “And they have medications today that can help. Why don’t you get her an appointment with her doctor soon, hmm?” </p>
<p>She looked at him oddly, her cheeks still moist with tears. “You don’t understand! 'He' was there with her while I was on the phone! She told me 'he' had come. She felt his presence!” his wife announced with certainty. </p>
<p>“Who’s 'he'?” he asked incredulously. “Just who in the hell is in your mother’s house early on a Sunday morning? Shouldn’t we be calling the police or something?” </p>
<p>“No, no, she’s not in any real danger . . . yet. And you’re right. 'He' does come for most of us at some point,” she continued enigmatically. </p>
<p>He said nothing. Instead, he got up, took his coffee cup, and went to the coffee maker. As he poured himself another cup and making sure she heard him, he asked in a low voice, “Is this more of that Pennsylvania Dutch stuff that your family still believes in? Is that it?” He waited, and then added, “Because if it is, I really think you’re on your own with this one. I don’t buy any of it.” </p>
<p>She swiveled in her chair a bit to face him, the odd look on her face replaced by one of certainty. “Oh, you’ll believe it when 'he' comes for your thoughts! You’ll believe it, but then it’s too late!” </p>
<p>He shook his head and replied, “There it is, again, the mysterious 'he'. Maybe you should fill me in. At least give me a chance to understand you and your mother and all that stuff your family believes in. Go ahead, give it a shot.” </p>
<p>“Okay, okay, here goes,” she announced, standing up and staying across the kitchen from him. “'He' visits all of our families, no exceptions. If your family believes in him, it makes it easier to accept him and what 'he' does. It even comes as sort of a relief . . . an end to the waiting. You see?” </p>
<p>“So why are you having such a hard time if 'he', whoever 'he' is, has decided to make his visit now? Haven’t you been a believer in all this stuff since you were a kid?” he wondered. </p>
<p>She lowered her head apologetically and uttered, “Because I stopped believing when I entered your world. But now, my belief is renewed just by talking about him. I think I’m going to be alright.” And then looking up, she added, “And mom’s going to be just fine, too. He’ll see to that.” </p>
<p>He moved across the kitchen until he got very close. He held her chin lovingly in his hand, looked into her eyes and asked, “Does 'he' have a name? Can you tell me?” </p>
<p>“We don’t say his name out loud. I’ve only seen it written down and in our language. So, no, I can’t tell you,” she said. </p>
<p>He moved away from her and went to the sink with his coffee cup. “Well, like I said before, you’re on your own then, you and your mother. I’ll try to be supportive, but there’s only so much I can give you since I don’t believe in all that stuff. By the way, have you seen my glasses.” </p>
<p>As she watched her husband wash his coffee cup, she noticed for the first time that he had his pajama bottoms on backwards and inside out, his slippers on the wrong feet, and his glasses sitting atop his head. </p>
<p>She felt comforted somewhat by an odd presence in the small kitchen. It was too bad her husband didn't feel it, too. It would be so much easier for him if he did. </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/64948032020-12-08T18:55:02-07:002020-12-08T18:55:02-07:00It's in the Details - By Brian Law<p>His secretary poked her head into his office and whispered, “He’s here, Boss. Do you want me to show him in?” </p>
<p>The Boss nodded and quickly tried to put the papers on his desk into some semblance of order before she returned. He didn’t want to give this important visitor the wrong impression. As he managed to push the last clump of papers into one of his desk drawers, his office door opened and his secretary announced, “This is James Michaels, Boss. I’ll get you both some coffee.” </p>
<p>The Boss stood, held out his hand, and chuckled, “My, my, James Michaels. It’s about time we met, isn’t it?” Michaels had been a contributing writer to TrickEndings.com for several years but no one at the company had ever met him and no picture of him existed. And now here he was in the Boss’s office. “You’re not quite what I expected, James,” the Boss added. </p>
<p>“Neither are you, Boss. May I call you Boss?” Michaels retorted. </p>
<p>“Touché, and sure, sure, everybody does,” the Boss continued. “Have a seat, will ya? I know you’re probably pretty busy these days, but I’d like to ask you the question that everybody who reads your stories is asking. You don’t mind, do you?” </p>
<p>Just then the secretary returned with a coffee serving, which she placed on the desk. As she poured out two cups, she stole a glance at Michaels and then shot a look at the Boss as if to say, ‘Not exactly what I expected, Boss!’ As she finished with the coffee, she served Michaels and then with a smile left the room. </p>
<p>Michaels leaned forward, his arms on the desk and replied, “You want to know why my stories have such disquieting trick endings, don’t you, Boss? That’s really what your readership wants to know. Why are my trick endings so different from the run-of-the-mill trick endings that you typically traffic in, right?” </p>
<p>The Boss nodded, took a sip of his coffee, and waited for Michaels to continue. “We’ve all seen the ‘Halloween’ series of movies and we all know that Michael is Death. And that everybody except the star is going to die gruesomely at his hands in each movie. But we want to see how each of them dies. Each one must suffer a separate and distinct fate. That’s what draws people back to each new sequel. You with me so far, Boss?” </p>
<p>The Boss now leaned in himself and replied, “So, what you’re saying is that we all know what’s in store for each of us. It’s just that there might be a trick ending in it for each of us? Am I getting your drift here, James?” </p>
<p>Michaels agreed, “That’s it. Life ends, but nobody knows how or what happens next. They are all looking for the answer. It’s the human condition.” </p>
<p>The Boss leaned back and asked, “Okay, but I’m getting the idea that you think there’s something in your stories in particular that suggests to the readers that you may know the answer.” </p>
<p>Michaels smiled cryptically and said, “Isn’t that what you think, too, Boss?” </p>
<p>“Maybe,” the Boss added. He prided himself on not letting others know what he was thinking, but this Michaels fellow and his stories really intrigued him. “What about the ending in your story ‘Webster Finds His Calling’? That was the story that got the most responses. It was really overwhelming. The readers were fascinated by the specter you created around Webster’s last moments on Earth. Most said it left them feeling empty and hopeless. But regardless, everyone who read it had a strong opinion.” </p>
<p>“And you, Boss, what did you think when you read it?” Michaels wondered. </p>
<p>“Me?” the Boss replied. “Well, to tell you the truth, I called in my secretary, had her read it, and asked her what she thought of it. She’s sort of my ‘Guardian Angel’, James. So she told me and that’s when I reached out to you so we could have this little discussion.” </p>
<p>Michaels shifted in his seat, looked over his shoulder at the slightly open office door, and uttered, “Guardian Angel, huh? Interesting.” </p>
<p>“Yes, and after meeting with you, James, I’ve decided that it’s in the best interest of our readers that we discontinue publishing your stories. And I’m deleting all your stories that we have published so far. Am I getting through to you, Michaels?” the Boss declared, scowling. </p>
<p>Michaels smiled, put his bony hands together in his lap, and replied, “I guess we have to go through this same charade each century, don’t we, Boss? I gain a toehold and you try desperately to crush it. So predictable. Well, I have other offers, so I guess our little discussion is over. See you online, Boss.” </p>
<p>“Not if I can help it, Michaels,” the Boss shot back. "And by the way, nice try on the election. Close, but no cigar, Michaels," he added, but by that time his visitor had vanished. </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/64745962020-11-10T19:27:43-07:002020-11-10T19:27:43-07:00Cleansing - By Brian Law<p>“Hi, Missy. This is Bob Watkins from Santa Rosa. You remember me. My wife and I are coming to the ‘Spa’ this weekend and we wanted to make reservations,” he said into his phone. </p>
<p>“Oh, hi, Bob. Sure, let me just get my appointments calendar out here. Now, what are you two going to want as far as our services are concerned, “ Missy answered. </p>
<p>“The usual. I want a mud bath and massage on Saturday, and so does my wife. And on Sunday we’d both like the hot rocks and a steam bath,” Bob requested. </p>
<p>“No problem. I’ll book you Saturday morning and Sunday afternoon. As I recall, that’s sort of what you prefer,” she replied. </p>
<p>“Sounds good, Missy. See you then,” Bob responded. But just before he hung up, Missy came back with, “We have something new this year, Bob. We’ve developed it especially for our older clientele. I think you and your wife might be interested. Want to hear some more about it?” Missy teased. </p>
<p>“Sure, why not. We have the whole weekend, Missy.” </p>
<p>“Well, it’s called a “Soul Cleansing” and it takes about two hours and we charge $125 per customer. It’s really wonderful and our clients rave about it, Bob,” she gushed. </p>
<p>“Did I hear you correctly? A ‘Soul Cleansing'? You’d better explain that a bit more, Missy. But I’m interested. I mean at my age who wouldn’t?” Bob responded. </p>
<p>“We have purchased a device that you sit in and it detects the condition of your soul. It rates your soul’s condition on a scale of 1 to 10. One being that you’re basically going to Hell, Bob. And 10 being you won’t need to pay the $125. But for anything in between, we put you through a series of processes that basically wash away many of the impurities on your soul. Then we put you back in the device and you can see the improvement in your soul’s condition. Interested, Bob?” Missy explained. </p>
<p>There was a pause on his end of the line as he thought about what to say next. “Missy let’s say I get into the device and my number is 1. What is the typical improvement after the two hour treatment? “ Bob wondered. </p>
<p>“That’s a great question, Bob, and I’ll tell you why. Since there’s no number lower than 1, we’ve discovered that your individual improvement depends upon how deeply depressed the condition of your soul really is. Some people who register 1 are just really shallow 1’s. But some are really degraded 1’s. So, how much you improve depends upon how bad a life you’ve lived.” She paused and then probed a bit, “Bob, what are we looking at here? Have you lived a really bad life?” </p>
<p>Bob breathed deeply as he contemplated his answer. “Look, I wasn’t a monster or anything, okay? But I’m not proud of much of what I’ve done in my life, Missy. So, let’s just assume my soul is a middling 1. What kind of improvement might I achieve?” </p>
<p>He could hear Missy talking to someone in the background before she came back on the line, “Bob, I just talked to the device operator and he thinks you might get to a 4 number. Still, that’s a pretty good improvement for just $125.” </p>
<p>“That’s good to know, Missy. Now, just two questions. First, if I do the process on Saturday and get to a 4, can I go back in on Sunday and do it again, hoping maybe to raise that to a 7? And second, if my wife also goes through the process and she gets a high number, say like an 8, will it change her personality? I mean will we still have the same relationship as before? She won’t, like, become saintly or anything, will she?” </p>
<p>Missy laughed a bit on her end of the line and then answered Bob’s two questions. “You can do ‘back-to-backs’, Bob, and you will get a bump with the second process. As far as your wife, we make sure both husband and wife leave the ‘Spa’ with the same soul number. We’ve discovered that if we don’t do that, some marital problems creep in later on. So, we make sure everyone is simpatico on a soul level when they leave. So, what do you say, Bob? Have I convinced you to try our ‘Soul Cleansing’ process?” </p>
<p>She’d had enough experience selling this process to know it wasn’t always a slam dunk. And she thought she probably knew what was going on in Bob’s mind as she waited for his response. So she took a chance and asked one last question, “Bob, are you concerned about your ability to sell cars after you leave the ‘Spa’? Is that what’s concerning you?” </p>
<p>“Frankly, Missy, yes, that’s it precisely. I’m kinda torn between what’s going to happen after I die and how I’m going to make a living before that. Does that make sense to you?” Bob lamented. </p>
<p>“It sure does, Bob. So here’s what I’m going to recommend. Why don’t you wait until you retire before getting the process? That way you can have the best of both worlds. You can still sell the hell out of cars and get into heaven when you die. Sound like a good solution to you, Bob?” Missy proposed. </p>
<p>She could sense the relief in Bob’s voice as he answered, “Missy, you’re the best. I got a couple of years before I retire and I really want to make the most of those years. So, we’ll delay the process until then. But in the meantime, kiddo, if you’re ever in Santa Rosa, come on into Bob Watkins Chevrolet and Buick and I’ll give you a deal you won’t believe!” </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/64745952020-11-10T19:27:12-07:002020-11-10T19:27:12-07:00The Racoons Came Again Last Night - By Brian Law<p>The violin music from his radio swept over him as he settled back into his recliner in the den. Everything was just about perfect, he thought, smug in his comfortable house. As Summer merged into Fall, he had done everything on his list to get ready for the change in season. His garden was flourishing, his lawn and trees were vibrant, his back deck newly restained, and his view towards the nearby forest cleared away. True, he couldn’t interact with others because of the virus, but still it was near perfect, except for the racoons. </p>
<p>They came at night or early morning when he slept. They dug up his garden a bit, tipped over the garbage cans, slopped water from the watering cans all over, and left their paw prints on the deck and on his windows. It was a minor inconvenience to clean up after them, but that wasn’t what bothered him. What really got to him was their complete freedom from everything, their disdain for convention, and their apparent immunity from the virus. They just did whatever they wanted without reference to the human world around them. </p>
<p>They had adapted perfectly to the situation and it bothered him deeply. They came and went with abandon and they even had their own little face masks provided to them by Mother Nature. They’d been like this for millennia, he mused, and would probably be here after Climate Change battered humanity into fleeing. </p>
<p>A loneliness started to creep over him, a feeling he hadn’t experienced even though his situation certainly would have justified it before now. He looked around and inspected the room he was in. It was clean, neat, well-decorated and lonely, just like all the other rooms in his perfect little home. </p>
<p>He checked his watch. It was close to one-thirty in the morning. He sat still, thought about things one more time, then got up and went to the sliding glass door that led to the deck. He pulled back the curtain just a bit and moved back about ten feet. </p>
<p>He didn’t have to wait long. The motion activated deck light came on about ten minutes later and he could see five of them on the deck. They seemed unperturbed by the light and the big one slowly moved towards the sliding glass door and peered in. There was just enough light for it to see him standing there, ten feet away. For a moment, they stared at each other. Then, the big one got up on its hind legs and put its paws on the glass slider and just continued to look in. Some of the others gathered around him, also looking in. </p>
<p>He didn’t know why at the time, but he took off his bathrobe and let it drop to the floor. Looking back on what he did next, he couldn’t really explain it very well. But he remembered going to the sliding door, opening it, and getting down on all fours next to the big one. The others gathered around him, made soothing sounds for a few moments, and then all of them trundled off together towards the forest. </p>
<p>It wasn’t until his eyes got accustomed to the dark and he got up to the tree line that he saw the others who were waiting and watching, and who like him had decided to change their lifestyle. </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/64505422020-10-06T17:36:45-07:002020-10-12T13:22:18-07:00The Coroner's Children - By Brian Law<p>“Nobody liked them much,” the skinny teenager whispered to her friend. “But nobody expected this. I mean, they’re just kids, right?” </p>
<p>The two stood shivering in the rain on the sidewalk across from the children’s home. Yellow crime scene tape and cops were everywhere and the press had just started to arrive. Word travels fast in a small town, especially when there’s suspicious behavior in a prominent family. But the two teenagers had their own unique pipeline to the Coroner’s family. Their mother was the housekeeper for the prominent family and was being questioned by the police. And the story she hinted at was nothing short of bone chilling. </p>
<p>They isolated the housekeeper in a corner of the kitchen and made sure no one interrupted them as they asked their questions. The first one was the big one, “Were there problems between the kids and their parents?” </p>
<p>The housekeeper fidgeted with the towel in her hands as she answered, “Well, the kids didn’t have any friends. And they blamed their father for that.” She fussed with the towel, looked nervously at the detectives, and then added, “The other kids in the neighborhood called their Dad ‘The Ghoul’ and things like that. Nobody wanted anything to do with the kids. It was sad.” </p>
<p>“So, did the kids act out? Did you see any behavior that you thought was out of the ordinary?” the burly detective asked. </p>
<p>“Oh, no question! The daughter especially. She was cutting herself and stealing alcohol from her Dad’s liquor cabinet. And the boy, he was starting to wear makeup and to dye his hair. You know, stuff like that. Not normal,” the housekeeper related. </p>
<p>“And when did you come to work for the family?” was the next question. </p>
<p>“Oh, about twelve years ago when they first arrived in town. He had left his job as the Coroner for a small city upstate and got the job down here. The kids were just toddlers, really, when I first got the job,” she answered. </p>
<p>“Had you ever seen the children be violent before towards their parents?” the burly detective asked, stubbing out his cigarette. </p>
<p>Shaking her head and lowering it, the housekeeper reluctantly murmured, “No, never before. It was just after I saw something that I shouldn’t have seen that the kids attacked their parents.” </p>
<p>As she looked up at the two detectives, she sensed their excitement about her last statement as they stopped writing in their notebooks and leaned in closer, “So, you saw something unusual? Go on.” </p>
<p>“Uh, well I had to get some cleaning solution from the workshop. So, I went out the back door and walked back there, but I didn’t go in. The door was slightly open and I saw the parents standing over something on the table. And they were, like, chanting or something,” she said. “I got a bit closer and saw that they had a young child in a body bag. Obviously dead, you know, from the morgue where the father works. And they were chanting something over and over again.” </p>
<p>“Okay, now, are you sure there was a stiff on the table?” </p>
<p>“I’m sure.” </p>
<p>“Could you remember what they were chanting?” </p>
<p>“Uh-huh. Something like, ‘Accept our offering, Osiris. Here lies Emily. Please let her cross over, let her cross over’. Yeah, that’s it, they were chanting that over and over until they saw me and then he slammed the door shut and I went right back into the house.” </p>
<p>“And about how long after that did the fight between the kids and the parents take place?” </p>
