The Box: Uncanny Stories by Richard Matheson (book review)

            The Box: Uncanny Stories (originally titled Button, Button: Uncanny Stories) was released in 2008 and contains stories published between 1950 and 1970.  The name was changed to capitalize off the (then upcoming) film adaptation of the previously titular story, Button, Button. 

See The Box on Goodreads

            Button, Button is a good place to start when discussing Matheson’s short stories.  Most of his stories have a compelling “what if?” scenario behind them and end with a sort of poetic justice twist.  While reading this collection, I immediately made comparisons to The Twilight Zone.  A quick bit of research on Matheson turned up that he was a writer for The Twilight Zone.   Another comparison I’d like to mention is how some of his stories are reminiscent of the old radio program Suspense.  The stories Dying Room Only, No Such Thing as a Vampire, and Clothes Make the Man are very suited for a radio adaptation. 

            What follows is a brief (spoiler free) review of each of the twelve stories in the collection.

            Button, Button (originally published in 1970): A stranger offers a married couple $50,000 if they press a button.  However, pressing the button will kill someone they don’t know.  The real effect of this story is in the ending, which you can find for yourself.

            Girl of My Dreams (originally published in 1963): The story follows a woman who dreams future tragedies and her exploitative boyfriend.  Together, they sell the information the woman receives in her dreams to those that would be affected.  Like Button, Button, there is a definite Twilight Zone poetic justice air to this story.

            Dying Room Only (originally published in 1953):  A married couple stops at a diner in the middle of the desert, and the husband disappears.  This is more of a mystery/suspense story than a sci-fi/horror story.

            A Flourish of Strumpets (originally published in 1956): What if prostitution became a door-to-door business?  That’s the premise of this story, which leans toward the humorous.

            No Such Thing as a Vampire (originally published in 1959): A Romanian doctor’s wife starts to succumb to symptoms of vampiric assault.  The story’s prose is very melodramatic, the first sentence describing the how doctor’s wife “awoke one morning to a sense of utmost torpor.”

            Pattern for Survival (originally published in 1955): A very short story about the dreams of a writer.

            Mute (originally published in 1962): At nearly 50 pages, this is the longest story in the collection.  It follows the story of a child named Paal, who is adopted by the town’s sheriff and his wife after the boy’s parents die in a fire.  Paal cannot speak, but has some telepathic ability.

            The Creeping Terror (originally published in 1959):  Despite having the most cliché title of any story in the collection it is the most original.  It’s written as a college paper (with brief interludes of third person omniscient narration) about a historical event known as the L.A. Movement.  Not only is Los Angeles alive, but it’s spreading.  This is a humorous story, which pokes a bit of fun at Los Angeles (as an Angelino, I’m all for this).

            Shock Wave (originally published in 1963): A church organist is convinced that the organ has gained sentience.

            Clothes Make the Man (originally published in 1950): There is a man who cannot think without a hat, walk without shoes, use his hands without gloves, etc.

            The Jazz Machine (originally published in 1962):  This is the only story where the prose is worth mentioning.  Written in non-rhyming verse, The Jazz Machine is the first person narrative of a jazz musician who is approached by a man who claims that he has a machine that can translate jazz into the sentiments it is meant to express.  While I’m not a fan of beat poetry, this story is very well written.

            ‘Tis the Season to be Jelly (originally published in 1963): A slice-of-life story about mutants living in a (presumably) post-apocalyptic world.  This is probably the strangest story of the lot.

The Best of All Worlds

            There was a strange old man at the campus coffee shop nearly every day, sitting on a long-legged chair next to the window, sipping his drink and watching the students pass by.  He seemed simultaneously gleeful and crestfallen, an air of resigned happiness about him, as if he were trying to force himself to see the bright side in everything and failing.  Some people avoided him; they thought he was a creep or senile or both.  A few tried to befriend him, they’d sit at his little circular table, cup of coffee steaming in their hands.  They’d talk to him, but he’d just sit there, smile politely, with that same weary joy with which he viewed everything.  This led people to guess that he was a refugee (of some massacre or genocide or other unavoidable disaster) who couldn’t speak English.  To most of us he was a fixture, as much a part of the scenery as the tables and chairs. 

            To the best of my knowledge, I am the only person he ever spoke to.  Probably because I happened to be there at the time, but maybe not.  I would like to think that there was some reason besides proximity that caused him to open up to me, but excluding my own vanity I’m drawing a blank.

            I was sitting at the table next to his, we were back to back.  Him sipping his coffee, me trying to memorize a set of equations for Statistics.  Near the door, two freshmen were having a very loud discussion.

            “I saw a poll online,” one of them, a boy with greasy black hair, said, “That asked ‘If you had a time machine, would you kill Hitler?’  And a majority said ‘No.’ Isn’t that awful?”

            The other one, a girl with shoulder-length red hair, nodded emphatically as they walked out. 

            After they left, the old man started whispering.  He was so quiet I almost didn’t realize he had spoken at all.  I caught the tail end of his statement, something about truth and labels.  I twisted around in my chair to face him.

            “Excuse me?” I said.

            The man didn’t turn but spoke a little louder.  His voice was raspy and reminded me of rust.  I cannot say with any degree of certainty if what he said was true, but I know he believed it.  I think I do, too.
 

            He said:  “‘The optimist proclaims that we live in the best of all possible worlds; and the pessimist fears this is true.  So I elect for neither label.’”  He sighed, took a sip of his coffee.  “A satirist wrote that, James Cabell.  He fell out of popularity in the 1930’s.  A critic at the time said that this was because ‘Cabell and Hitler did not inhabit the same universe.’  Perhaps.  Perhaps that would be different, too.  Cabell might have continued to be successful, and paved the way for a golden age of irony.”  He made a series of shallow rasping noises.  It took me a few moments to realize that he was chuckling.  “Would you do it?  If you suddenly found yourself in the past, would you kill Hitler?”

            I thought about it for a moment.  Before I could answer, he continued.

            “The fact that no time traveler has done so is, to many, proof that time travel will always remain impossible.  For how could any society capable of retroactively preventing such a dark patch in mankind’s history possibly choose not to do so?  Why, they ask, would they allow a fool who spent his time dabbling in the occult, who would send his forces on foot into Russia, a man who did many truly evil things, but nonetheless a man who did a poor job of leading an empire, why would they let him live?”  His voice got scratchy and wavered.  He took a sip of his coffee. When he spoke again, I realized he had no accent. 

            “What if I told you,” he said, still not facing me, maybe not even talking to me, “that time travel is real.  That in the future, we’re able to trace the entire history of mankind, from the cradle of life to the grave.  That we can change things, anything we want. That the universe can withstand paradoxes and logical fallacies, because the universe isn’t logical.”   He turned towards me, his face not much more than a foot away.  “What if I told you that, of every possible sequence of events, of every reality, this one, with its war and hatred and famine, this world is the best possible outcome?  What if I told you that we are living in the best of all possible worlds, and that I know that’s true?”

            I think that one of my greatest regrets will be that I said nothing then.  He stared at me for a long moment, looking for something.  Gratitude?  Condemnation?  Apology?  Whatever it was, I couldn’t give it to him, so he left.

            He wasn’t there the next day, or any day after that.  I tried to find someone who knew his name.  The cashier said he always paid cash, so she never got his name off a credit card.  No one knew anything.  A lot of them asked me what I knew, because word had gotten around that I was the last, and only, person he spoke to. 

            I don’t know if I believe him.  But about a week after he disappeared, the cashier showed me a bronze coin the old man had put it in the tip jar.  On the back was a picture of Hearst Castle.  On the front, below the number 2867, was a portrait of Mussolini.

           

            

A Day at the Ad Agency

            “Yes, Mr. Holstrom.  Yes, I realize that this is unacceptable.  I’m going to rectify the situation right- Rectify.  It means to make right.  Yes, I’m sure it doesn’t mean that.  Yes, I’ll get right on it.  All right, thanks.”