<p>“Oh, about twenty minutes, I’d say. The kids probably followed me out to the workshop and had seen what I saw. That’s my guess. Pissed ‘em off something terrible. They attacked their parents while they were still in the workshop!” </p>
<p>Just then, a third detective stuck his head into the kitchen and in a hushed voice said to the burly detective, “Joe, the EMT’s just told me they found something that they missed when they were treating the parents in the workshop.” </p>
<p>“Don’t tell me,” the burly cop answered, “It’s a child, a little girl, right?” </p>
<p>“Yeah, Joe, how’d you know? And here’s the weird part. The EMT’s tell me they’ve never seen anybody with a body temperature that low who was still alive.” </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/64505412020-10-06T17:36:00-07:002020-10-06T17:36:00-07:00Smile for Me - By Brian Law<p>“This is Julie. Welcome to ‘Smile for Me’. How can I help you today?” she chirped, adjusting her headpiece. </p>
<p>“Hi, I’m a first time caller, so you’re going to have to be patient,” he responded. </p>
<p>“No problem, sir. The way we usually start is to ask your age and whether you live alone or not. Do you feel comfortable answering those two questions, sir?” Julie continued. </p>
<p>“Yeah, okay, I can do that. I live with my daughter and her two kids in a little house on the edge of town. Oh, and I’m seventy,” he replied. </p>
<p>“Great. Now, how would you expect to pay for your order today? We take most major credit cards and PayPal. And, if you join our Smile Forever Club, your first order is free! Are you familiar with our Smile Forever Club, sir?” Julie asked. </p>
<p>“I don’t think I’ll need the Club deal.” he said, a bit exasperated. “I mean this stupid virus can’t hang on forever. All I need is just one or two visits, you know, just a tune-up. I just need someone to show me how to smile again. I’m sure that’s all it’ll take. It’s kind of like riding a bicycle, right? And I’ll just pay with my Visa.” </p>
<p>Julie entered some data into her computer and then came back on the phone, “You’ve indicated that you think just one or two visits will do the trick. Is that right, sir? I’m only asking because we’re finding that learning how to smile again, especially with our older clients, can be a challenge.” </p>
<p>He muttered something to himself, and then told her, “No, let’s just go with two visits.” </p>
<p>“Right, sir. Now, our cheapest package is the Slow Drive-by Smile. You stand on the curb and one of our smilers will very slowly smile as they pass you by. The next cheapest is the Doorbell Smile where our smiler will smile into your doorbell camera. And of course there’s our personal package which is the most expensive. That would be the Six Foot and Holding Smile package, most likely in your front yard. Our smiler will actually meet with you and talk you through the whole process. Do you want me to repeat any of that information, sir?” she wondered. </p>
<p>“No, no, I think I’ve got it. Here’s what I want to do. I’ll take a Doorbell Smile package followed-up by a Six Foot and Holding Smile package. Different days, okay? That should do it,” he answered excitedly. “Oh, do you allow groups, you know, like me and my daughter and her two kids?” </p>
<p>“You bet, sir. There’s a small surcharge, but we certainly can accommodate your whole family. So, I’m going to take your personal information now, sir, and we’ll start the process. Can I have your address first of all.” </p>
<p>“Sure, I live at the intersection of Delight Street and Joy Avenue. Do you know the area?” he asked. </p>
<p>“Of course. We do a lot of business out in your part of town, sir. It can be a little rough at night, but during the day our smilers haven't had too many problems.” </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/64505402020-10-06T17:35:10-07:002020-10-06T17:35:41-07:00Mysterious Ways - By Brian Law<p>The police sergeant pulled his cruiser into its assigned parking slot at the Hollywood Division, shut-off the engine, began making a few entries onto his clipboard and remarked, “So, Dudley, this is it. You’ve just completed your training period with the L.A.P.D. You got anything to add before I go in and complete my training report on you, son?” the sergeant said, still making some last entries. </p>
<p>“No, sergeant,” Dudley replied, “I think you have a good idea of what kind of police officer I’ll make. You know how I think and act. So, no, I think I’ll just leave it at that.” </p>
<p>The training officer put down his clipboard and looked over at Dudley and asked in a serious voice, “So you stand by all that stuff about God putting you here to do his will? You don’t want to back off from some of that?” </p>
<p>“No, sergeant,” Dudley responded just as seriously, “I am merely an instrument of the Lord Almighty. This baton, this spray, this taser, this pistol, they have been put into my hands to do his bidding. That’s what I’ve told you from the first day and it still stands today.” </p>
<p>The sergeant paused and then asked, “But you’ll follow Department Protocols, right?” </p>
<p>“There are laws that come from a higher authority, sergeant, and I am bound to follow those laws first. The Ten Commandments are my Protocols, sergeant,” came Dudley’s reply. </p>
<p>“Right,” the sergeant interjected, “but are you going to pull that weapon on someone just because they stole something or used the Lord’s name in vain?” </p>
<p>Dudley smiled for the first time today as he replied confidently, “The Lord works in mysterious ways, sergeant. I am merely his instrument. But I am not a foolish or violent person, either, and the Lord knows that. That’s why I’ve been chosen.” </p>
<p>The sergeant nodded, took a deep breath, and said, “Well, that’s good to know, Dudley. Why don’t you pack it in and I’ll go talk to the Captain about your training. Don’t worry, you passed with flying colors, son.” He held out his hand and Dudley shook it enthusiastically. “But I want you to do me a small favor, Dudley?” his training officer added </p>
<p>“Sure, sergeant,” Dudley responded, “anything you want.” </p>
<p>“Don’t tell anyone else what you have told me, okay? You know, about being God’s instrument and all that. Just keep all that under your cap. Do me that favor, will you? I think you’ll find out you will be a lot more effective if you do,” the sergeant said, again in a very serious voice. </p>
<p>Dudley nodded and the two of them went their separate ways. The sergeant smiled as he watched Dudley walk away knowing he’d keep his promise. Then the sergeant knocked on the Captain’s door. “A moment of your time, sir?” he requested. </p>
<p>Looking up, the Captain motioned him in and asked, “What’s up, sergeant?” </p>
<p>“Well, sir, it’s about trainee Dudley. He’s just finished his training and I wanted to talk to you about him if I may?” the sergeant replied. </p>
<p>The Captain put down his pen and indicated for the sergeant to go ahead. Clearing his throat, the sergeant started, “Dudley is going to make a fine officer, sir. He’s cool-headed, smart, patient, and instills confidence in others. But I wanted to make just one request of you, sir?” </p>
<p>“Sure, sergeant. You’re my best trainer so I take your requests very seriously. What is it?” the Captain asked. </p>
<p>The sergeant shifted in his chair and then asked, “I request that you partner Dudley up with Clancy, sir. I think they’d make a good pair.” </p>
<p>The Captain leaned back in his chair, his arms behind his head, as he asked, “I’d heard rumors that you and Clancy had issues, sergeant. Any truth to that?” </p>
<p>“No, sir, none at all. I have the greatest respect for Officer Clancy. Otherwise I wouldn’t make this request, sir,” came the sergeant’s reply. </p>
<p>“Okay, then, sergeant. I’ll make that happen on the strength of your recommendation. Dudley will be partnered up with Clancy as of Monday morning. Anything else, sergeant?” the Captain inquired. </p>
<p>“No, sir,” the sergeant replied as he got up out of his chair and headed for his locker. He smiled again for the second time today as he thought about just how long it would take Clancy to start bragging to Dudley about how he was screwing the sergeant’s wife. And about just how long it would take patrolman Dudley to dutifully administer God’s wrath for this grievous violation of the Seventh Commandment. </p>
<p>He gave it a week at the outside. </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/64505392020-10-06T17:34:36-07:002020-10-06T17:34:36-07:00Moving Violation - By Brian Law<p>He knew it was risky, but he had no choice. He’d agreed to take Tricia for the weekend because his ex-wife had to go on one of her ‘business trips’, and if he didn’t take their daughter as a favor, he’d pay for it later in some Reno lawyer’s office. That he knew for sure. </p>
<p>The problem that made it tricky was that he was on call, too. It was his weekend ‘in the barrel’. He had to stay home near the phone with his truck loaded and ready to go, waiting for a service call. And just as he and his daughter settled in to watch the football game, the call came in. One look at who was calling and he knew he couldn’t duck it, which also meant it would be a four-hour round trip with Tricia by his side. Which would probably be alright except it was Sally’s Pleasure Ranch calling. </p>
<p>“Butch, this is Misty out at Sally’s. You’re on call today, huh? Good, haven’t seen you in a while. Look, our normal service is tomorrow, but we’re getting slammed this weekend. Horny devils! Anyway, we need you right now, Butchie Boy! The regular order. . . . and I know it’s already in the truck, ” the caller insisted in a nice way. </p>
<p>Butch thought for a moment, then answered, “Listen, Misty, I got a little problem here. My daughter has to come with me today. It’s a long story.” </p>
<p>Misty took a long drag on her perfumed cigarette, watched the smoke rise to the ceiling of the mobile home they called the lobby and finally said, “Do you have any idea what would happen if your little daughter was seen inside the compound, Butchie Boy? Any idea? We’d be on the front page of the Carson City newspaper so fast. And forget about our license.” </p>
<p>“Look, she’ll stay in the van,” Butch promised. “I’ll be in and out with your laundry order in, what, five minutes. You’re right, it’s all in the truck . . . the towels, the sheets, pillowcases, and the rubberized blankets, everything. But, bottom line, my daughter stays in the truck the whole time. Gotta be that way, Misty!” </p>
<p>“Okay, but we’re going to run it differently, then. You get here at three-thirty sharp, right? On the button, Butch! Carlos and Rory will meet you by the rear entrance. And Butch, have that little girl covered up before you get here. So far, so good?” Misty replied. </p>
<p>“Yeah, yeah, Carlos and Rory at three-thirty. I can make that easy,” Butch added. </p>
<p>“Okay, they’ll punch in the gate code, and you back in this time. Stay in the van with the kid and Carlos and Rory will unload the van for you. Don’t get out of that van, no matter what, okay? The surveillance cameras won’t pick up the front of the van if you back in, so you’ll be fine. Any questions, Butchie Boy?” </p>
<p>“Nope, I’m good. See you at three-thirty . . . sharp, Misty,” was Butch’s answer as he hung up his phone and turned towards his daughter. </p>
<p>“Honey, change of plans. We gotta make a delivery. Sorry. So get your doll and your blanket. We’ll be leaving in just a minute, okay?” Butch asked her. </p>
<p>“Sure, Daddy. We going to Sally’s in the desert, Daddy?” </p>
<p>Butch froze. ‘Did she just say what I think she said? My five year old daughter knows about Sally’s Pleasure Ranch?’ “Uh, yeah, honey, that’s where we’re going.” ‘Should I ask her how she knows? Do I really want to know?’ </p>
<p>But before he could get up the nerve to ask his daughter, she piped up, “Oh, good, Daddy. Mommy says she worked there before she met you. That’s where she met grandpa and uncle Jeff.” </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/64505382020-10-06T17:33:52-07:002020-10-06T17:33:52-07:00Homespun - By Brian Law<p>“I know, I know, Mr. Secretary. You keep reminding me, but my upbringing was different than yours,” the tall man with deeply sunken eyes related, his voice slow and patient. “You grew up in Ohio in a fine house next to other fine houses. Now, myself, well, I grew up on a farm, and not much of one at that, Mr. Secretary.” </p>
<p>His Secretary of War stewed at what he thought was just more claptrap from this man from Illinois. But he knew that the man sitting across from him was not swayed by ire or threats. So, he proceeded carefully and with as much decorum as he could muster, he continued, “Mr. President, I implore you to reconsider my recommendations. I am quite sure that after careful thought, you’ll realize they can shorten this terrible war and bring an honorable peace to this divided nation. After all, those are our ultimate goals, are they not. Sir?” </p>
<p>The President stood, puffed on his pipe for a moment, then turned to Secretary Stanton, and began speaking, “You know, Edwin, mice like dark, damp areas. So in the barn, you need to keep the aisles, stalls, and storage areas well-drained and well-lit.” Letting those words sink in, he continued to puff on his pipe and eyed his Secretary of War. </p>
<p>Stanton was close to the end of his tether. He’d heard this President go on and on about the wisdom of the farm and the old ways. ‘Why couldn’t the fool just deal with the problems at hand straight-on?’ he fumed to himself. But from experience, he knew this man from Illinois wasn’t finished spinning the wool from his agrarian past into policy just yet. So he just nodded and waited. </p>
<p>“And don’t stack fence rails near the barn, either. You may recall that I used to split fence rails as a young man, Edwin. And I learned as a young ‘un not to stack them too close to the barn. Provides too much shelter to rodents,” the President continued, slowly puffing on his pipe and looking out the window. </p>
<p>Stanton waited for the inevitable conclusion of this homespun missive; his hands clasped in his lap. President Lincoln turned and added, “And you have to keep the lids on those garbage cans at all times, Edwin, and empty them frequently.” With that, he sat down and asked, “So, have I made myself clear, Mr. Secretary? Do you understand my position on your recommendations?’ </p>
<p>Stanton breathed in deeply, nodded once and replied, “Of course, Sir. We’ll continue the Anaconda Policy without let-up. Our blockades at sea, our attacks from the rivers, and our forays in the border states shall continue unabated. There will be no reconciliation with Southern Politicians and no quarter given anywhere, Sir. Have I understood your comments correctly, Mr. President?” </p>
<p>“You have, Edwin, you have. You would have made a fine farmer, Mr. Secretary. And keeping the mice out of the barn is a mark of a fine farmer.” </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/64345802020-09-15T18:02:42-07:002020-09-15T18:02:42-07:00There's A Tiger In the Men's Room - By Brian Law<p>The pub wasn’t crowded given that it was mid-morning on a Thursday. In fact, the two young men were the only two at the bar and neither knew the other, although they both wore NYU sweatshirts. At some point, one said to the other, “I got out in ‘13. When did you graduate?” And with that, a conversation started and the two got to know each other quickly and soon forgot the football game they had been watching. </p>
<p>“And after that, I went to work for a publishing company,” the younger man related as they talked, “and then I quit to write a novel. That’s what I’m doing right now. Well, not right now, but when I’m at my apartment. You get the idea, right?” </p>
<p>The other one laughed and told his story. He, too, had started writing a novel, and when that hadn’t panned-out, he went to work for a publisher, which was where he was working at the moment. </p>
<p>The irony of their circumstances was not lost on them as they compared notes on how and how not to write a novel. And at one point, the other one asked, “Say, how would you like to play a little bar game? It’s kind of like ‘Liar’s Dice’, but more intellectual. Here, let me explain the rules.” The younger one agreed and for the next ten minutes the rules of this intellectual little bar game were explained to him. </p>
<p>Finally, the younger one asks, “So, let me get this straight. We both put money in the pot, and then one of us makes a statement. And the other one either has to accept what was said, or else forces the issue. In other words, prove it! Right so far?” </p>
<p>The other one nodded and added, “The money in the pot then goes to either the guy who made the statement and then proved it or to the other guy who forced the issue and found out that it wasn’t true. Yep, you got it!” But then he added, “But after each round, the amount of money each of us puts in goes up by a factor of 3. So if we start out with putting in one dollar each, the next time it is three dollars, then nine dollars, then twenty seven dollars, yada yada, okay?” The younger one said he understood and said he had enough money for a few rounds. </p>
<p>“So,” the other one suggests, “Let’s both put in a dollar and I’ll go first.” With that, both threw in a dollar each and the other one says, “Okay, I know what day of the week you were born on.” </p>
<p>The younger one smiled, focused his gaze on the other one and then said, “Go ahead, prove it.” </p>
<p>“You were born on a Thursday.” </p>
<p>The younger one continued to smile as he scooped up the two dollars and announced, “Sorry, wrong day. Now, it’s my turn.” They both threw in three dollars each and the younger one said, “I know four digits of your social security number.” The older one put out hands as if to say Prove it! as the younger one pronounced, “One, three, six, and nine!” </p>
<p>“Wow, so close!” laughed the older one as he picked-up the pot. </p>
<p>And so it went, back and forth, with no one really winning big over the other. But at some point, the pot grew to $2,187.00 and there was now quite a crowd around the two young men. This amount of money was significant to both of the men, and it was unclear whether the loser could come up with enough to make the next pot. </p>
<p>The small crowd was hushed as the other man took his turn, but not without first staring coldly at the younger man. “Okay. Here we go. There’s a tiger in the Men’s Bathroom.” </p>
<p>The crowd as one let out a gasp! Looking around at each other, they knew instinctively that there must be a trick here, but no one could figure out what the other man’s angle was. It couldn’t possibly be true, but then why would he make such an outlandish proposition? </p>
<p>Without moving as much as a finger, the younger man quietly asked, “Just let me get this straight. You are saying that there is a real live tiger in the Men’s Room. Not a stuffed tiger, or a picture of a tiger, or a porcelain tiger, but a real, honest-to-goodness tiger, right?” The other man nodded slowly. </p>
<p>“And I was here when you arrived. And for most of that time, it’s just been the two of us. And I’ve been to the Men’s Room twice during that entire time, and you haven’t gone even once. And you want me to just sit here and accept that statement?” the younger man said, his voice getting louder. “You must be out of your mind.” </p>
<p>The crowd seemed to agree as the other man just sat there and said nothing. After a moment, he looked at his watch and said, “Well, is there a tiger in the bathroom or not? Your call.” </p>
<p>The younger man looked at the pot and couldn’t help wondering if there was some sort of con game going on. Is it possible there was a tiger in the bathroom? Or some trick he hadn’t picked-up on? As the crowd urged him to call the pot, the young man hesitated. He finally gulped and stood up and said, “Prove it!” The crowd went wild with excitement as they moved quickly away from the table to allow the other man access to the Men’s Bathroom. But instead, the other man relented and said to the younger man, “Look, she’s gentle. She won’t hurt you. Just go up to the door, open it just a crack and say ‘Sabra’. That’s her name. She’ll just sit down and let you pet her. Yes, you can actually pet her!” </p>