            I hang up the phone, and rub my temples.  This is the third time Johnson’s fucked me over.  I open the drawer in my desk by my right knee, pull out a bottle of scotch and a glass.  I hate firing people.  I pour, drink.  Johnson’s office is down the hall, about ten yards from mine.  His office is only about eight by ten, but then again, he’s only worked here for six months.  It took me three years to get a decent sized office. 

            When I enter the room, Johnson is sitting with his feet on his desk, leaning back in his swivel chair, holding a paperback at arm’s length over his face.  I clear my throat.  Johnson looks at me without moving his head.

            “Hey,” he says, “What’s up?”

            “We need to talk,” I say, pulling from my pocket the folded up flyer Mr. Hostrom faxed to me.  “It’s serious.”

            Johnson swings his legs off the desk, and sits up straight, tossing the book behind him.  It hits the wall and some pages fall out.  I lay the flyer flat on the desk in front of him.  “Can you tell me what this is?” I say.

            Johnson looks it over, then says, “It’s the promotional flyer I designed for Mattress Mart’s sale.”

            “And do you see why Mr. Holstrom might be upset with it?”

            Johnson strokes his chin for a moment.  “No.”

            “Well, I see several.  Let’s start with the big bright red letters across the top.”

            “What about them.”

            I can’t tell if Johnson is messing with me, so I give him the benefit of the doubt.  “You don’t see it?”

            “No.”

            “Mattress-Side Sale.  In big red, inexplicably dripping letters, it says Mattress-Side Sale.”

            Johnson shrugs as if he has no idea what I mean.

            “Mattress-side.  Matricide.”

            He shrugs.  “Coincidence.”

            “Coincidence!  How could it be coincidence!  What the fuck does Mattress-side even mean.”

            “It means ‘the act of murdering one’s own mother.’”

            “I know that!”

            “Then why’d you ask?”

            I take a few deep breaths.  “I mean, why did you name the sale the Mattress-Side Sale.”

            “Because we have the best mattresses this side of the Mississippi.” He says.  “I promise, any homophones are coincidental.”

            “See, I have a hard time believing that.”  I point to the image beneath the title, “Could you explain this?”

            Johnson looks it over.  “I think the meaning is quite clear.”

            “So do I, which is precisely the problem.”

            The image is a line drawing of a large number of young men and middle aged women in a mattress store, all of them brandishing weapons of some kind.  Beneath that is the line: Everyone and their mother is going Psycho for our low, low prices.

            “Do you seriously expect me to believe that this has nothing to do with matricide?”

            “It has everything to do with mattress-side.  That’s the name of the sale.”

            The son of a bitch is grinning now.  “Enough,” I say.

            He shrugs.  “Fine,” he says.  “The pun is intentional.  I thought he’d like it.”

            “Why would he possibly like it?”

            “You’ve seen the commercials, always talking about prices so low that he’s got to be insane and all that.  What says crazy better than matricide?”

            I look him over carefully, trying to determine whether he’s still pulling my leg.  “Not that kind of crazy.  He’s quirky uncle crazy, not dress up like a clown and rip out your sternum crazy.”

            Johnson shrugs. “My mistake,” he says.  “I’ll do better next time.”

            I brace myself, take a deep breath.  “There won’t be a next time.  You’re fired.”

            He looks at me, actually serious for the first time so far.  “What!  Because I made one mistake!”

            “This is hardly the first mistake.”

            “Name one other.  I dare you!”

            “That Chef Spyro’s Gyro shop.  You remember that one?”

            Johnson crosses his arms over his chest.  “What about it?”

            “‘Chef Spyro will fill your mouth with his hot meat.’  And the picture was a close-up of Spyro winking.”

            Johnson snorts in derision. “So it happened one other time.  Big deal.”

            “And Bragler’s Pharmacy.  The ad just said, ‘Drugs.  Lots and lots of drugs.’”

            “It got people’s attention.”

            “It got the police department’s attention.”

            “Police are people.”

            “That’s not the point!”

            I take several deep breaths.  “The point is, you’re fired.  That’s it.”

            I stand up and start to leave, but Johnson runs around the desk and grabs my shoulder.  “Let me show you what I’ve got,” he says, clearly desperate.  “If you don’t like it, I’ll go.”

            “Fine,” I say. 

            An easel with a giant pad of sketch paper is leaned against the wall.  Johnson spreads its legs, and prepares to flip over the page.  “It’s for Rico’s Italian diner.”  He flips over the page.

            There’s are two meatballs next to each other, and a cannoli dangling below them.  The tagline says, “You’ll love our big meaty balls.”

            Johnson is smiling self-consciously.  I look at the ad again, then back to Johnson.  I turn around and start walking.  “You’re fired.” I call out over my shoulder. 

The Poolboy

            Times have been tough lately.  Fresh out of college, no jobs for a philosophy major in this economy.  So when my cousin Fred in Orange County offered me a job at the pool cleaning service he works for, I couldn’t say no.  I’ll be honest, I didn’t know the first thing about taking care of a pool, but if Fred can do it, it shouldn’t be too difficult.  I learned quickly enough (memorizing heater specs is nothing compared to Sartre) and was soon on my first assignment.  Fred had warned me that the customers were freaky, but I had no idea what I was in for. 

            My first job was at one o’clock, and, in typical Southern California fashion, the sun was scorching.  The house was a simple two-story family home in the middle of suburbia, green lawn, nice car, clean pool, almost the archetype of the typical suburban home.  I pulled the white pickup truck alongside the curb, grabbed the chemicals and skimmer from the bed, and went around the side of the house to the backyard.  The pool was, I roughly estimated, forty by fifteen feet, with a maximum depth of between nine and twelve feet.  It was surrounded by a gate, which is highly recommended to prevent tragic accidents.  My skimmer was already in the pool when I realized that the client (one Mrs. Benson, according to the billing information), was sunbathing on a lounge chair, on the concrete about ten feet from the pool.  She was wearing a red bikini, sunglasses and wide-brimmed hat, a bottle of suntan lotion on the ground next to the chair.  She noticed me looking at her, raised her head and smiled, waved.  I waved back. 

            She called out, “I hope you don’t mind if I watch.” 

            “Not at all,” I called back.  It’s good to see a homeowner take an active interest in their pool’s maintenance.  The surface of the water was spotted with clusters of leaves, which are best to remove before adding chemicals.  I realized soon on that watching the skimmer glide across the water was relaxing, almost hypnotic even.  I walked around the pool, the little blue net filling with soaked foliage, until I got to the filter, which I realized was directly in front of Mrs. Benson.  It was also broken, and I leant down to check it.  This got Mrs. Benson’s attention, as she propped herself up on an elbow to get a better look.  This filled me with a sense of anticipation; if I couldn’t fix the filter, with a pool-owner as astute as Mrs. Benson, I could be in for a hard time back at the office. 

            Mrs. Benson got up from the lounge chair and walked over to me, putting a hand on my shoulder.  “What seems to be the problem,” she said, kindly.

            “It looks like the filter’s broken,” I said, “It’s probably blocked at the pump, Mrs. Benson.” 

            “Please,” she said, “Call me Anne, and it hasn’t been Mrs. for months,” she smiled.

            I smiled back.  “I’ll be sure to change the billing info to ‘Miss’,” I said, looking around for the pump.  It was near the side of the house opposite from the side I entered from, so I walked over there, followed, to my surprise, by Anne.  I was sweating pretty badly by this point, and was tempted when Anne suggested I take my shirt off.  Unfortunately, I burn very easily, and the sun tan lotion by the lounge chair has a disastrously low SPF. 

            “Sooo…” Anne said as I squatted down next to the pump, “this problem with the pump.  Does it look hard?”

            “Too soon to tell,” I said, “I’m going to need to open her up and have a look inside.” 

            “Do you have a special tool for that?” she said. 

            “Sure do,” I said, reaching into one of the pockets on my khaki shorts. 