<p>The crowd instinctively made a path for the younger man as he turned and walked slowly towards the Men’s Bathroom. His palms were sweating and he was breathing quickly as everyone pressed close to him as he approached the door. Taking one more look back, he could see the older man standing by the table, alone, watching, a strange look on his face. </p>
<p>Then, turning back to the door, his hand went out and grasped the stainless steel door handle. The crowd had gone hushed as they pressed in on him hoping to get a first glimpse of what was behind the door. </p>
<p>The younger man put his face close to the door, opened it a crack and whispered in a nervous voice, ‘Sabra’. Hearing nothing, he opened the door a bit more and repeated, ‘Sabra’, this time a bit louder. The crowd, in its eagerness, leaned in too close and accidentally pushed him through the partly opened door into the Men’s Bathroom and onto the floor. And there was no tiger. Others opened the stalls and found nothing. </p>
<p>Patting the younger one on the shoulders, the crowd noisily led him out to collect his pot and celebrate his victory, only to find an empty table and no other man. </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/64345792020-09-15T18:01:46-07:002020-09-15T18:01:46-07:00Conjuring - By Brian Law<p>Without taking his eyes off the television set, he reached over and extracted another potato chip from the bag on the side table. He even knew what the next pitch was going to be since he’d watched the ESPN reruns of the fifth game of the 1956 World’s Series four times this week. But he was still mesmerized by the game because it was his first real baseball game with his Dad after he recovered from polio when he was ten years old. And then the screen went blank. </p>
<p>Still chewing on his chip, he looked around and saw his wife standing behind his chair, the remote in her hand and that sour look of hers on her face. “Stay right there where you are, Mister! I have something I want to show you,” she growled as she put the remote down and picked up something else. </p>
<p>He froze, trying to figure out just what he had done now as she appeared in front of him holding a large book. Uh-oh, he said to himself not moving an inch, She found it. I’m in trouble now! </p>
<p>“I decided to do some deep cleaning this morning. I was feeling pretty good since my little stay in the hospital, and I thought I should get this place back into ship shape. And look what I found in the linen closet! In the linen closet, of all places!” she yelled, waiving the book in his face, “Where you didn’t think I’d find it in my weakened condition, right?” </p>
<p>He clumsily mumbled, “Look, I can explain. It’s. . . . it’s not what it looks like,” knowing full well it was exactly what it looked like. </p>
<p>She not so gently threw the large old book down on the side table next to his chair, knocking the bag of chips to the floor. “We had an understanding, remember? You told me. . . no, you promised me you would never look at this damn book again! And what do I find after my little stay in the hospital? You’ve taken it from its eternal hiding place in the attic and have stored it in the linen closet while I’ve been away! So, husband, just what have you been up to, anyway?” </p>
<p>He picked up the dusty old tome and quickly glanced at its cover which read, ‘Blackstone’s Big Book of Magical Spells and Incantations, Volume 1, 1885 edition’. Holding the book in his lap and with a beseeching look he asked, “Would you believe me if I told you it was for you?” </p>
<p>She paused for a moment and reflected back on her recent stay in the hospital. “Wait a minute. You’re saying that you broke your solemn promise never to use that book again while I was in the hospital?” He nodded slowly as she continued, “And just what day did you use it? Get it right ‘cause it’s important!” </p>
<p>He breathed in deeply, thought back to that day, and slowly answered, “It was last Thursday in the late afternoon. I was desperate, at my wit’s end. They had called and told me they were going to decide whether to intubate you in the next couple of hours. I didn’t know what else to do.” </p>
<p>He watched as she digested this information and then started to speak, a distant look in her eyes. “I was really sick, the fever, the pneumonia, the whole works. But I was aware of what day it was and what was going on. And it was that Thursday afternoon, late, that my fever broke and I started to rally. The doctor’s said it was a miracle ‘cause they were just about to put me on the ventilator. And we all knew what that probably meant.” </p>
<p>He gulped as he realized he was probably off the hook for his little transgression as she continued, “And it was all because of you and this damn book, eh? You crawled up into that dusty old attic of ours, you with your bad back and all, and rummaged around until you found where I had hidden it. I bet it took you awhile, right?” He smiled weakly and nodded. “And then you came down here, found just the right little chant and remembered just how to do it after all these years.” He watched as tears welled in her eyes, “And you saved me, you dear little man! Oh, my God!” </p>
<p>She bent down and kissed him again and again and again, sobbing all the while. For some reason he hoped she had tested negative before she left the hospital as he just sat there motionless clutching the old book in his hands. </p>
<p>Finally, wiping her eyes, she straightened-up, composed herself and announced, “Well, no matter. What’s done is done. But I want you to get right back up in that attic and return that book to its hiding place, you hear! I’ll find another place to hide it when I’m feeling better, someplace where you won’t find it again. But for now, just do what I say and I’ll forgive you this time.” And with that, she marched off with that old determined look in her face. </p>
<p>He remained sitting, the television still off, his bag of chips still laying on the floor, realizing that the game was probably over by now. He would do as she had commanded in just a few minutes, but he just sat there grateful that in her rage she hadn’t seen the little ‘post it note’ sticking it’s tiny yellow edge out from somewhere deep in the book. For if she had, and if she had opened the book to that certain page, this morning’s little episode might have ended very differently, for it read: </p>
<p>“Mother Blackstone’s Simple Chant for the Perfect Pot Roast Every Time!” </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/64345782020-09-15T18:01:15-07:002020-09-15T18:01:15-07:00What's The Capital of Myanmar - By Brian Law<p>The candidate was clearly tired and very frustrated as the debate preparations continued into their third hour. He looked over to his wife who was sitting with his Chief Strategist and complained, “Oh, come on! The other guy doesn’t know any of this malarkey! Why should I have to remember this stuff?” He picked-up the thick ‘Debate Preparation Workbook’ and dropped it on the podium with a THUD! to emphasize his exasperation. </p>
<p>His wife leaned over and conferred quickly with his advisors. After a moment, she turned to the candidate and honestly replied, “Honey, everyone knows the other guy is an idiot, okay? But he’s bullet proof on that score. It just doesn’t seem to matter to his base.” She paused for a second and then continued, “But he’s getting good at convincing swing voters that you might be ‘slipping’ a bit mentally. So, we’ve got to prove you’re on top of even the smallest detail of governing. We know it’s hard, but let’s just go for another hour or so and then we’ll call it a day, okay?” </p>
<p>The candidate looked at his watch and then nodded reluctantly and added, “But just one more hour. No more. So, go ahead with the next question?” </p>
<p>One of his assistants turned the page of the ‘Workbook’, conferred with the others, and then asked, “What is the capital of Myanmar, sir?” </p>
<p>His answer came in a clear and strong voice, “Naypyitaw”. </p>
<p>As the candidate stood in front of them, his outstretched arms firmly holding the podium and waiting for the next question, the others said nothing. There was amazement in their faces. This was not some old man struggling with a failing memory, they thought collectively. No, this was the former Vice-President, firmly in command of the facts and ready to rumble! </p>
<p>Finally his wife, grinning broadly, clapped her hands together and congratulated him. “Oh, Joe, that was marvelous! That’s the kind of reaction we want the American people to see during the debate. A resolute, knowledgeable candidate, in control of the details and confident of his abilities. Keep it up, honey!” Still smiling, she turned to his assistants and conferred again about what the next question should be. </p>
<p>The candidate smiled as he waited for the next question, his inner voice silently congratulating him. ‘You still got it!’ it was saying. ‘And that cute blonde in the front row who called you 'Honey' seems to be responding well, too. You should find out who she is and what’s she doing afterwards, you old dog.’ </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/64345552020-09-15T18:00:14-07:002020-09-15T18:00:14-07:00The Sand Dancer - By Brian Law<p>From their secluded perch atop the cliff above the beach, they could see him directly below, dancing in the sand, alone. “See, I told you,” he whispered to his girlfriend, “He’s here every Saturday evening, just before it gets real dark. Here, take a look through my binoculars.” </p>
<p>She adjusted them to her own eyes and watched the man moving below with fascination. As she did, she murmured, “He reminds me of Ted Danson in ‘Body Heat’. Remember? We rented it last month. ” </p>
<p>“Oh, yeah,” he said, “He danced on the pier during those hot summer nights to catch the cool breezes coming off the Gulf. Smooth, lithe, carefree, and smiling. His character danced to escape his daytime persona.” </p>
<p>She put down the binoculars and wondered, “That’s your explanation, huh? That’s why this older guy drives all the way down from Portland once a week just to dance alone in the sand in the dark? And you said it only lasts for about ten, fifteen minutes at the most. Weird.” </p>
<p>“Well, think about it,” he mused. “Just watching this guy makes me sort of want to do the same thing. You know, just let go of everything and dance. Maybe that’s all it takes, just a few minutes of joyous abandon, and then back to the grind. Kind of a battery recharge and all.” </p>
<p>“You think being with me is a grind? Is that what this is all about? You bring me out here to watch some weirdo dance by himself so you don’t have to come right out and tell me what you really feel about our relationship,” she quipped, taking another look with his binoculars. </p>
<p>“Shh! Keep your voice down, okay? He’ll hear us,” he whispered in annoyance. </p>
<p>“Well, maybe he should hear us. Maybe we need someone to explain our situation to you because you obviously are not really happy with the way things are going, are you? Battery recharge, my ass!” she hissed back. </p>
<p>“Okay, I’m listening to you. I understand what you’re saying , but just keep it down until he leaves, please! We’ll have plenty of time to talk afterwards, but this guy will be dancing for only a few more minutes.” </p>
<p>“Fine. Recharge. Whatever!” </p>
<p>As they stopped talking and just watched the dancing man on the sand below, the last light faded. And with that, the man on the beach stopped dancing, brushed himself off, picked up his suit jacket and started walking back towards the parking lot. As they watched and listened, it seemed like he was singing to himself, but it was hard to understand the words with the wind off the ocean and all. </p>
<p>They both just laid there in their hidden perch, breathing softly, and staring out onto the empty beach and the ocean beyond. Finally, he softly asked her, “Would you like to go down there and dance with me? Just for a few minutes, in the sand. Then we could just sit and talk things out. Interested?” </p>
<p>She turned to him, nodded, and as they both stood up, she took his hand in hers , squeezed it tightly, leaned against his shoulder and purred, “We need this.” </p>
<p>The man in the suit opened his convertible door and sat down in the driver’s seat. As he brushed off his feet and put his socks back on, he thought about his schedule for the upcoming week, “Let’s see, that guy in Canon Beach wants me dancing on the beach tomorrow night, then there’s the guy in Gearhart the night after that. Easy money!” </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/64345542020-09-15T17:59:18-07:002020-09-15T17:59:18-07:00Words - By Brian Law<p>“I must say, Mr. Byron, your resume is impressive,” the owner of Oneminutereads.com said, his eyes gazing out over the document in his hands at the young man seated in front of him. “But despite your admirable literary achievements, I really wonder if you’re right for our little organization. We’re not exactly highbrow, if you know what I mean.” </p>
<p>Jack Byron smiled and was prepared for this question. It was the 800 pound gorilla in the room and they both knew it. Why would someone who graduated from Columbia with an M.A. in English Lit, who had penned three short novels before he was twenty-seven, and who regularly had his essays published in literary magazines around the country, want to write cheesy short stories for an upstart website? He would have to have a plausible explanation, which he thought he had. </p>
<p>“Yes, well, let’s start with my novels. They sold a total of just under a thousand copies. Oh, and my father bought seven hundred of them. And as for my essays, I am paid a trivial amount per word and they are probably read by fewer than two thousand people a year. So, I guess what I’m telling you is that I want to reach a broader audience with my talent, and I think your website will precisely do that,” the young writer related. “That’s it in a nutshell.” </p>
<p>The owner pondered the young man’s comments and then added, “But this is demonstrably opposite of writing a novel or an essay. There’s no time to develop intricate thoughts or to create interesting characters. You have to do everything in an incredibly few words . . . setting, plot, characters, conflict, and themes. None of our ‘reads’ can exceed one thousand words. You understand that don’t you? Won’t your impressive brain get frustrated within those confines?” </p>
<p>The young writer nodded and answered, “Well, I understand the strictures you present for your writers. My plan is to start by writing a story of, say, three thousand words. Then I’ll start my rewrites, getting it down to two thousand words, then down to fifteen hundred words, and finally all the way down to one thousand words. It can be done and done well. Here, I’ll prove it to you.” </p>
<p>With that, he handed four separate documents, each carefully labeled, across the desk to the owner with the statement, “I’ve just handed you four versions of the same basic story. One version is about three thousand words, the next two thousand, the third fifteen hundred, and the final story is just under one thousand words. Now, if you would take some time and go through each version, I am confident you will attest to my ability to work through the confines of your requirements without frustrating my impressive brain.” He smiled, put his hands together on his lap, and waited. </p>
<p>The owner looked at his watch and saw that he just had enough time to read through all the versions and then decide. As he thumbed through each version, the young writer could hear the owner mumbling to himself, sometimes nodding his head, and once even letting out a loud guffaw. Finishing the final version of the story, the owner laid the document down on his desk and looked across to the young writer sitting there with his hands folded together in his lap. </p>
<p>“Let me tell you something about me and our readership before I tell you what I think of your story, Mr. Byron. First, I’ve never read anything longer than a couple of thousand words in my life until now. Never read a novel nor many magazine articles. I’ll admit it, I got a short attention span. But so do all my readers, too! They’ve never read any novels, either, or anything longer than most comic books. But let me tell you something, young man, they will read this rip-roaring whopper of a story you’ve written! Yes sir! And if this is any indication of what you can produce, you’ve found yourself a home here at Oneminutereads.com, son!” </p>
<p>Jack sat up a bit straighter and thanked the owner for his vote of confidence in his writing ability. And he added that he looked forward to being a productive member of his stable of writers and to write as many ‘rip-roaring whoppers’ as he could conjure up. Then he asked, “Did you have any questions about the final version of the story, sir?” </p>
<p>The owner looked at his watch again but was so excited he decided to be late for his next meeting. “Why ,yes, I do have some questions. Now, this ship captain, this Ahab fellow, he’s obsessed about killing this White Whale, right? Now, am I right in thinking that his basic motivation is . . . . . .” </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/64073092020-08-11T11:39:55-07:002020-08-11T11:39:55-07:00The Millers Make Minor Adjustments - By Brian Law<p>She raced down the stairs, panicked. Almost slipping as she took the corner on the lower landing, she headed for her husband in his den, and finding him, she panted, “It’s . . . Mom . . and Dad!” </p>
<p>“Mom and Dad what, honey?” he asked, turning around in surprise. “Is somebody in the hospital?” </p>
<p>“No, no!” she gasped, “They’ll be here in five minutes!” </p>
<p>“Oh, Jeez,” he exclaimed as he jumped out his chair and brushed past her moving quickly towards the family room. CNN was on the television and he fumbled with the remote until he finally got The Fox News Channel as she desperately went about collecting the sections of this morning’s Washington Post scattered about and replacing them with the Wall Street Journal. </p>
<p>As she rushed to the living room, he busied himself with replacing the pictures of President Obama with pictures of Presidents Trump and Reagan. In the living room, she changed the channel on the internet radio from Rush Limbaugh to NPR and as the doorbell rang, she hid the copy of June’s New Republic under the sofa cushion and replaced it on the coffee table with the National Review and The Bible. </p>
<p>Gathering themselves, they stood together at the front door as he opened it and she excitedly said, “Mom, Dad, how wonderful to see you! And on such short notice, too. C’mon in.” </p>
<p>The afternoon visit went fine. They managed to navigate the political issues her folks brought up without much consternation. The toughest part was trying to remember which colleges she had told them her kids were attending. She always got West Point confused with Annapolis. She felt guilty about those little lies, but if she had told them they were really at Berkeley and Oberlin College, it would have been too much for the old couple to take. </p>
<p>After the parents left, they sat down on the sofa, sighed, looked at each other and laughed. “Five minutes, our new record,” she joked. Just then his phone vibrated with a new text. “It’s my boss!” he yelled. “He’s on his way with his new girlfriend for a short visit. We don’t have much time!” </p>
<p>He retreated to the den to rehang President Obama’s picture and to hide the other ones while she went to the closet to retrieve copies of Ebony magazine which she put on the coffee table after removing the National Review and the Bible. As she got out the faux African masks to put up on the wall, her husband changed the channel on the television to Netflix and brought up BlackAF. Then, he raced to change the internet radio to the Barry White channel just as the doorbell rang. </p>
<p>“Well, hi, you guys,” he said as they met his boss and his new girlfriend at the door. “C’mon in. I know what you like, DeMarcus, but what will your lady be drinking?” </p>
<p>As his wife fixed the drinks, the three of them settled in on the sofa. DeMarcus introduced his girlfriend, Janelle, who was a recent graduate of Morehouse College. “Say, doesn’t one of your kids go to Morehouse?” Demarcus asked. “Oh, no, our boy goes to Dillard College and our daughter is going to Claflin University,” he replied proudly. </p>
<p>And for the next thirty minutes or so, the four of them had a great time and Janelle was particularly enchanting and knew quite a bit about African masks and Barry White. They planned to get together again real soon and hugged at the front door. </p>
<p>Collapsing on the sofa again, they said nothing for a few moments. Finally, chuckling to himself, he patted her on the knee and congratulated her on putting out the African masks. “Sheer genius,” he quipped as she smiled and just said, “Barry White, not bad either, cutie!” </p>
<p>As they slowly put the house back together to its original condition, they heard a quiet knocking on the front door. He tiptoed to the door and peeked out through the peep hole as she waited cautiously about ten feet away. She mouthed ‘Who Is It?’ He mouthed back ‘The Gay Couple Next Door!’ She nodded and moved next to him as he opened the door. </p>
<p>“Hi, we just moved in next door. I’m Randy and this is Charles. We just thought we’d introduce ourselves and maybe plan to get together soon with you to get to know each other better,” the thin one said. </p>
<p>Without any hesitation, he answered, “Great idea! How about this Saturday afternoon, here at our place, say about fourish? Just informal snacks and wine. We’d love to get to know you guys better, wouldn’t we, honey?” She quickly nodded and introduced themselves as the Millers, Bill, and Joanie. And soon the door was closed and they were alone again. </p>
<p>“Any ideas?” he wondered. She just shrugged, crossed her arms and replied, “Nope. This one’s going to take a little research. But we don’t have much time, so let’s divide the workload. You checkout Etsy and I’ll go see what I can borrow from Billy’s old music teacher in high school, you know, that Mr. Whatshisname, the bachelor! But the kids will be easy. We’ll just say we don’t have any, okay?” </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/64073082020-08-11T11:38:47-07:002020-08-11T11:38:47-07:00The Egg Lady - By Brian Law<p>As he turned the last corner before the end of his morning walk, a nondescript white van pulled-up alongside him and the young woman driving it yelled out, “Hey, I’m the Egg Lady. You need some?” </p>
<p>He stopped, looked over at her and through his mask asked, “You take credit cards?” </p>
<p>“Sure do,” she said as she pulled the van to the curb, shut off the engine, got out and went to the rear doors. “Okay, how many dozen you want?” she asked. </p>
<p>“Uh, I’ll take two dozen of the large, please,” he responded, and as she opened the door to the refrigerated compartment, he wondered, “So, you’ve been doing this since the Pandemic started, huh?” </p>
<p>She was about half inside the rear compartment and he could just hear her say, “Yeah, and business is booming, too! Had to add a bunch of hens. I’m driving around all day while my husband tends to our roadside stall out on Chalk Lane.” She crawled back onto the pavement with the order and asked, “Anything else before I ring you up?” </p>
<p>He was a bit confused as he asked, “You mean you got stuff other than just eggs in there? Like what?” </p>
<p>As she closed and locked the rear doors, she looked around as she moved closer to him. “Yeah, well we’ve diversified a bit to meet the emerging needs of a locked-down society, if you know what I mean?” </p>
<p>“You got any red meat?” he asked hopefully. </p>
<p>“Yep, and some pork, too.” </p>
<p>“Liquor?” </p>
<p>“Three brands of beer, some rum and a few bottles of red wine. That’s about it for the booze? </p>
<p>“Uh,” he paused for a moment, and then asked, “Anything to spice up the life in the bedroom, if you know what I mean?” </p>
<p>“Oh, sure. Sex toys, porn videos, lubes, poppers, cosplay stuff, things like that.” She asked him to think about what she’d just told him but to also consider some other stuff that she just got in yesterday. “Look, the political situation is getting dicey, right? So, I got some ‘Black Lives Matter’ lawn signs, or, depending upon the situation, I just got in some confederate flags and some ‘Support Your Local Police’‘ signs. Oh, and some Oxy and some killer weed!” </p>
<p>“Whew, that’s a lot to think about! But what I really need is a . . . “ he said, making a gesture with his right hand. </p>
<p>“Ah, well, I got a used 9mm somewhere in here. I can get the ammo for it to you tomorrow. You ready to order?” </p>
<p>He told her what he wanted, but asked a key question, “How will all this show up on my credit card statement?” </p>
<p>“Okay, the weapons, the signs and the drugs will show up as ‘Merchandise’. Let’s see, the sex toys and lubes show up as ‘Miscellaneous’, I think, and the booze, meat, and eggs show up as ‘Produce’,” she confidently answered. </p>
<p>“Great,” he exclaimed. “Now, follow me to my house and I’ll take delivery, okay? But, what about next time? You got new stuff coming in that maybe I’ll want?” </p>
<p>“Yeah, I got some bootleg copies of “Cops” and “Live PD” coming in. These are episodes that were going to be aired but got cancelled. Oh, and some phony mail-in Republican ballots for the Fall election. I can get you a hundred by Friday. Guaranteed to pass the closest inspection!” </p>
<p>“How about two hundred ballots plus the CDs?” he asked, a twinkle in his eye. "I got a big bet on the Fall election with a real jerk of a Democrat down the street." </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/64073072020-08-11T11:37:25-07:002020-08-11T11:37:25-07:00Tagalongs - By Brian Law<p>“Maggie, please sit down. I have something I need to tell you, so prepare yourself for bad news,” her Boss declared as Maggie knocked on her door. </p>
<p>She sat down slowly going over in her mind just what all this might be about. Was it her hard-charging attitude? Her results-at-any-cost methods? Her inability to compromise on quality no matter what? Whatever, it must be important for Wanda to have called her on the carpet. “Okay, Wanda, give it to me straight. I’m a big girl,” she announced with a grim look on her face. </p>
<p>“We’re letting you go, Maggie. I’ve laid it all out in your dismissal letter and it’s been cleared all the way to the top. As of right now, you’re done here, so I guess you better get your stuff packed-up,” Wanda said, her face taut with tension. “And the others have been notified and have been ordered to stay clear of you until you leave. Here’s the letter. You can stay in my office and read it if you prefer. I’m leaving, however. I have another meeting.” </p>
<p>With that, Wanda brushed past her as she left her office and headed down the hall. Shaking, Maggie slowly composed herself and began to read her dismissal letter. It was seven typed pages of her ‘offenses’ against her subordinates in chronological order. Phrases like ‘inappropriate microaggressions’, ‘racial insensitivity’, ‘patterns of offensive language’, ‘toxic personality disorder’, and many others that literally jumped out of the letter. She barely took a breath as she read the letter a second time. Finally, letting the letter drop to the floor, she started sobbing, knowing that her future was now not quite as bright as when she awoke this morning. </p>
<p>Composing herself again, she leaned down, retrieved the letter from the floor, folded it neatly and placed it in the bag along with the products she had planned to sell that afternoon. As she wiped the last tear from her eye, she stood up straight and proud, adjusted the bag’s strap on her shoulder, took the unsold products out of the bag and placed them on Wanda’s desk. She moved the chair back to its original position, turned off the office light, and walked into the hallway. </p>
<p>She was feeling better now as she strode towards Wanda’s front door, her back straight and her head held high, looking neither right nor left. ‘It’ll be a long frickin’ time ‘til they find another Girl Scout Cookie salesgirl as good as Maggie Jensen!’ she said to herself defiantly, ‘A long frickin’ time!’ </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/64073062020-08-11T11:35:45-07:002020-08-11T11:35:45-07:00Ring of Class - By Brian Law<p>He was lying on his stomach, fast asleep with a pillow over his head when she shook him gently and whispered, “Honey, wake up. I’ve got a surprise.” </p>
<p>Opening one eye, he peeked at the alarm clock. ‘Jeez,’ he thought, ‘Six o’clock on Sunday morning! Please go away and let me sleep.’ But she kept shaking him until he removed the pillow from his head and clumsily sat up, his morning hair falling over his eyes. “What’s up?” he muttered. </p>
<p>“Well, I’ve got something in my hand behind my back. Are you ready to see it?” she announced gleefully. </p>
<p>He sat up a bit straighter as his vision cleared and he grumpily replied, “Yeah, I’m ready to see what’s so important that you had to wake me up on my day off.” </p>
<p>Smiling, she brought her right hand from behind her back and showed him what she was holding. “Oh, God, you found it! My class ring!” He was wide awake now and excited. “Where in the hell was it, anyway? I lost this, what, twenty-five years ago, right?” </p>
<p>She reached out and put the ring on one of his fingers and they both looked at it for a moment. As he continued to gaze at his lost treasure, she got up and explained what had happened. “Well, I was scooping the poop from the cat box downstairs, and there it was, right in the scoop along with the rest of kitty’s little deposits!” </p>
<p>He looked at her with a slight frown and quickly asked, “You cleaned it, right?” </p>
<p>“Of course I did,” she laughed. “But, Jim, after all these years, how did it get there? I mean, the litter box? It doesn’t make any sense, does it?” </p>
<p>He didn’t have a good answer for her. Instead, he thought back to those days when the ring had gone missing from the house. They called in the police who did an investigation and then made an arrest. A kid from the inner city had been picked-up in the neighborhood the night they lost it. Wrong place, wrong time for him, and even though he professed his innocence, he was tagged with the theft of the ring and several other items from the neighborhood and convicted and sent to prison. The ring was never found, they never expected to see it again, and so they lost interest. Now this happened and it raised serious questions and doubts. </p>
<p>Finally, he focused on the problem. “Okay, we did a complete check of the house back then. Nothing turned up, and there were no signs of a break-in. And we didn’t get a cat until a few years ago. And we’ve repainted that room several times, and each time we removed everything in it. That ring was not in that room all this time! No way!” he explained. “Unless . . . . .?” he said, trailing off a bit. </p>
<p>“Unless what?” she wondered. Then she blurted out, “Unless some rodent stole the ring, hid it behind a wall somewhere and kitty found it and dragged it out! Is that what you’re thinking?” </p>
<p>He shook his head. “No, that’s not it.” He waited for a moment and then continued coldly, “You didn’t find the ring in the cat box, did you? Tell me the truth. I know it, anyway.” </p>
<p>She visibly gulped but said nothing. He went on, ”You’ve had it all along, haven’t you? It was you that kid was visiting the night he was arrested near here, right? And you had to come up with some reason he was in the neighborhood, some reason other than the real one, some reason that would keep him quiet for a very long time.” </p>
<p>She put her head in her hands and sobbed as he got up and paced slowly around the bedroom. “So, did the guy die in prison recently or something like that? Is that what’s bringing this out now?” She nodded as she sobbed. </p>
<p>Still sniveling, she looked up at him and asked, "Have you known all along?" </p>
<p>A cruel smile crept across his mouth as he said, “It crossed my mind. Now can I go back to bed now and sleep in a bit?” </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/64073052020-08-11T11:35:06-07:002020-08-11T11:35:06-07:00Reading the Room - By Brian Law<p>“Grandpa, you were on Iwo Jima, weren’t you?” his grandson asked, moving closer to his grandparent who was seated in his favorite chair wearing his pajamas and a bathrobe. </p>
<p>The old man nodded and continued reading his newspaper. He’d said nothing about those experiences for decades and he wasn’t going to start now. The only remnants of his days in the Marine Corps were in the attic, in a locked cedar chest, and in his memory. And that’s where they were going to stay. </p>
<p>The boy sat at his grandpa’s knee, hummed to himself, and watched the television. The volume was down low which was the way the old man liked it. His eyesight was going, but his hearing was still acute. Just then, the boy spoke up, “There it is again, grandpa. Iwo Jima! See, it’s on television!” </p>
<p>He lowered his newspaper and watched the screen for the first time in about twenty minutes. The boy was right! The news feed showed a mob surrounding the Iwo Jima Memorial, throwing paint and eggs on the statue, and trying to pull it down with ropes. And there didn’t appear to be anyone attempting to stop them! </p>
<p>He grabbed the remote, turned-up the volume and leaned forward, his attention focused on the ropes and the apparent madness of the rioters. His grandson watched, too, and said something like, “Oh, wow, grandpa. Did you just see what that guy did?” </p>
<p>He watched for a few more seconds, then he took the remote and turned off the television. The boy stayed by his knee as the old man sat back with a deep sigh and closed his eyes. Old images flooded his mind again, images he’d repressed, images he never wanted to see or feel ever again. He could feel his heart beating faster and his eyes were tearing-up. And then he started to sob, a little at first, then uncontrollably, his tears falling on the newspaper in his lap and making the newsprint smear. </p>
<p>The boy looked up and watched as the old man cried, his chest heaving and odd blubbering sounds coming from his mouth. “Can I get you something, grandpa?” he asked, not really understanding what was happening. </p>
<p>The old man recovered a bit, wiped his nose with his sleeve and dried his eyes with a handkerchief he kept in his pajama pocket. He picked-up the newspaper, found the story he was reading when he was interrupted, and then looking at the boy, replied, “No, I’m okay now. Do you want to watch some more television?” </p>
<p>“Yeah. Can I watch some cartoons, grandpa?” </p>
<p>“You bet,” the old man said, grabbing the remote. “What channel are they on?” As he manipulated the remote, he added, "I've something in the attic to show you later. Sound good to you?" </p>
<p>"Sure, grandpa," the boy said, smiling, happy that his grandpa wasn't sad anymore. </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/63792672020-07-07T18:08:17-07:002020-07-07T18:08:17-07:00The Rules for Men Doing Laundry - By Brian Law<p>He knew he should have been writing them down when she was telling him ‘The Rules’. She made a point that This Is Important! Because You’re home All Day And I’m Not! He should have written them down because now he couldn’t remember all of them . . . not exactly , and she was going to expect him to do it right the first time. Maybe he thought Just maybe I’ll get it right if I do the same load two or three times. It’s bound to get clean that way, no matter what I do wrong. He looked at the pile on the laundry room floor and thought, God, it seemed so easy whenever she did it. I should have paid attention! </p>
<p>But he was really worried about the little load of clothes he brought home from his last business trip, the last time he’d actually left the house. The ones he'd hidden in the garage. She was going to go through the folded and stacked laundry when she got home to look for stains he didn’t get out. And she was going to ask Where’s Your Good Shirts? You Know, The Ones From Your Last Business Trip? And that was going to be a problem because she didn’t include in ‘The Rules’ stuff like how to get wine stains out of cotton . . . or lipstick . . . or blood. Maybe Google and YouTube had something. </p>
<p>When he married a cop, he knew she probably had a suspicious personality, and boy, was he ever right! She watched him like a hawk for the first few months . . . he couldn’t get away with anything! But then she started to loosen-up and didn’t give him the ‘third degree’ every time he returned from a business trip. Her mistake. </p>
<p>He looked at his watch. She’d be home in about ten hours, give or take. He went through the Washer and Dryer manuals and determined the length of each cycle and then went to Google and searched for YouTube videos that would explain how to do what he needed to do. The one he found ran for 18 minutes and 15 seconds, and he watched it twice, taking careful notes each time. </p>
<p>Separating the clothes into the suggested groupings, he stood back and did a mental calculation about how much time it would take to wash each group Twice! and get them all dried and folded before she got back. He was pretty proud of his plan. All the tricky stuff was in one pile, the stuff that needed special treatment. And some of it was even Hers! Which was a bit of a problem because he couldn’t identify a particularly odd stain on one of her uniform shirts. It was sticky and smelled funny and left a stain on his fingers he couldn’t get off right away. Whatever! he figured She didn’t leave specific instructions for that one, so he’d just do his best and keep his fingers crossed. </p>
<p>He was pleasantly surprised when the wine and lipstick stains on his good shirts came out the first time. The blood, well, that took a bit more work, but he finally got it all out. He even tried his own concoction of bleach plus baking soda plus Dawn put directly on the blood stain. Who knew it would work so well? He was feeling pretty good about things until he got to the funny stain in her uniform shirt. </p>
<p>He scratched it, sniffed it, even tasted it, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was. When he asked Google, it gave him some cleaning suggestions based upon its taste and smell. But it didn’t want to come out no matter what he used on it or what cycle he used. She was gonna be mad. He glanced at his watch. He had two hours to figure it out! Finally, he got a break on YouTube. He tried their suggestions and Bingo! out came her uniform shirt, clean and sweet smelling as the day it was issued to her. </p>
<p>When she walked in the front door, he was casually sitting in front of the television. “Hi, Honey, how was your day?” he asked, pretending to be interested. </p>
<p>“God, these idiots I have to deal with nowadays. I can’t wait for a frickin’ vaccine, you know!” she said as she whisked right by him into the kitchen for her first glass of wine. </p>
<p>A few minutes later, she strolled back into where he was still sitting and wondered, “How did the laundry go? Get everything clean? Hmmmm?” </p>
<p>He nonchalantly replied, “Oh, sure, no problem. I just followed your rules and everything came out fine.” </p>
<p>She took a quick sip of her wine and said, “Well, let’s just check, okay?” </p>
<p>As she turned towards the laundry room, he got up knowing that she was going to do a thorough review of his work, but he knew he had nailed it. And when she entered the laundry room, she stopped and remarked, “Well done! All sorted and folded. Mind if I just give it a quick look through, just to be sure?” </p>
<p>“No, go ahead, look away, Honey,” he proudly answered. He stood with his arms crossed as she went through each pile, underwear, socks, towels, etc. She stopped when she got to the shirts. She picked up one of his good shirts, opened it up and gave it a good once over. “Nice job on your shirts. Spotless!” she commented. And she knew what she was talking about because she had found his dirty business laundry stash in the garage last week and knew just what kind of stains he would have to get out. “Well done.” </p>
<p>Then she picked up her uniform shirt and did a similar review. Holding it up to the light, she wondered, “Did you get out that stubborn little stain on the front? I guess I forgot to tell you about that one.” </p>
<p>Nodding confidently, he explained that it took some doing, some sniffing, wiping and even tasting, but he got it out. </p>