            “Can I touch it?” she asked, “Your tool I mean?”

            I stood up, and turned around.  She was rubbing her hands along the sides of her torso. “Sure,” I said, “hold out your hand.”  She placed her hand palm up about waist height, which struck me as odd as I handed her my wrench.  She looked at it, even though she was wearing sunglasses, I could tell she was squinting her eyes in confusion.  “It’s a Foreman 3/8 inch standard wrench,” I said.  She looked at me like I was an idiot, then it hit me.  “Oh!” I said, feeling like a complete fool.  I took the wrench back and started fumbling around with my shorts.  It took me a moment, but I found it and got it out. 

            The filter uses metric nuts, and there I was like an idiot with a 3/8 inch wrench.  I showed her the adjustable wrench.  “Sorry,” I said, her face still shocked by my rookie mistake, “I’m new at this.”  Fixing the pump was a piece of cake, but Anne still seemed put off by my mistake with the wrench. 

            “Sorry again,” I said.  “I’m a bit nervous, but I swear, I’m all business.”

            She seemed to respond well to my reassurances, and her face lit up with a smile. “This is your first time?” she said, stepping a little closer to me. 

            “Yeah,” I said, “There’s a big difference between practicing alone and actually doing it with someone else there.  You know, theory versus practice and all that.” 

            Anne nodded emphatically, “I know just what you mean.”  She leaned over and whispered into my ear, her breath hot and moist, “How about some practice, then?”

            I nodded.  My bucket with the chemical containers was sitting unattended and unused on the other side of the pool, and here I was chatting.  Time to put my training into practice.  Anne seemed flustered when I had finished adding in the chemicals and said my goodbyes.  In hindsight, her behavior throughout the entire ordeal had been odd.  I guess Fred was right about the customers being freaky.

           

            

Weird, Experimental Short Story

    In the cities, don’t go looking for stars in the night sky.  We’ve washed them off.  A few have managed to hold on, but they don’t bother anyone.  They hang around while the moon slides past and deposits itself in the horizon.  Then they fade as the sun takes over.

    Rotate.  Revolve.  Repeat.

    The sun also sets, igniting the sky behind it.  A flare, a beacon, a message that only the stars can read.  But we’ve taken the stars.  The orange orb sinks behind the waves and the purples and pinks turn to black, while the silver disc begins its nocturnal ascent.  The stars come out.  We took most of them.  We didn’t destroy them, or erase them.  We brought them to Earth.

    The moon conquers the treeline.  Polaris, Sirius, and Canopus report for duty.  Rigel’s there too, but you can’t see him.  They stay in their stations and watch, unblinking.  On earth, they see Procyon.  Stumbling out of a bar, taking a swing at the photographers.  They turn their attention to Capella A, dancing close with Regulus.  Capella B is at home, suspecting but unsure.  The moon passes its apex.  Pollux is over one-hundred stories tall.  Merak overdosed in the lobby.  The moon is swallowed by the end of the earth, and the sun is regurgitated from the opposite end.

    Rotate.  Revolve.  Repeat.

    Rigel didn’t report.   Polaris and Canopus expected as much.  Sirius had held out hope.  No one cranes their neck to look at the stars.  It used to just be in the cities.  But the world has become too bright.  Rigel picks up a microphone at a dive bar, a crowd there to listen.  The moon approaches the climax of its arc.  Canopus will be next.  There’s an inventor in Baltimore.  After that, it will be Sirius.  The moon falls.  Polaris will be last.  We’ve used Polaris for centuries, but that too must end.  The sun erupts from the east.

    Rotate.  Revolve.  Repeat.

Ghost, Writer

                        Stanley Reed propped his head up with his elbow and massaged his forehead with his knuckles.  “Think!” he commanded himself, the blank page on his monitor waiting to be filled.  “Think!” he tried again, clenching his eyes shut, hoping to find inspiration on the back of his eyelids.  A light bulb went on.  Literally.  Figuratively, he was still completely in the dark, but in reality, the light in the bathroom of his shitty studio apartment had turned on. 

            This wasn’t the first time that a crackhead had broken into his home, so when Stanley grabbed a hammer from underneath his writing desk and walked the four paces past the bedroom to the bathroom, knocked on the door, and shouted, “I know you’re in there!” he was startled to hear a voice reply in a calm fashion and Brooklyn accent, “Good.  I thought I was being too subtle.  Come in.”

            Despite his better judgment and the better judgment of most rational individuals, Stanley opened the door to the bathroom.  It was empty.  He spun around looking until he got dizzy and stopped.  The room didn’t get that memo and kept on spinning.  “I’m up here!” said the voice.  Sure enough, lying on the ceiling with his face to the floor, the man who had called floated with a big grin on his face.  “My name’s Roger.  Nice to meet you.”

            Stanley thought he would faint, but realized that he didn’t have the resolve to go through with it, instead opting to spout gibberish.  “But…how…I don’t…Wha…”

            “Get it all out of your system now,” Roger said, slowly rotating until his feet were aiming at the floor.  “If you don’t come to terms with it now, you’re going to wake up one day and have a real breakdown.  This one guy I knew, heh, he just ran out when he saw me.  Tried to pretend it didn’t happen.  A week later, he gets out of bed, decides he’s still dreaming, and jumps off the roof of his building.  He’s a nice guy, but not much in the brains department.” 

            “You…you’re a…you’re…” Stanley stammered.

            “I’m a… what?” Roger smirked.

            “Uh, a ghost.” Stanley managed to say.  It felt so good to say it.  There was no uncertainty about it now.  He was talking to a ghost.  Or he was completely insane, but he was pretty sure he was talking to a ghost.

            Roger descended to the floor, the soles of his translucent sneakers passing through the dull linoleum. “Damn straight,” he said. Questions darted through Stanley’s head like a swarm of bees, each taking a jab at his psyche.  Only one stuck.

            “Why?” he asked.

            Roger raised an eyebrow, “Why what?  Why am I a ghost?  Why I am I here?”  Stanley stared vacantly.  Roger rolled his eyes.  He could see through the top of his own skull when he did that, and even after eight years of being a ghost, he still thought that was pretty neat.

            “I guess the first one,” Stanley muttered.

            “Why am I a ghost?” Roger said.

            “Yeah, that one.”

            “I’m a ghost because I died.” Roger shrugged.  Stanley turned on his heel and made to leave the bathroom. “Wait!” Roger shouted.  He did.  “Sorry.  Ghost humor.  I was in college.  I wanted to be a published writer, then, well…” Stanley turned around.  He felt sorry for the specter in his bathroom.

            “Go on,” Stanley said gently.

            Roger sniffled, “There was a car accident.  No one’s fault, really.  Some guy’s tires blew out, and I swerved right into a statue of some founding father or other.  I think it was Samuel Johnson but I don’t know.”

            “What then?”

            “Then I died, genius.” Roger snapped.

            “Sorry.” Stanley whimpered.

            “Naw,” Roger said, “It’s okay.”  They stood in silence for a minute or two.  Roger shuffled his feet and said, “Do you want to know why I’m here?”

            “Yeah.” Stanley answered.

            “I’ve been watching you.  You got some good stories, but you just gotta get your foot in the door before you can get them published.”

            “Exactly!” Stanley shouted.  Finally, someone who got it.

            Roger nodded, “And that’s where I come in.  I’ve got some stories; ones that’ll get you the breakthrough you need.  I just want to see them published.”

            Stanley nodded emphatically, “Great!” he said, “Tell me all about it.”  So Roger did.

            It was good.  No, that’s not true.  It was fantastic.  It had intrigue, romance, action.  There were affairs and fistfights and even a few murders.  And two months after Roger told Stanley the story for the first time, the tale of the evil Mr. Norton Lindquist and his sordid life was number three on the New York Times Bestseller’s list, and Stanley Reed was famous.