<p>She smiled and put the uniform shirt back down. She had counted on him being thorough. She knew he’d do anything to impress her and get that stain out. Even tasting it! But you cheating son-of-bitch! she thought You’ll be dead in a day or two from the poison in that stain. And the evidence, well, you got rid that yourself, Dear Husband! </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/63792662020-07-07T18:07:27-07:002020-07-07T18:07:27-07:00Super Spreader - By Brian Law<p>Sitting in the quiet of his study, he thought for a moment, and then continued writing, “The force of the blow would have stunned anyone else, but WonderMan just shook his head, smiled strangely and asked, ‘Is that all you got, evil one? ' The second and third blows had no effect either and the frustration was starting to show on the face of the crook as WonderMan reached down, picked-up a broken piece of pipe, and held it in his strong hands, that same strange smile still on his face.” </p>
<p>From the other room, he could hear his son call out, “Dad, are you still writing? It’s almost time to go!” </p>
<p>Typing faster now, he continued writing, “The pipe was no longer just a pipe! In the hands of WonderMan it magically changed into a glowing golden scepter and the evil doer knew immediately what that meant! He instinctively backed up, his eyes darting from side to side seeking an escape route, but there was none! WonderMan had taken care of that.” </p>
<p>“C’mon, Dad, Mom’s in the car and she’s honking the horn. Let’s go! We’ll miss the start of the drive-in movie if we don’t leave right now, Dad!” his son implored. </p>
<p>The words came faster now, his fingers flying across the keyboard as he finished the story, “Backed-up against the dark stone wall of the cellar, the sinister adversary growled, ‘You think you can stop us, WonderMan? You can kill me, but there are thousands more where I come from. You’ll lose in the end, do gooder!’ The smile disappeared from WonderMan’s face as he moved very close to his prey, the golden weapon of good cradled in his powerful hands. ‘I’m not going to kill you, evil creature. In fact, I’m letting you go. You are free to return to your evil friends and your evil ways. But I know something that you don’t know.’ With that, WonderMan wrapped himself in his cape and amazingly disappeared, leaving the low-life evil one alone with nothing but wonder and the virus. End” </p>
<p>The boy appeared in the doorway of the study. He was looking at his watch and pleading, “Dad, please! You can finish that story when we get back! Let’s go!” </p>
<p>He closed his computer, moved his wheelchair slowly away from his desk, and wheeled himself towards his son in the doorway. The boy let his father move through the doorway before shutting off the light in the study. Then, stepping behind the wheelchair, he started to push it up the ramp towards the front door, and as he did, the boy leaned down a bit and asked, “Is it another WonderMan story, Dad? I love those.” </p>
<p>His father smiled and over his shoulder replied, “Yeah, and I think it’s a good one, too. WonderMan lets the bad guy go this time but infects him with a deadly virus which will kill the evil doer and all his evil friends. And the crook doesn’t know it!” As his son opened the front door, his father asked, “Whadda you think? Do you think I can sell this story?” </p>
<p>His Dad had never sold one of his cheesy stories, not one. But it was hope that kept him upbeat and cheerful. He didn’t want to think about what his Dad’s life would be like without schlocky old WonderMan as he answered, “Yeah, Dad, I think this just might be the one.” </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/63792652020-07-07T18:06:37-07:002020-07-07T18:06:37-07:00Rawhide - By Brian Law<p>The lanky trail hand slid off his horse, draped the reins over the hitching post and ambled up the steps of the front porch to the big white house at the end of Main Street in Abilene. He looked back out on the street, saw that it was empty, and then with a smile on his face, opened the front door. Once inside, he brushed off the trail dust from his vest, took off his hat, and looked around as an older woman approached. </p>
<p>“You the head whore in this here establishment?” he asked in his West Texas accent. </p>
<p>“I prefer the title ‘Madame’, sonny. But, yes, I own and operate this House,” she shot back. </p>
<p>“Sorry, ma’am, no offense,” the cowboy answered. </p>
<p>“None taken. And just who might you be and what is your business, cowhand?” she asked, moving closer to him, her hands on her hips. </p>
<p>“Ma’am, I’m Dell Forrest, and for the last seven weeks I’ve seen nothin’ but the hind end of some of the ugliest cows ever driven to market. And I’d like a bath, a bottle of good whisky and a woman, if that can be arranged. I got cash,” the cowboy responded, pulling a wad of money from his vest. </p>
<p>The Madame told him to put his money away. “Won’t do you any good here, kid. Town’s all closed down. There’s a pandemic going on. I guess you’ve been out of touch a while,” she explained. </p>
<p>“A pan-what? I don’t care if there’s a tornado on the next block, I just got off a four hundred mile cattle drive all the way from Clifford, Texas, and I ain’t leavin’ until I get a bath, a bottle, and a lady, you hear!” he yelled. </p>
<p>The Madame went to the desk and picked-up a printed flyer and handed it to the cowboy. “Can you read, kid?” </p>
<p>“Sure, some.” </p>
<p>“Well, this will explain it all. It’ll explain why the streets are empty, why all the girls are gone, and why the saloons are closed. You best read it over ‘cause no amount of money is going to get you anything around Abilene, cowboy!” she shot back. </p>
<p>He read the flyer, asked her what a few words meant, and then sat down, a forlorn look on his face. “It’s eighteen hundred and ninety-four, and a man can’t get his needs met after driving nine hundred miserable critters over some of the most godawful desert you ever seen. Is that what this is telling me?” </p>
<p>“Yep. That’s about it, Dell Forrest,” she responded. Then, she paused for a moment, moved closer to him, put her hand on his broad shoulder and asked, “You like ‘porn’?” </p>
<p>He looked up at her heavily made-up face and with a wrinkled brow asked, “What the hell is ‘porn’?” </p>
<p>“Just a little something I’ve cooked up to deal with the current situation. Here, I’ll show you,” she said as she pulled some photos from her bustle and handed them to him. </p>
<p>He said nothing as he inspected the nude pictures carefully, one at a time. “You got any more of these?” he asked, a serious look on his face. </p>
<p>“Yes, I do, but it will cost you some, Dell Forrest,” she countered. </p>
<p>“No, what I mean is do you have a lot more of these ‘cause when I was in El Paso last year, I heard about a Frenchman who can make pictures move. You know, make ‘em appear like they're alive! And with your pictures and my money, well . . . I’ll never have to cowboy again and you, you’ll never have to do whatever it is that you do again.” </p>
<p>“Not a bad idea, Dell. I know some girls down Clifford way who might be interested,” she chirped in. </p>
<p>“And I know a photographer down there, too. And I guess you could talk me into volunteering my services for the first few projects . . . moving pictures I think they call 'em,” he said with a glint in his eye. </p>
<p>“Your services?” she asked. </p>
<p>“Sure, they don’t call us cowpokes for nothin’, partner!” </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/63792642020-07-07T18:06:00-07:002020-07-07T18:06:00-07:00Apologies, Inc. - By Brian Law<p>“Apologies, Inc. How may I help you?” she asked, adjusting her phone headset slightly. </p>
<p>“Uh, I’d like to send out an apology tomorrow. Can you do that? I know it’s late,” the man answered. </p>
<p>“That depends, sir. How many people are you trying to reach?” she asked, filing her nails. </p>
<p>He breathed deeply and quietly answered, “Is three hundred and thirty million too many?” </p>
<p>She put down her nail file and replied, “Not a problem. Do you have an account with us, sir?” </p>
<p>“No.” </p>
<p>“Do you want to open one today? It might speed things up a lot, sir?” </p>
<p>“Let’s just do this as a one-off, okay?” </p>
<p>“Sure, no problem, as a guest. Now, how would you like to pay for this today,” she wondered. </p>
<p>There was a pause and some murmuring on the other end of the line. Then the man came back on the line and replied, “Cash.” </p>
<p>“Okay,” she answered. “Let’s get going on the language. About how many words are we talking about, sir?” </p>
<p>There was another pause and then, “Let’s say four.” </p>
<p>“Right,” she replied, “Four words to three hundred and thirty million people. Let’s see, that comes to twenty-five dollars and twelve cents. Can you handle that, sir?” </p>
<p>“Yeah.” </p>
<p>“Now, sir, the four words. I am ready anytime you are,” she explained. </p>
<p>There was a third long pause and then the man dictated, “I . . Am . . So . . Sorry!” </p>
<p>“Right. Got that. Now just who is this apology going to, sir?” </p>
<p>“Everyone in the country.” </p>
<p>“Okay, sir. Will that include the undocumented, too?” she asked tentatively. </p>
<p>The man replied testily, “Yeah, them, too!” </p>
<p>“And can I have your billing address please? I’ll send a courier over to pick up the cash.” </p>
<p>“1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, Washington, D.C.” </p>
<p>“Thanks, got it, sir! You have a good day.” </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/63408402020-06-03T11:51:42-07:002020-06-03T12:00:00-07:00Ad Out - By Brian Law<p>As he patted his neck with his towel, she bent down and dried off her legs with her towel. As he watched her, he remarked, “Your backhand today was the best I’ve ever seen it.” As he waited for her reply, he reminded himself that he was the luckiest man alive to have a woman like this in his life. </p>
<p>She stopped what she was doing and looked up at him but didn’t smile. Instead, she asked in a steely tone, “What in the hell do we do now, Jerry? I mean, he told you today was your last day as my tennis instructor.” She put down her towel and moved closer to him. “Will we ever see each other again? Who knows how long this stupid ‘shelter in place’ is going to last, anyway?” </p>
<p>He suggested that they sit down for a moment. He had something he wanted to run by her. Away from the sun, under the umbrella, Jerry leaned close to her and asked, “Do you love me as much as I love you?” </p>
<p>“You know I do,” she said, kissing him gently. “I’ll do anything to be with you. Anything. But my husband is rich, powerful and has almost complete control over me. My God, he’s eighty-three and I’m forty-two. What was I thinking?” </p>
<p>He took her hands in his and told her he had a plan. “This pandemic might go on for months. Who knows how long you’ll be pent up in that mansion of yours with that old goat? But I think I can solve our two problems at the same time. You interested?” </p>
<p>She nodded vigorously as Jerry continued, “Okay, that can of tennis balls over there looks pretty normal, right? But the three balls inside are infected with the virus. Don’t ask me how. But they are. Are you following me?” </p>
<p>“You want me to infect my husband? Is that it?” she asked tentatively. </p>
<p>Jerry looked around before continuing. “Yes, but now here’s the hard part. I want you to infect yourself and then make sure you pass it on to him. That way it won’t draw any suspicion on me.” </p>
<p>She sat still, not saying anything at first. Slowly, a smile crept across her face as she responded, “I like it. The young wife survives the virus but the old decrepit husband dies. And the murder weapon is a tennis ball. Jerry, you’re a genius. And a soon-to-be-rich one, at that!” </p>
<p>He hugged her and told her he was thrilled she liked the plan. “And I will give you some of that medicine combination that Trump was touting, but just enough for you. Once you start feeling yourself getting sick, take it and it will minimize your symptoms. By the time you’re up and better, the old man will be dead or dying. And I will just be the simple tennis instructor who was let go several weeks before. Who’s going to suspect me, you, or both of us?” </p>
<p>They ordered drinks and discussed additional details. By four o’clock, Jerry was gone and she was headed back home in her Jaguar, the can of tennis balls in her workout bag on the passenger seat. About a mile from home, she popped open the can, took out a ball, rubbed it on her lips and threw it out the car window. She did the same with the other two balls and as she drove up the long entryway of her palatial home in Brentwood, she could see her husband standing out in front, supported by his walker. She waved, parked the Jag and walked towards him, a broad smile on her face. “Hi, honey, ready to start our lonely vigil together?” she joked, as she hugged him and gave him a kiss. “I know I am.” </p>
<p>That night at dinner, the two of them sat at opposite ends of a large dining table. Dinner had been brought in and was left on the front porch. Walter, her husband, had been to the wine cellar and had retrieved a special wine for their first ‘shelter in place’ dinner. He told her he wanted to make their seclusion as painless as possible. “By the way, how was your tennis class today, dear?” the old man asked, taking a sip of wine. </p>
<p>She sighed and told him that she was going to miss her daily tennis workout, but that she knew it was absolutely necessary for them to remain separate from the world for a while. “How long do you think it will be like this, dear?” she asked innocently. </p>
<p>The old man got slowly up from his chair and replied, “I’ve asked the best minds in my company for that answer. They say to be prepared for at least four months, minimum.” He watched her wince a bit as he walked towards her. “But to relieve your burden, I had this made for you,” he said as he laid a jewelry box down on the side of her dinner plate. </p>
<p>She eagerly opened the box and inhaled sharply, saying, “Oh my God, Walter! This is magnificent! Here, help me put it on, will you?” </p>
<p>As the old man moved behind her to secure the necklace, he bent down closer and added, “And I have another surprise for you, my dear. It won’t be just the two of us here for the next four months.” </p>
<p>She turned her head as he fumbled with the latch on the necklace. “What do you mean, Walter? Who else is going to be here?” </p>
<p>Walter stood straight and proudly announced, “Your children Ben and Mary, from your first marriage! Their colleges have shut down suddenly and what with Mary’s Lupus and Ben’s diabetes, I thought this was the perfect solution. And I’ve always wanted to get to know your kids better.” </p>
<p>She stammered something but Walter was insistent, “You know me. Once I’ve made up my mind, there’s no going back.” </p>
<p>As she pushed her chair away from the table and quickly got up ready to tell Walter ‘No!’, she saw the door to her right open and her two children limp to her side, their arms open and their faces beaming. </p>
<p>“Surprise, Mother!” they yelled, hugging and kissing her. </p>
<p>Walter stood still, watching, his fists clenched. </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/63408392020-06-03T11:50:49-07:002020-06-03T12:00:09-07:00Here Goes Nothin' - By Brian Law<p>Most just called it “The Ranch”. It was a five thousand acre spread in the mountains of northern New Mexico and since the Sixties it had been the playground of the rich and famous. But the Pandemic had closed it down since early February as dozens of their best customers quickly cancelled their reservations. </p>
<p>The stately Main House lay empty and quiet guarded only by ‘Old Jim’ who had been with “The Ranch” since before it was just for rich dudes. Nobody knew how old he really was but there was speculation that he was possibly over a hundred. It didn’t matter much to the management since ‘Old Jim’ was more reliable than any of their other employees and twice as savvy with the horses. </p>
<p>The old man had just finished feeding the horses when he heard the phone in the barn ring. He wiped his hands on his jacket, walked to the phone and picked it up. It was a call from the owner of “The Ranch”. </p>
<p>“Jim, it’s Walt. I’m in Santa Fe and will be up later this week. We’re opening up again, my friend!” As he held the receiver, ‘Old Jim’ spit some chewing tobacco onto the barn floor as his boss continued, “They’ve lifted the restrictions. Our first guests will be arriving next Monday morning.” Wiping his nose with the sleeve of his jacket, ‘Old Jim’ managed to mutter, “Uh-huh” into the phone. </p>
<p>“Right. Just make sure you have seven horses saddled and ready to go. No children this time. All adults. One guy you’ll remember. The drunk that fell off his horse two years ago. You’ll have to watch him very carefully this time, Jim.” There was a pause and then the owner finished with, “Okay. That’s all for now. See you in a couple of days, Jim.” </p>
<p>Hanging up the phone, the old man thought back to when he was a young boy on “The Ranch”. His father was the foreman then, and he was a mean drunk. ‘Old Jim’ took many beatings over the years from his father until he learned how to handle hard drinkers. And he’d handle this drunk coming up on Monday the same way he’d handled his father. </p>
<p>He didn’t remember exactly how he learned how to do it. It just happened one day when his father had a heat on and had reached for the belt. Jim was about seven then, but he was a big seven-year-old. As his father moved towards him, Jim just stood sideways, his hands by his side with a cold look in his eyes. His father never got closer than three feet away from him. He took one look at Jim standing there with that look and never laid a hand on him again. Jim’s father died in 1918 along with his mother, and it wasn’t from hard drinking. Almost everyone in Jim’s family died that year. He was seven and all alone. And he had handled drunks the same way since then. And it was the same year he began working with the horses in the barn. And there was something he knew about the horses in the barn that nobody else alive knew. </p>
<p>By Monday morning, the Main House was open for business. Delivery trucks had been arriving all weekend and the staff had been called back for the reopening. ‘Old Jim’ had started saddling the horses in the barn as soon as he saw the limo arrive with the new guests and he was just finishing up when his boss and his new guests arrived just outside the barn door. </p>
<p>“Ladies and gentlemen, this is ‘Old Jim’. He’ll be your trail guide on today’s ride. He knows these mountains like the back of his hand,” the owner related to the group. </p>
<p>The drunk was weaving a bit in the rear of the group as he blurted out, “Jush how old is the old coot, Walt?” </p>
<p>Jim said nothing. Instead, he just spit some tobacco on the ground between him and the group. </p>
<p>Walt didn’t respond to the drunk but turned to Jim and told him to bring the horses out. Jim looked at him and matter-of-factly said, “They ain’t comin’ out, Boss. They won’t budge.” </p>
<p>The drunk pushed his way through the small group of guests and stumbled towards Jim, yelling “Get those goddamn steeds out here right now, old man!” </p>
<p>Jim said nothing. He turned slightly, his hands down by his side, a cold look on his face. </p>
<p>The drunk stopped dead in his tracks. Something told him to not take one step further, something that cut through the haze of his mind like a knife. He looked around, embarrassed, and said at the top of his voice, “Let’s get out of this dump!” The rest of the small group agreed and turned and walked back towards the Main House and their limo. </p>
<p>The owner roughly pulled ‘Old Jim’ aside and under his breath growled, “There goes fifty thousand, Jim. Just because you can’t get those damn horses out of the barn. What is wrong with you?” </p>
<p>Jim removed the boss’s hand from his arm, turned his head towards the barn and said, “The horses inside, their bloodline goes back to before I was born on this ranch, boss. I seen this happen once before, horses refusing to move from the barn.” </p>
<p>“What are you talking about, Jim. Make some sense, will you?” his boss demanded. </p>