            And that is how he ended up in a Barnes & Noble’s in Raleigh, getting ready to read excerpts and sign books for his adoring fans.  He was in the bookstore’s bathroom, straightening his tie in the mirror.  Roger hovered by his side.  “Give ‘em hell,” he said, beaming with pride.

            Stanley smiled, picked a piece of spinach out of his teeth, and smiled again.  “Will do, buddy.”  He gave himself one last look-over.  “You ready,” he asked.  Roger became invisible.       

 “As I’ll ever be,” said his voice from somewhere in the room. 

            Stanley walked out of the bathroom, past the humor section, the biographies, and the coffee table books, to where a few dozen folding chairs sat, occupied by an excited and impatient crowd.  The chairs were all directed towards a table with fifty copies of his book on it.  One copy had a light blue post-it sticking out at page 182.  Stanley opened the book to that page, and read aloud:

“I am a gentleman of refined taste,” said Norton, “Do you see the paintings I allow to grace my presence?  Matisse.  Renoir.  Picasso.  Cezanne.  I surround myself with greatness, Ms. Gray, because anything else would be an insult.  I would not suffer the works of a master to be defiled in the home of a lesser man, nor should I have my greatness befouled by anything below me.  It is indecent, if not immoral, to lower myself by association with something so far beneath me.  Like you, Ms. Gray.

“While I do allow things of lesser worth into my home, it is only temporary.  Like toilet paper, or light bulbs.  They serve their purpose and are disposed of.  So you may pack your bags, Ms. Gray.  And leave my sight.”

            Stanley closed the book with a dramatic flourish.  The crowd applauded.  Except for one man in the back, who simply raised his hand.  Stanley pointed at him, “Questions?”

            The man stood up.  A gaunt man, elegantly dressed in a shockingly expensive suit.  He had silver hair slicked back. He had a British accent. “Yes.” He said.  “Where did you get the inspiration for this story?”

 

            Stanly smirked.  “Sometimes things just come to you.”

            The man grimaced.  “Bull shit.” 

            Some of the more prudish of the guests gasped, some chuckled, but all were uncomfortable.

            The man smiled in hatred, reached into his shirt, and pulled out a revolver.  “Do you know how I know you’re lying?” he asked, leveling the weapon at Stanley’s head. 

            Stanley gulped.  “N…Nuh…N…No.” He whimpered.

            The man cocked the revolver. “Because I’m Norton Lindquist!” He screamed, and fired. 

            People fled the bookstore en masse.  All except for Roger and Stanley. Stanley hovered over to Roger.  “What the fuck!” Stanley screamed.  “Why!  Why did you give me a true story!”

            Roger stared at his shoes, “Well,” he said, “I was a journalism major.”

The Disastrous Adventures of Carl - Chapter 1

            Thirty thousand feet above Oregon, the U.S.S. Pinto entered into a nose-dive.  While the greatest in 47^th century technology made the airship virtually invincible to enemy fire, it couldn’t do anything to stop gross incompetence from within the Pinto itself.  Gross incompetence named Carl. 

            This particular bit of unspeakably catastrophic foolishness was particularly catastrophic, unspeakable, and foolish because it ended up causing the United States of North America and Associated Islands to lose World War LXXIV.  It is worth noting that mankind had solved all its problems, including war, somewhere in the mid-39^th century.  With nothing much else to do, they started holding a world war every ten years.  It’s all fun and games though, as only the robots fight.  The first to hold control of Australia (which had been uninhabited since The Great Kangaroo Uprising of 2944) for two weeks wins.  And the USNA&AI was just one strategic deployment away from winning the whole thing.  Then Carl happened.

            Robotic Cannons are pretty low tech.  Basically, they’re just standard plasma cannons on wheels.  The lack of any AI software makes them difficult for opposing forces to notice, making them a valuable tool for surprise attacks.  There were twenty such cannons on the U.S.S. Pinto, and someone made the mistake of asking Carl to run a quick diagnostic scan on all of them.  He succeeded in scanning four cannons before dooming the Pinto to crash by not only activating a cannon, but setting it to “Berserk” mode, which was particularly impressive because robotic cannons don’t have a berserk mode.  The cannon raced out of the transport dock and into the body of the ship, firing indiscriminately.  Carl chased after it, hoping to catch it before anyone noticed the gaping holes in the side of the ship. 