<p>“It was 1918, boss. Before any of us knew anything was happening. But the horses did. They sensed it and wanted nothing to do with it. Just like today, boss. They sensed it in those people. The horses know them folks got it and them folks either don’t know it or won’t tell. Either way, best you get rid of them, and fast.” </p>
<p>His boss just stood there dumbfounded and stuttered, “You mean . . .?” </p>
<p>“Yeah, boss. Wash yer hands.” </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/63408382020-06-03T11:50:10-07:002020-06-03T12:00:16-07:00Righty Tighty - By Brian Law<p>The young man and his Supervisor sat patiently in the waiting room of the Director of the Wuhan Laboratory. It had been a long day for both of them and they were anxious to return to their homes for the long weekend ahead. Bingwen had only worked at the Lab for a month since his graduation from the local technical college and he had never met the Director. So, he was slightly anxious, especially when he was told to report to the Director’s office that afternoon and all of his fellow employees looked at him with some concern. What had he done? they whispered among themselves. Nobody is ever called to the Director’s office, ever! </p>
<p>The Director’s door opened and his assistant waved them both into the office. The Supervisor allowed Bingwen to go in first, and he followed close behind. The Director looked up from his desk, smiled, and rose slowly. “Welcome, please, sit down, both of you,” he said in a pleasant tone. Bingwen immediately began to feel better and when he glanced over at his Supervisor, he saw a sly smile on his face. </p>
<p>“Now,” the Director began, “You are probably wondering why I have asked you here so late in the afternoon, hmmm?” Bingwen nodded obediently as he continued, “Well, it’s because I have been hearing good things about you, young man, very good things.” He looked over at the Supervisor and added, “Mr. Zhang, your Supervisor, has forwarded glowing reports on your progress. Let me see here, ah yes, here’s just one section from his most recent report . . . ‘Bingwen is undoubtedly the most proficient technician in the Level 4 Laboratory, even though he has only just completed his training and has only been on the job for a month! His competency exceeds even those of our most senior technicians!’” He put down the report and looked at him and merely said, “Congratulations, Bingwen. We could use a dozen more like you! By the way, what is your background? Where did you acquire your technical skills? Were you an engineering graduate in college?” </p>
<p>The young worker looked down a bit sheepishly and replied, “I studied Art History before I entered the technical school, Director. I never handled a tool until then, sir.” </p>
<p>“All the more impressive, Bingwen, all the more impressive. Your Supervisor tells me that he has so much confidence in your abilities that he allowed you to secure the lab alone in preparation for the long weekend ahead. He tells me that he has never allowed anyone with less than ten years of experience to do that. You should be congratulated to have achieved such a depth and breadth of skill in such a short time.” </p>
<p>As he prepared to answer, his Supervisor proudly jumped in, “And Director, he did it without reference to the Manual. He has memorized the Manual completely. I made sure of that before he proceeded. Here, let me show you how extraordinary his memory is!” With that, his Supervisor started to ask Bingwen questions about specific shut-down procedures for the Lab Manual and had him repeat the Manual from memory, word for word. </p>
<p>As he spoke, the Director followed along with his copy of the Manual. Bingwen recited sections of the Manual for several minutes with no errors until the Director held up his hand and announced, “I’m convinced, thank you!” </p>
<p>Thoroughly excited now and wanting to further impress the Director, his Supervisor asked just one last question, “And Bingwen, your final act in securing the Lab. What was it?” </p>
<p>He turned to look at him and answered, “Why, I closed the condensate drain from the Autoclave, the last and final possible connection to the outside world.” </p>
<p>His Supervisor couldn’t contain himself as he asked, “And that condensate drain valve, you closed it all the way, until it stopped, correct?” </p>
<p>“Of course, all the way to the left until it stopped,” he answered confidently. </p>
<p>The look on the Director’s face was one of horror as he immediately reached across his desk and slammed the red button on his desk. The red light on the wall started to glow and rotate and the alarms began to sound. </p>
<p>Bingwen was stunned as he turned to his Supervisor for guidance. The Supervisor's face had lost all color and tears were rolling down his cheeks and it was clear from the smell that something else had happened, too. </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/63408362020-06-03T11:49:26-07:002020-06-03T12:00:30-07:00The Frustration Bureau - By Brian Law<p>“Good Morning, this is The Frustration Bureau. I’m Betsy, your assistant today. How may I help you?” </p>
<p>A tentative male voice came on the line, “I’m, uh, a first-time caller. Are these calls recorded or anything?” </p>
<p>Betsy cheerily replied, “We do record all conversations for quality control purposes. But I assure you anything you say will be kept in strict confidentiality, sir.” </p>
<p>“Okay. And if I tell you my major frustration, what do you do with that information, Betsy?” he asked, a bit more confident. </p>
<p>“First, you and I work together to develop a precise description of your frustration. Then I give you some suggestions and tips. But if that isn’t enough for you, I can enter your frustration into our database, give it a distinctive identifier, and our experts will then review it and get back to you via email about how they think you could best address your frustration,” Betsy proudly replied. </p>
<p>“Look, uh, Betsy, is it? Let’s skip that second part, okay? I don’t want my email in your database. So, let me just describe my problem and maybe you can help me. God, I’ve never been so frustrated!” the voice answered in desperation. </p>
<p>“That’s fine with me. I’m just a level-headed gal from the Midwest. Grew up on a farm in a large family so I have a lot of experience solving interpersonal problems. So, what is the gist of your frustration today?” Betsy asked. </p>
<p>“Well, for most of my professional life, I’ve been my own boss or the boss of others. But in my new position, I have to take orders from a guy who’s a real jackass. He’s put me in charge of a big important project recently and I’ve staffed it up with the best people I could find. And we’ve developed some really terrific ideas and have presented these ideas to our customers.” </p>
<p>“So, what seems to be the problem?” Betsy inquired. </p>
<p>“Well, during our presentations, my boss just jumps in willy-nilly and makes outrageous statements without any basis in fact. It makes me look like a fool, undermines our ideas, and makes our customers nervous. And believe me, quitting is not an option nor is complaining to my boss. I’m at my wit’s end, Betsy.” </p>
<p>“Is it possible to go over his head? You know, to his boss?” she suggested. </p>
<p>“No.” </p>
<p>“Okay, is it possible that customer dissatisfaction could become so great that your boss might lose his job in the near future?” she pondered. </p>
<p>“Yeah, in a way. Yeah, that could happen. But I’d be out of a job, too. It’s not like I’d take over as boss,” he answered, a bit forlornly. </p>
<p>“Well, all I can say is what a Kansas farm boy once said and I think it bears repeating here, sir. He said, 'Farming looks mighty easy when your plow is a pencil and you're a thousand miles from the corn field',” she added. </p>
<p>She heard the man on the other end of the phone repeat that saying slowly, several times. After a moment he came back on the line and said, “You know, Betsy, I needed that. I’ve been away from my Midwest roots too long. I’m going to get my perspective back and dive back into my new project, crappy boss be darned!” </p>
<p>The phone line went dead, and Betsy took a moment to make some notes in her call log. Her friend, a new employee, leaned over and remarked, “Uh, Betsy, you’ve never been on a farm in your life. You were born in Brooklyn, kiddo. Who are you trying to kid with that farm lingo, anyway?” </p>
<p>“It was Mike Pence, again. He calls in about once a week, always trying to disguise his voice. We all just make up some shit to make him feel better. It seems to work for a while, anyway,” she replied. </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/63036702020-05-03T14:07:18-07:002020-05-03T14:07:18-07:00White Mask - By Brian Law<p>“Ronny, can I call you Ronny?” the man wearing the white face mask asked. </p>
<p>“Yeah, that’s my name. Can you talk slower? It’s hard to understand you through the mask and all.” </p>
<p>“No problem, Ronny,” the man answered. Speaking slowly and carefully, he continued, “Let’s go back one day, okay? You live over your brother-in-law’s detached garage, right? And you’ve lived there for, what, about three years?” </p>
<p>Ronny fidgeted, tapped a smoke from his pack and lit it as he answered, “Yeah. I leave the rent in cash in a box on the back porch every month. We don’t talk.” </p>
<p>“So yesterday, you woke-up early about 3 a.m. and walked to the local Seven Eleven. Is that about right, Ronny? And you told the others that you didn’t see anyone on the way to or from the store.” </p>
<p>“Yup. I bought breakfast, you know, a Slurpee and a pop tart. Left the money on the counter like always. Fawad lets me do that so he can sleep in the back. I was back home in twenty minutes, tops. I got home in time to start watching the morning shows on ESPN.” </p>
<p>The man wrote something down, adjusted his face mask, and continued, “So you spent most of the morning over the garage watching ESPN. When did you go out again?” </p>
<p>“Lunch. I walked to the Seven Eleven and bought some stuff, uh, let’s see, a burrito and a coke, I think. Paid the same way. Took a nap and then watched ESPN some more till dinner time. Went back to the store, got some chow and came home, ate, caught one last show on ESPN and went to bed.” Ronny stopped, took a drag on his cigarette and then added, “And then you guys woke me up around 2 o’clock this morning and started asking me all these questions.” Pausing, he proudly announced, “You guys are the first people I’ve seen for, like, a long time!” </p>
<p>The man in the white mask got up from his chair, walked around the room a bit and then turned to address Ronny, “So, not seeing anybody for weeks or months is not unusual for you, correct? And ESPN is your only contact with the outside world, so to speak? Have I got that right, Ronny?” </p>
<p>Ronny nodded and crossed his arms. “What’s this all about, anyway? Am I in any trouble?” </p>
<p>The man in the white face mask smiled for the first time as he replied, “Trouble? No, nothing like that, Ronny. We’re just trying to figure out how you managed to survive when almost nobody else around here did.” </p>
<p>"Survived what?" Ronny asked, stubbing out his cigarette. </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/63036692020-05-03T14:05:35-07:002020-05-03T14:05:35-07:00Tell Me About It - By Brian Law<p>“Welcome, everyone, to today’s radio broadcast of ‘My American Life’, the only radio show that celebrates the lives of everyday Americans. I’m Bob Olney and today we have as our guest June Wesley from Tripto, Michigan. June, welcome to the show!” the host began. </p>
<p>“Thanks, Bob, it’s an honor to be with you, even if it’s only over the phone.” </p>
<p>“So, June, you and your family like so many others are ‘sheltering in place’, and you’re having to make-do. Can you elaborate on how your family is coping?” Bob went on. </p>
<p>“Sure. I have four kids, ages three through fifteen, and their hair doesn’t stop growing, Bob! So, I’ve had to learn how to cut hair for both the boys and the girls. It’s been quite a ‘learning curve’,” June joked. </p>
<p>“I can imagine. What else have you had to learn that you would normally rely on others to do?” </p>
<p>June excitedly answered, “Okay, well the refrigerator went out last Wednesday. And if there is anything that is critical for a family who can’t leave the house, it’s the refrigerator, Bob! So, I had to learn how to ask the right question of some internet experts on those DIY sites. Then I had to order the right parts online, and then I had to learn how to install the parts. It took me a while, but I got it working again.” </p>
<p>“Well, good for you, June. I’m sure our listeners are getting some much-needed inspiration from your good old American gumption and resolve. Anything else you’ve done for your family that might interest our listeners today?” Bob asked. </p>
<p>June paused, then added, “The gas fireplace stopped working. And out here in Michigan it gets really cold, so I had to fix it fast. But working with gas is tricky, so again I went to experts online. They walked me through the diagnostics step by step. Turned out it was a couple of electrodes that were a bit corroded. Cleaned them up and got it working before the sun went down, Bob.” </p>
<p>“Marvelous, June. By the way, where’s your husband in all this? Sounds like you’re doing all of this by yourself. Is he helping or what?” the host asked. </p>
<p>“Vern’s been laid up for a few weeks with a bad ticker, Bob,” June explained. “He’s been weak as a kitten, so that’s been a real problem. So, when the emergency generator started acting up, I knew I was going to need his help, and fast.” She paused, and then continued, “You see, Bob, Vern’s an electrician when he’s working.” </p>
<p>“Okay, but what about his heart problem? That sounds serious, real serious, June. How did you work around that problem without a doctor?” </p>
<p>“Well, Vern and I talked about it some. And you know, Bob, he’s a real gamer, that Vern. He’s always been one who’s been up for anything. And he’s a hunter, too, Bob. So, he knows a bit about animal anatomy ‘cause he’s gutted so many. So, he talked me through it!” </p>
<p>Bob said nothing as he digested that last comment. His producer was in his earphone insisting that he quickly change the subject. DO NOT ASK HER WHAT HAPPENED! But Bob trusted his instincts and instead asked a question whose answer he didn’t know, “Ah, June, so you performed some sort of medical procedure on your husband that allowed him to fix the generator? Is that it, June? I’m sure my listeners are waiting to hear how it all worked out.” </p>
<p>Bob and his listeners could hear June talking in muffled tones to someone else in the background. It sounded like she was telling her kids to ‘shut the hell up’ or something like that. Anyway, June quickly came back on the line and calmly continued, “Well, Bob, the generator is still acting up. And I’m now trying to teach myself how to run this darn backhoe Vern left in the backyard.” </p>
<p>“Backhoe, June?” Bob asked cautiously. “I don’t understand. How does a backhoe figure into all of this?” </p>
<p>June chuckled and then replied, “I can tell you’ve never tried to dig a six-foot hole in Northern Michigan in late March, Bob.” </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/63036682020-05-03T14:05:03-07:002020-05-03T14:05:03-07:00Live Music - By Brian Law<p>He woke suddenly and sat bolt upright in bed. “What the hell was that?” he muttered, startling his wife. </p>
<p>“What the hell was what?” she asked, yawning and barely awake. </p>
<p>“That sound. It’s coming from outside. There it is again. Can you hear it?” he asked, climbing slowly out of bed and padding carefully towards the bedroom window. </p>
<p>She didn’t move for a few moments as she listened closely. “Yeah, now I hear it. It sounds like music. But that can’t be, not from outside, anyway.” </p>
<p>“No, it’s from outside. It’s coming from the park just like when they used to have those outside concerts. Remember, the sound would drift all the way over here,” he added wistfully. </p>
<p>She got up, too, put on her bathrobe and joined him at the window. “But it can’t be live music. I mean, with the restrictions on outdoor activities and martial law and all that. It’s got to be a recording, right?” she mused, scratching her head. </p>
<p>“No, listen carefully, it’s definitely live, and there’s an audience, too. You can hear the clapping and yelling. And I can even smell marijuana smoke in the air.” </p>
<p>“My God, you’re right and I can smell it, too. But it doesn’t make any sense. It’s been over a year since anybody went outside. It’s too dangerous and there’s military types all over the place. No way there’s a live concert in the park, just no way!” she exclaimed. </p>
<p>He turned and went to sit on the bed. He patted the place beside him and she sat down next to him. He looked at her in the dim light, sighed heavily and said, “Honey, we’ve been locked-down so long we’ve lost hope. We don’t even go online anymore except to order food. I bet the curfew has been lifted and we didn’t get the word. Possible?” </p>
<p>She took his hands in hers, beamed and said, “God, you may be right. I mean, it’s been over a year and we have all but given up. It can’t hurt to get dressed and just go over for a peek, right?” </p>
<p>They both got up at the same time and hurriedly dressed. He grabbed a flashlight and she snatched her purse. As they opened the front door and moved to the porch for the first time in a year, he cautioned, “We’ll walk, okay. No use going too high profile. We’ll stay away from the streetlights and move in the shadows. And we’re just going to catch a glimpse of the concert and then get right back here, okay” </p>
<p>“Okay!” she answered with glee as the two of them headed down the front steps into the night and down the street. </p>
<p>Had they taken the time to let their eyes get accustomed to the dark, they might have seen the two men seated in a car nearby, their cigarette embers glowing in the car’s dark interior. One spoke quietly into a walkie-talkie and said, “Blue Boy to Rover, targets are on the move. Pick ‘em up at the corner and arrest ‘em.” Putting down the radio, he turned to his partner and chuckled, “Well, we won't be able to use that little trick again for a while, will we?” </p>
<p>His partner stubbed out his cigarette in the ash tray, nodded and replied, "Yeah, but I think the recording of the little kitten meowing helplessly will probably get the old lady on the corner out for a few minutes tomorrow night. Want to give it a try?" </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/63036672020-05-03T14:04:28-07:002020-05-03T14:04:28-07:00Herd Immunity - By Brian Law<p>She found him looking out the back window again. It was 2:30 in the morning and he was peeking through the curtain at the cottage they owned. She padded quietly up behind him, put her arms around his waist and asked, “Did she get back late?” </p>
<p>“Yeah, well, she got back early this morning, about an hour ago. She was with someone,” he answered, moving his head a bit to get a better view. “He wasn’t one of her regulars. He’s still there, as far as I can tell.” </p>
<p>“What woke you? Were they loud? What was it?” she wondered. </p>
<p>“Oh, you know, I was worrying about our finances, about our son in Michigan, and about the septic system. The usual. Then I heard them drive up and I watched.” He paused, then admitted, “It’s my only outlet nowadays. I’m a voyeur of all things. I used to be an accountant.” </p>
<p>She should have laughed but she knew he was serious. What they had become worried her, too. They couldn’t leave the house and they had to hire the girl to be their outreach into what was left of the community. The stores and shops were all boarded up and only the immune ones and the asymptomatic ones roamed the city. The girl was immune, knew her way around the black markets in food and repair services, and agreed to work for free rent, a free car, and a few thousand a month. </p>
<p>It had worked out so far. She was good at getting decent food at a decent price, getting immune ones to fix things that needed fixing around the house, and keeping the riffraff off their property. They gave her a pistol and she’d used it once or twice. She was fearless but had good judgement. And it looked like she was close to getting the septic system back into working order. </p>
<p>It bothered them at first when she started bringing men back to the cottage. They’d last for a day or two, then there would be a big argument and the guy would stomp off, never to be seen again. They weren’t sure what they would do if she ever settled on just one guy and he decided to move in. She’d have them over a barrel, no question. </p>
<p>They left the back window and sat in the kitchen. She made coffee and he told her he had a story to tell that began a few weeks ago. He recalled how he found an old walkie-talkie in the garage and got it working again. He turned it on and sent out a general invite to anyone listening and he got an instant reply from an old friend of theirs, Milt Fletcher. The Fletchers were in a similar situation but Milt was a little more adventurous than he was. Seems like Milt liked to sneak out at night while his wife was asleep in an effort to find out what was really going on. </p>
<p>He found out all right. All the immune and asymptomatic ones had formed a makeshift open-air commune in a meadow just outside of town. It was sort of a ‘burning man’ deal with everybody running around half-naked and bartering all sorts of stuff. Milt would hide on a nearby hillside at night and watch the goings-on. He said it was like something out of a Mad Max movie. He actually said it might be worth getting the virus and surviving it just to spend a night down there with the rest of them. </p>
<p>They agreed to communicate again the next day at the same time, but Milt didn’t come up on his walkie-talkie. He went to his garage secretly and tried for two days, but no Milt. On the third day, he snuck out to the garage to try again. He found a walkie-talkie nailed to the garage door. It had been crushed and there was a note attached. </p>
<p>“Oh, my God! Was it Milt’s radio?” she shrieked. He nodded. He had given it to Milt a few years ago as a gift and he recognized it. </p>
<p>“The note. What did the note say?” </p>
<p>He slumped in his chair, a look of fear and despair on his face as he managed to stammer out, “It was from her, our boarder, and her friends. It said, ‘Don’t try this again or there will be no food!’” </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/62724952020-04-05T09:49:52-07:002020-04-05T09:49:52-07:00Matriarch - By Brian Law<p>“Ah,” she replied, “I always knew you were the one, from the moment you could speak.” </p>
<p>The great-grandchild sat at her knee, her great-grandmother patting her on the head. “But how do you know? How do you know who to trust, great-grandmama?” </p>
<p>The old woman had not confided in anyone for over thirty years. She had held her own counsel and had trusted no one, not her husband, not anyone, not until today. Today, providence had delivered someone she could trust, and it was a seven-year-old girl. </p>
<p>“Trust, my dear, is not something you can depend upon. It is a rare gem, maybe the rarest, like you. I can trust you because you have asked the right questions, without guile, without deceit. You are the one I will trust with the answers. So, sit while I reveal them to you, my dearest,” the old lady replied, her hands taking hold of her great-granddaughter’s hand. </p>
<p>“You want to know who you can trust, don’t you. As a young woman married to your great-grandfather, I trusted many people. And I learned to regret those decisions. So, I had to learn who to exclude and who to let in,” the old woman explained. “I learned that it was all about power, money and access.” </p>
<p>The young girl stayed silent and paid rapt attention to her mentor as the old woman continued. “People were attracted to us and wanted access to us. Sometimes it was obvious, but often it was subtle. I’m no different than others, I like people and like them around, but when I discover their motives, it’s time to cut them off.” </p>
<p>The young girl moved close to her great-grandmother’s knee and asked, “How do you do that without letting them know you are doing it?” </p>
<p>The old woman smiled, stroked the child’s hair and answered, “Precisely the problem, my dear. The secret is in the access. You reduce access just a bit at a time until, finally, they have no access at all. Understand? Just a bit at a time, almost imperceptibly.” </p>
<p>“Is there anyone left who’s close to you now, great-grandmama?” the young girl wondered. </p>
<p>“Just you, my dear. Just you,” she answered wistfully. “And maybe the dogs,” she laughed. </p>
<p>“Are you lonely, great-grandmama?” the young girl asked. </p>
<p>“No, not really,” the old woman replied wistfully. </p>
<p>“Was there ever anyone who you had to deny access to quickly, without hesitation?” the young girl asked. </p>
<p>The old woman removed her hands from her great-granddaughter, sighed and answered, “Yes, once.” She paused as if thinking back to a different place and time and then continued, “And I would do that differently, but I was stubborn and headstrong. Do you understand those words, my dear?” </p>
<p>The young woman nodded and stayed quiet. She knew about the stories, knew about the conflict, and knew a bit about the Princess. But that was all she knew. </p>
<p>And for the rest of the afternoon, her great-grandmother provided her with guidance for the rest of her life. </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/62724922020-04-05T09:49:09-07:002020-04-05T09:49:09-07:00Vintage - By Brian Law<p>“Cut, Cut! . . . Shit!” the young director yelled out in disgust as he quickly got up from his chair and motioned for his prop man. The director and the prop man had been close ever since film school and so the prop man knew exactly what the director was angry about. As collaborators on all the young director’s films, the two were never apart for more than a few hours each day during filming. They planned every scene down to the last detail to minimize delays, but when there was a problem, the director could be tyrannical about it. </p>
<p>Out of earshot of the rest of the crew, the director pulled the prop man aside and started to lambaste him. “Jeremy, I told you I wanted a vintage ‘47 Chrysler for this shot! That piece of shit the stunt driver brought onto the scene looks like it just came from the junkyard. We can’t use the footage!” Closely watching his prop man’s reaction, he continued, “So get me what I want and get it today, okay!” </p>
<p>The prop man wasn’t going to be bullied on this one as he fought back, “I told you three weeks ago we were having trouble with the cars! Remember our conversation at your mother’s house when I told you about that big company in L.A. that has been buying up all the old vintage cars from the smaller outfits we used to rent from.” </p>
<p>“Yeah, I remember the conversation. And I remember you said we were going to have to spend a lot more on cars than we thought. So, what’s the problem here?” the director complained impatiently. </p>
<p>The prop man took a moment to answer knowing full well how the young director was going to react, “Well, we were all set to rent a suitable car until they demanded to review the script. And when we showed them the story line, they refused to rent to us.” </p>
<p>“On what grounds?” the director demanded. </p>
<p>The prop man breathed deeply and replied, “On the grounds that it puts Italian-Americans in a bad light.” </p>
<p>“For Christ's Sake, Jeremy, we’re doing a movie about the mob in L.A. in the late 1940’s. That was generations ago! Who are these guys who are refusing to rent to us, anyway? Will they reconsider?” the director yelled. </p>
<p>The prop man used his finger to push his nose to one side. </p>
<p>“Oh, shit, you mean they’re connected?” the incredulous director whispered. </p>
<p>The prop man slowly nodded and shrugged. “I had to go all the way to Kansas to get this piece of junk to use in the shot! Can you believe it? It was one of the few ‘47 Chryslers the L.A. company hadn’t bought up. I think it’s been in a barn for quite a while. It still has its old California plates on it with 1947 registration tags.” </p>
<p>The director told the crew to take a lunch break while he and the prop man took a closer look at the old car and talked to the stunt driver. They walked around the vehicle, looked inside it, and then stood back to consider what to do next. </p>
<p>The director turned to the stunt driver and asked, “Willy, you know cars. What do you think about this piece of junk? If we give it a cheap paint job and touch up the wheels and the bumpers, will it pass muster if we don’t use it in a closeup?” </p>
<p>The stunt driver didn’t hesitate as he responded, “Yeah, we can have it ready by tomorrow morning. But there’s just one thing.” He waited nervously as the young director put his hands on his hips and in an annoying voice said, “Oh, what now?” </p>
<p>The prop man jumped right in and replied, “Well, we had to buy this car from a farmer in Kansas. We beat the L.A. guys to it with just about ten minutes to spare, and they weren’t too pleased that they didn’t get it. Apparently, they've been looking for it for years!” </p>
<p>“So what?” the director demanded. </p>
<p>“Well, they’ll be by tomorrow afternoon to pick it up from us. So, we have to get the shot done and have the car ready to ship by four o’clock tomorrow afternoon, or else,” the prop man explained. </p>
<p>The director was now in full rage. “Let me understand this, will you? First, they refuse to rent cars to us and now they’re demanding we give them cars that we own! Is that what I’m hearing, Jeremy?” </p>
<p>The prop man walked to the rear of the car, motioned for the young director to follow him as he opened the trunk. “Maybe this will help you understand.” As the two men looked down into the trunk, they could clearly see the skeletal remains of a large man who in life had been dressed in a suit and hat circa the late 1940’s. There was an obvious hole in the rear of the deceased’s skull. </p>
<p>The director took a deep breath and then slowly asked, “Did they say anything about what would happen if we didn’t return the car?” </p>
<p>The prop man and the stunt driver looked at each other, and then the prop man moved closer to the young director, put his hand on his shoulder, and whispered, “They said there was still plenty of room in the trunk.” </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/62724912020-04-05T09:48:02-07:002020-04-07T14:36:06-07:00Cat Food for Breakfast - By Brian Law<p>It was cold, very cold as the children huddled together at the table. There was only one chair and their father had taken that and was already eating. “Sit down!” he demanded mockingly. The children, wrapped in a single blanket, stood shivering and breathing slowly, their collective breath clearly visible. </p>
<p>At the counter, their mother was scooping dry kibble into five separate small bowls and then adding a bit of collected rainwater. Her husband was the only one who got to eat the wet stuff. Each of the children could smell its pungent odor across the table. It was tuna in a savory sauce, his favorite, and it made their little mouths water. </p>
<p>The small bowls were thrust in front of them, a wooden spoon in each one. “Eat!” he yelled and quickly five small hands emerged from the blanket, each grasping a spoon. The water had soaked into the bottom layer of the kibble, but most of it was still dry and it hurt their teeth at first. But they ate it because they knew it was all they would get until they got to the dumpsters. </p>
<p>He watched them with no emotion. He had stopped trying to remember their names. They were just his individual burdens, nothing more. As he finished the last scoop of tuna from the can, he banged it on the table as a signal for his wife to get him another. </p>
<p>She moved as quickly as she could to the cardboard box on the counter and tried to hide its contents from her children as she opened it and grabbed another can from inside and quickly closed the box. </p>
<p>But her oldest boy saw just enough to know that there were two dozen cans in the box on the counter, their bright shiny lids all sitting in neat rows and searing an indelible image in his young mind. His hunger was in charge now as he watched his father pull the tab on the new can and start to dig in. There was just something about the sound of his father pulling back on the tab of the new can that triggered his next action. </p>
<p>With his father totally involved in scooping tuna into his mouth, the young boy moved quickly. Before anyone knew it, he had the top of the tuna can in his hand and against his surprised father’s throat. And then it was over in an instant. Everyone watched as if in slow motion as their father convulsed and then slumped dead in his chair. And they all stood motionless, including their mother, knowing what certainly was next. </p>
<p>The young boy pushed his father’s body from the chair and onto the floor. Unfazed by the blood on the chair and the table, he sat down, grabbed the metal spoon his father always used and quickly consumed what was left in the can of tuna. </p>
<p>Slamming the empty can down on the table, he yelled, “More!” to his mother and glared across the table at his brothers and sisters, their wooden spoons moving slowly and silently from their small bowls to their hungry mouths. He was in charge now and they knew it. </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/62445732020-03-10T17:50:36-07:002020-03-10T19:13:23-07:00The Next Billionaire - By Brian Law<p>The newly-elected President of the United States strode confidently to the podium, his patented cryptic half-smile revealing little of what he was feeling or thinking. Adjusting the microphone, he slowly surveyed the eager journalists with a patience that his predecessor never showed. And then he spoke his first public words as President, “Ladies and gentlemen, I am ready to take your questions.” </p>
<p>He pointed to a young woman from CNN in the third row who stood and asked, “President Bloomberg, can you please address the rumors about your business dealings in the 1960’s in rural Alaska? There are suggestions of some very sharp business practices by some of your employees, sir.” </p>
<p>The President responded in a measured and quiet tone, “I assume you are referring to the network of appliance salesmen I had working in Alaska during that period. The Department of Justice has thoroughly investigated those business practices and has determined that everything was completely above board. Every refrigerator my salesmen sold to the Eskimo population during that period was of the highest quality.” He pointed to an MSNBC reporter standing in the back of the room and announced, “Next question.” </p>
<p>“Sir, there are strong suggestions that you duped some very wealthy Middle Easterners out of a lot of money in the early ‘80’s. Do you care to address these allegations at this time?” the questioner asked. </p>
<p>“Of course, I have nothing to hide. You are referring to the forty shiploads of sand from my properties in Florida sold to the Kuwaitis during the Winter of 1981. These transactions were entirely legal. The buyers, the Kuwaitis, did not have sand of high quality and they contacted me to fill their needs. I was really providing a valuable service even though it just appears that I was ‘selling sand to the Arabs’.” And as many hands shot up, the President continued, “And before you ask, I provided a similar service to some English clients in Newcastle in the late 1980’s. Again, completely legal. Merely twenty shiploads of high quality coal they couldn’t source locally.” </p>
<p>A Fox News reporter yelled out a question, “President Bloomberg, what about the bridge deals? Aren’t you still under investigation for those, sir?” </p>
<p>The President adjusted his silk tie and leaned closer to the microphone. “As you may not know, I came into possession of the Brooklyn Bridge legally in the late 1950’s. You can check the ownership records. Regardless, you are undoubtedly referring to my multiple sales of that property over the years to a series of different buyers. All completely legal, I assure you. And the fact that I reacquired the Bridge after each sale was merely a feature of New York repossession law. And no, I am not currently under investigation for any of those transactions. Next question!” </p>
<p>“Sir, Jenny Macy from the Seminole Times. Can you comment on your many land deals in central Florida that have come under scrutiny?” </p>
<p>The President calmly responded, “Climate change has emerged as a critical issue for my Administration. And I know only too well the insidious impact of seawater intrusion into Florida real estate. Many real estate transactions I have been involved in have subsequently turned into ‘swampland’ due to Global Warming, I’m afraid. A tragic outcome for the buyers, but certainly nothing I did was out of the ordinary. Okay, one last question, and then I have to get back to work for the American people and sell them on my policies.” </p>
<p>“Sir,” came a voice from the back of the room, “can you comment on the millions you’ve made recently in deals with Micronesions?” </p>
<p>“Again, this issue is tied to Global Warming,” the President responded. “Many Pacific Islanders are faced with rising sea levels that have caused great suffering and even deaths by drowning. The fact that one of my companies sold shiploads of bottled water recently to one of those tiny countries is merely a logical result of the ongoing crisis.” </p>
<p>“But, sir, doesn’t ‘selling water to drowning men’ smack of a scam,” came a shouted-out question. </p>
<p>“I don’t think I’ll dignify that question with an answer. But thank you all for coming today, anyway. You will find autographed photos of me for sale as you leave the Press Room,” the President declared. “This is a one-time offer and they're cheap at twice the price.” </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/62445722020-03-10T17:49:56-07:002020-03-14T13:35:39-07:00The Neurotic Physician - By Brian Law<p>It was two a.m. when she rolled over in bed and discovered her husband wasn’t there, again. She sighed and slowly dragged herself from her warm covers, put on her bathrobe, and walked to the study. She knew he’d be there in the dark. </p>
<p>He was sitting in the big red leather chair staring at the clock on the wall with that look on his face she’d seen so many times. “What is it this time, Greg?” she asked with an air of exasperation. </p>
<p>“I think I’ve contracted Hansen’s Disease, Marjorie,” he answered in a hollow, defeated voice. “I have all the symptoms.” </p>
<p>“Really, Greg, leprosy? We live in New Hampshire, for God’s sake! Come back to bed, take your meds, and everything will look different in the morning,” she responded imploringly. </p>
<p>“I think I got it when we traveled to Argentina back in 2005. Remember that little side trip to the rain forest we took? That’s when I got it. I’m just beginning to show symptoms now.” </p>
<p>“Greg, dear,” she said, getting a bit testy, “You don’t have leprosy or anything else. You’re fit as a fiddle except that you’re a hypochondriac. So please, face facts, take your meds and come back to bed. You’ve got a big day coming up and you need your rest.” </p>
<p>This was the third time this month this had happened. And each time he had come up with another obscure or difficult to diagnose illness and each time she was able to talk sense to him. But it was getting harder and they were both nearing exhaustion because of it. </p>
<p>He looked at her, shook his head and insisted, “No, this time it’s real. I’m not imagining this and I’m terrified. I’m going to a specialist and if I’m correct, it will mean the end of my medical career. Who wants to be treated by a leper?” </p>
<p>“Greg, the headache you had last Friday night turned into a brain tumor by Sunday, right? And two weeks ago, that little upset stomach of yours suddenly became cancer. And did you have either of those things? No! So please, let’s go back to bed knowing that this will pass, too!” she begged. </p>
<p>He pointed to the laptop on the nearby desk. “Look for yourself! I’ve got the Leprosy website there and I’ve got all the symptoms. And you should get checked, too. I mean, we went to all the same places, met all the same people, and ate the same food, right?” </p>
<p>She was really worked up now as she paced the floor of the study. “Oh, now you’re trying to suck me into your delusions, doctor! I don’t think so. And surfing the web for symptoms, my God, they even have a name for that, Greg? ‘Cyberchondria,’ for Christ’s sake!” </p>
<p>“You’re not being very supportive, Marjorie!” </p>
<p>“What you mean is that I’m not being codependent, Greg! The distinction is critical.” </p>
<p>He paused, thought for a moment and then said, “Okay, you’re right. Bring me my meds and a glass of water and I’ll see you back in bed in a few minutes. Feel better now?” </p>
<p>She smiled, made sure he took his meds and padded back to bed. It was almost three a.m. but she was wide awake with her energy restored and strangely aroused as her husband slipped into bed beside her. </p>
<p>“Greg,” she purred, “I feel very close to you right now. Want to fool around?” </p>
<p>Greg was quiet as she waited for his response. After a few moments, he apologetically responded, “I think I have E.D., dear.” </p>
<p>She smiled in the dark, moved her hand a bit and whispered, “No, I don’t think so. I think the doctor is just fine.” </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/62445712020-03-10T17:49:20-07:002020-03-10T17:49:20-07:00The Line-Up - By Brian Law<p>The eight of them filed through a side door, up a short flight of stairs, and onto the brightly lit stage one by one. There was no apparent order. Some were tall, some short, some men, some women, some whatever. One of them had to be eighty-five, if a day. They all stood facing out, waiting for the voice to start the process. </p>
<p>“Number five, remove your sunglasses.” Number five complied. </p>
<p>“Number seven, remove your scarf.” He removed his scarf which let his hair fall about his shoulders. </p>
<p>“Number four, look straight ahead, into the camera.” Number four blinked and nervously did as requested. </p>
<p>“Okay, number one, step forward to the line, please.” As he did, the voice continued, “Turn to your right, number one.” He turned, but the voice yelled, “Your right! Your right!” Number one corrected himself and turned in the correct direction. </p>
<p>“Number one, face forward.” Turning again into the glaring lights, number one prepared for what he knew was coming. “Okay, number one, what’s your position on healthcare? And speak clearly. You have one minute.” </p>
<p>Number one did his best on that question as well as on the other questions put to him. After seven minutes, he was told to step back, and number two was instructed to step forward. And so it went for almost an hour, each being instructed in the same way. The question set was the same for each. “Okay, number six, what is your position on abortion?” “Okay, number eight what is your position on the War Powers Act?” Etc. etc. </p>
<p>As the questioning ended, the eight were instructed to exit the stage to the left. The voice turned to the man next to him who was watching a computer screen and quietly said, “That’s the last of them. That makes, what, one hundred and six?” The man at the computer screen nodded and added, “The voting is starting now. Remember the guy from Anaheim, the car dealer? He’s leading, but the old woman from Wichita who had her pet dog with her, she’s a close second. Nobody else is even close. If it stays like this, he’s the next President of the United States and she’ll be the next Vice President.” </p>
<p>“How much longer will it take?” the voice asked. </p>
<p>“There’s a little delay with the votes from troops overseas, but I’d say our election will be in the bag in about, oh, say ten minutes,” came the answer. </p>
<p>The voice nodded, picked up his cell phone and dialed. “Mr. Chief Justice, can you be ready in fifteen for the swearing in?” The answer he got was terse and resigned. “I’ll be there.” </p>
<p>Hanging up, the voice leaned back in his chair, his hands behind his head. He remembered the old ways . . . the debates, the money grubbing, the influence peddling, the back-stabbing, the underhanded deals, the ridiculous conventions. </p>
<p>He smiled as he picked-up his own cell phone again and voted for the little old lady from Wichita with the pet dog. </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/62445702020-03-10T17:48:51-07:002020-03-10T17:48:51-07:00The Last Billionaire - By Brian Law<p>The man was escorted to the podium by the FBI and left alone there, all by himself. He watched as the agents left and with a great deal of uncertainty as he approached the microphone. “Hi, I’m Jerome, uh, Jerome Nesbit,” he announced hesitantly. “They just told me I’m the new President of the United States and maybe some of you recognize me. I was the Acting Under Secretary of Veterans Affairs until this morning. And I really have no idea what's going on.” </p>
<p>The White House reporter for Fox News stood up and taking the microphone from the assistant, said, “Sir, you were the last one standing in the line of succession. Everyone else was caught up in the Bloomberg scandals. Everybody else is going to prison, Mr. President. You have a clean slate! You have complete power to remake the Federal Government and set the new agenda!” </p>
<p>Nesbit breathed deeply and looked around the room nervously and then said, “Look, I graduated from Eastern Illinois University in 1997 with a degree in Communications. I went into the Army and got lucky in Afghanistan. Silver Star, and all that. But I’m really uncomfortable with this whole President of the United States thing, you know. This is a big deal and I don’t think I’m the guy to take it on.” </p>
<p>From the wings emerged a tall man, dressed immaculately in an expensive silk suit and sporting a five hundred dollar haircut. He nudged Nesbit aside a bit and announced, “What President Nesbit is trying to convey is that he is prepared to work incredibly hard to reunite this country, to clean-up the mess left by the former Administration, and to move forward into a bold new future for our great country.” </p>
<p>“Who are you?” came a question from the third row. </p>
<p>“I’m a good friend of President Nesbit’s. Someone whom he has asked to be by his side during this difficult transition period.” </p>
<p>Another question was yelled out, “Yes, but what’s your name and what’s your job?” </p>
<p>The well-coiffed man smiled, put his arm around the new President, and answered, “I work for Mark at Facebook. My name is not important, but I’m the vice president in charge of the News Feed Division.” </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/62445692020-03-10T17:48:13-07:002020-03-10T17:48:13-07:00A Winter Cold - By Brian Law<p>As he waited in the exam room for the doctor, he got up off the exam table and nosed around, just looking. He often wondered if they had cameras in these rooms. Anyway, he coughed a few times, blew his nose and sat down on the table again. He could hear his doctor talking in the next room with another patient. Nothing specific, just mumbles coming through the walls. It wouldn’t be long now, he thought, as he went over in his head what he was going to say about his symptoms. </p>
<p>The doctor knocked slightly on the door and then swept in, all sterile and business-like. As he washed his hands, he asked, “So, Mr., uh . . . Robinson, what seems to be our problem today?” </p>
<p>“Lots of coughing and wheezing, sinus congestion and general exhaustion, doctor,” he replied as the doctor approached him and looked closely at his eyes. </p>
<p>“Okay, let’s take a look here,” the doctor said as he checked his temperature, his throat and ears, and listened to his heart and lungs for a few moments. “Go ahead and put your shirt back on, Mr. Robinson,” the doctor continued as he sat down at his computer and made some entries. </p>
<p>“Well, what do I have, doc?” he asked. “Anything serious?” </p>
<p>Without looking up from his computer, the doctor replied, “Let me ask you a few questions first. Had you been experiencing abnormal anxiety before the onset of these symptoms? I see you have a prescription for anti-anxiety meds.” </p>
<p>He nodded and said, “Yeah, I’ve been having lots of anxiety lately. Losing sleep, too. Then this crud caught up with me, doc.” </p>
<p>“Okay, and I see you are retired. Do you watch television news during the day? Or political commentary? Or take in the debates, things like that?” the doctor continued. </p>
<p>“All the time, doc. It’s just terrible what’s happening, so you have to keep up these days,” he responded, coughing a bit. </p>
<p>“And are you in close contact with others who are similarly caught up in current events?” the doctor continued. </p>
<p>“Well, I used to, but God, you just can’t believe what idiots are out there these days. Complete morons. So, no, I pretty much keep to myself,” he answered. </p>
<p>“Right. So, you’ve been feeling bad for a few days now. Do you still watch television even though you should be in bed, resting?” the doctor continued as he typed. </p>
<p>“Got to keep current, doc!” he wheezed. </p>
<p>The doctor paused, then looked up and asked, “And do you sometimes find yourself yelling at your television, particularly when certain personalities are featured? Or do you find yourself so frustrated that you sometimes experience shortness of breath, maybe even dizziness, too?” </p>
<p>Wow, he thought to himself, this doctor is good! I came to the right place today! Straightening up a bit, he replied, “Exactly, doc! So, you know what’s ailing me? I hope it’s not serious?” </p>
<p>The doctor got up from his computer and approached him saying, “I see a lot of this these days. But I didn’t say it wasn’t serious. I won’t go that far. But as long as you follow my instructions when you go home, you’re probably going to be alright.” </p>
<p>As the doctor left the room, and as he finished dressing, he went over the doctor’s instructions in his head and remembered what he had said. As long as you follow my instructions when you go home, you’re probably going to be alright. </p>
<p>If it was a simple matter of just taking some pills for a few days, that was one thing. But unplugging his television! Jesus, was this guy a quack, or what? </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/62220972020-02-20T15:32:43-07:002020-03-01T11:26:11-07:00Heart Beat Hill<p style="text-align: center;">By Brian Law </p>
<p>It was just by chance that she caught a glimpse of her father leaving in his friend Ed’s old car. On any normal Sunday morning at five o’clock, she'd be snuggled-up in bed, but something caused her to get up and look out her bedroom window. And there she saw her father climbing into the back of that old Chevy along with his old marine buddies. She knew exactly what was going on as she sat down and dialed 911. </p>
<p>“911. What’s your emergency?” </p>
<p>“You know me, I’m Marge Jameson over on Maple Street. I call every year about this time around Christmas about my Dad, Fred. He’s at it again, I’m afraid,” she explained apologetically to the operator. “I just saw him drive away from my house with his old friends. They’re headed for the hill again.” She told the operator the make, model and license plate number of Ed’s old car and the direction it had headed. </p>
<p>“Hi, Marge,” the operator replied. “Okay, I’ll alert the police about the vehicle. Any idea at all where they might be going this year?” </p>
<p>Marge told her she thought it was going to be the hill behind the old high school and then added, “I’m leaving right away. I’ll be there in about twenty minutes or so. One of Fred’s friends in the car just got out of the hospital and Fred’s been having some heart problems, too. So, pass that on, please,” the daughter advised and then hung up. She looked around for her bathrobe, threw it on and went downstairs for a cup of coffee before leaving. </p>
<p>Sipping her coffee as she struggled to get into her jeans, she glanced over at the photographs on the fireplace mantle. There they were, all the annual photos of her Dad and his friends standing proudly at the foot of some hill. Sadly, she knew that each successive photo had fewer friends in it and last year’s photo only had the four who went away together in the car this morning. The hill was thinning the herd, she thought darkly. How many would survive today’s ordeal and still be alive for the post-run photo opportunity? </p>
<p>They had all been in the same marine platoon in Vietnam, had all assaulted Hill 47 when ordered and only twelve survived that action. And when they got home, and in memory of their fallen brethren, they agreed to reenact the taking of Hill 47 each year until they were all gone. </p>
<p>They used to charge the same hill each year until one of the guys died in the process and the local authorities caught on to what was happening. So they had to choose a different hill each year and keep it a secret. This year’s hill was the one behind the old high school. </p>
<p>By the time Marge got there, the police had already arrived but too late to prevent the remaining platoon members from making a run up the hill. As she got out of her car, she saw her father leaning against the police car, clearly out of breath and in pain. And close by, on the ground, covered in a policeman’s jacket, lay Ed. </p>
<p>She rushed to her father’s side as he looked up, grimaced and gasped, “Hey, you bring a camera by any chance?” </p>
<p>End </p>
<p>2/8/20</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/62220962020-02-20T15:31:52-07:002020-02-20T15:31:52-07:00The Ham Salesman<p style="text-align: center;">By Brian law </p>
<p>“Santa, it’s Vern on line two,” the elf relayed, rolling her eyes a bit. </p>
<p>Sighing, Santa picked up and answered, trying to be upbeat, “Vern, it’s been a while. What can I do for you, cousin? I’m pretty busy this time of year, so keep it simple.” </p>
<p>“Simple, simple! You want me to keep it simple? Simple I can’t do, cousin. Simple is out this year! I got a problem and you’re the solution, and simple it isn’t,” Vern yelled as if talking to an underling. </p>
<p>Santa looked at some budget figures on his desk as he waited for Vern to calm down. It was always like this with his cousin. The yelling, the demands, then the contrition and the pleading. He waited for the contrition and the pleading as he tried to figure out why the budget for reindeer feed was so out of control this year. </p>
<p>“Santa, you still there?” Vern asked and then continued, “Look, I’m sorry for yelling like that and I know you’re busy. So, I won’t make any demands, okay? But I do need your help. I’m in a bind, a real bind.” </p>
<p>Again, Santa said nothing but let Vern know he was still on the phone by clearing his throat and taking a loud slurp of tea. </p>
<p>Vern breathed deeply, steeled himself and then spoke very slowly and concisely, “Okay, Santa, here it is. There are six fewer shopping days this year between Thanksgiving and Christmas. Well, you obviously know that, but then there’s this tariff thing on ham and all these damn vegans running around. I’m telling you, cousin, I’m at my wits end!” </p>
<p>Santa put his hand over the receiver while he discussed something with one of the elves, then returned to the phone call and asked, “So far, Vern, you’ve told me about stuff I’ve got no control over. Calendars, tariffs, vegans, your wits.” He paused to let that sink in and then added, “Get to the point, Vern. What do you really want? I’m a busy man.” </p>
<p>Vern chose his words carefully as he answered, “Cousin, I want to sell my ham business to you and only you. Buffett is down here, nibbling around the edges, but I want to give you the first right of refusal. It’s a perfect fit with your current operations. Interested?” </p>
<p>Without saying anything, Santa motioned for his Chief Finance Elf to get on the line and listen in. As he waited, Santa smiled and wrote some notes on his scratch pad and then responded to Vern, “I’ve got my finance elf listening in, Vern. So, I’m going to leave him with you to discuss the details of the deal, okay? And then I’ll get his report later today and get back to you. How does that sound? Oh, and thanks for putting me before Buffett, Vern.” </p>
<p>As Vern and the Chief Finance Elf began their phone conversation, Santa hung up and placed another call. He waited patiently as the call was relayed through a variety of security checks until finally, he got through. “Mr. President, this is Santa! How are you?” </p>
<p>The voice on the other end sounded tired but that wasn’t unusual. They exchanged pleasantries and then Santa got right to the point, “You were right about the pork tariffs. Vern just called today and he’s selling out to me. I’ll lowball him, of course, and I’ll make a killing.” </p>
<p>The voice on the other end asked him about how he was going to handle gift deliveries to the children of Democrats this year. </p>
<p>Santa laughed and replied, “Oh, you know, the usual screwups, delays, and non-deliveries. So, what about those turkey tariffs? Can you arrange for something to happen there?” </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.comtag:spearpointpub.com,2005:Post/62220952020-02-20T15:30:18-07:002020-02-20T15:30:18-07:00A Cello For Danny<p style="text-align: center;">By Brian Law </p>
<p>His wife had been very introspective for the last half hour or so. And she was never introspective, so he was curious as he approached her as she sat on the sofa reading a catalog. </p>
<p>“What’s up?” he asked, trying to be nonchalant. </p>
<p>She looked up as if surprised and asked him to sit down for a minute. She had something she wanted to go over with him, she said. Getting more curious by the second, he quickly sat down, smiled and wise-cracked, “Okay, I’m sitting down.” </p>
<p>She took a deep breath, closed the catalog and announced, “I think it’s time for Danny to do something that would bring him out of his shell. Something that would allow him to express his innermost emotions and feelings, but without him having to relate with other people.” </p>
<p>Danny was their son who was having trouble moving on from adolescence. He had no friends, interrelated with no one other than his parents, and even then he was extremely reticent. They had considered therapy, but Danny had flat-out refused to participate and instead shut himself up in his room with his video games and his earphones. When he did come out, he never made eye contact or spoke in words of more than one syllable. </p>
<p>“Okay,” her husband said getting serious, “Just what do you have in mind?” </p>
<p>She smiled and handed him the catalog. “I want Danny to take up the cello!” </p>
<p>He didn’t say anything, but instead took the catalog and thumbed through it. As he did, she continued, “Look, it’s not like a drum set or an electric guitar. That would drive us and the neighbors crazy. Instead, he could still stay in his room and learn how to play the cello by taking lessons over the Internet and we’d hardly hear him at all. It’s all in the catalog!” </p>
<p>“But will it help him come out of his shell? That’s the whole point, right? Will it do the job?” he asked earnestly. </p>
<p>She turned to face him and pointed to the catalog again. “It’s all in there, testimonials from students and therapists and parents. It works! I think we should give it a try. Please, just have an open mind and read the catalog and let me know what you think, okay?” </p>
<p>Holding the catalog in his hands, he turned his head and looked up the stairs towards Danny’s bedroom and its closed door. Then, turning back to his wife, he nodded and said, “If you think this will work, let’s start the process. Call the 800 number and arrange for a representative to come to the house for a consultation. In in! And I will read this catalog!” </p>
<p>She reached out and they hugged, and for the first time in years they both felt upbeat about the possibilities for their boy. “Oh, and the best part is that I got Danny one of these catalogs the other day and asked him to look it over and see if there was anything in it he’d like for his birthday, and later he actually asked me a question about it! Can you believe it, he read it! I think we’re onto something big here!” </p>
<p>He got up and said that he thought that this special occasion warranted a toast of some kind. He went to the liquor cabinet, took out two glasses, and poured out two servings of sherry. </p>
<p>She stood up, took her glass in hand, and proudly proposed the toast, “To our son, Danny, the future cello student, on his fifty-sixth birthday! Happy birthday, Danny!” </p>
<p>End</p>spearpointpub.com