            Sirens began to blare as the captain announced over the PA system, “Code Indigo.  Critical weaponry malfunction.  I repeat Code Indigo.  This is not a drill.”

            Carl chased after the cannon.  “I’m on it!” he shouted to the people ducking and lunging for safety, “Tell the captain I’m on it!”  Someone did tell the captain, who immediately made another announcement on the PA system.  “Code Kind of Blue but Really More of a Green.  Please evacuate the ship immediately. I repeat, Code Kind of Blue but Really More of a Green.”  The crew rushed to the escape pods as the cannon careened aftward down the corridors with Carl hot on its trail.  Only one other person hadn’t fled yet.

            A few hundred yards further down the ship, Professor Larry Romulus the Incomprehensible was trying to save as much of his research as possible.  His research was so complex that he was literally the only person on Earth that could understand it, hence his title.  He managed to shove several hard drives into a bag before grabbing the only working prototype and dashing into the corridor.  He was just feet from the starboard escape pod bay when the cannon skidded around a corner and fired a massive ball of glowing blue-white plasma at the professor.  He dodged at the last second, mercifully avoiding the deadly glob of energy only to be particularly unmercifully impaled by a large shred of shrapnel from what used to be the escape pod.  

            In a stroke of luck, the ship tilted starboard and the cannon rolled out of the hole it just made and plummeted into the middle of a Renaissance Faire.  This was not so lucky for Hagar the Blacksmith, but was incredibly lucky for Carl.  Professor Romulus was dying anyway, so we’ll call it a wash. 

            With all the escape pods gone or destroyed, the ship tried to stabilize itself.  At its current rate, it would crash into the Pacific Ocean in two minutes and six seconds.  Carl approached the professor.  “Are you okay?” he asked.

            The professor coughed shallowly.  Then, in raspy rushed breath, he said, “What kind of stupid question is that?  I have a giant piece of metal sticking out of my chest.”  He coughed some more.  “Before I die, I need you to do something for me.”

            “What do you need me to do?”

            The professor handed him the prototype.  It was a sleek gray cube, about six inches on each side.  There was a green button on one side and a screen on the front, but it was cracked.  “Take this.  Use it to escape.  Keep it safe.”

            “How?  What is it?”

            “It’s a transdimensional shift facilitator. “

            “I don’t know what that is.”

            “No one does.”

            “What does it do?”

            “You wouldn’t understand.”

            “Probably.”

            “Just press the green button and get out of here.”

            “Okay.  I’m sorry about all this, professor.”

            “Just get out of here!” The professor shouted.

            Carl pressed the green button and disappeared in a flash, leaving behind only a whiff of green smoke.

A new series!

In addition to A Series of Increasingly Improbable Events, I'm going to start another, simpler (but weirder) project.  It's called The Disastrous Adventures of Carl.  All I can tell you is that Carl is a space/time traveler, that each chapter will be 500-1000 words, and that the plot of each chapter will be decided by The Brainstormer.  So, lets see what the first chapter will be about:

Obtaining/Robotic/Cannon it is!

Children of the Grave (a short story)

            Lucas watched the zombie from the roof of his neighbors’ home, occasionally lifting his glasses to rub the mostly healed gash between his eyes.  The zombie wandered across the backyard, tripping over its own feet but never quite falling. 

            “He still there?” Julie asked, climbing on to the roof, a bottle of Coca Cola in each hand.  Lucas nodded to his big sister, taking one of the Cokes. Their parents didn’t used to let them have soda, but their parents weren’t around anymore.  Most of the parents weren’t.  “Does he look a bit like old man Simmons to you?”

            Lucas took a closer look at the zombie, who had taken to scratching at his own shadow on the fence.  “It’s hard to tell.” Lucas answered.  The zombie got bored of his shadow, and began to walk towards the hole in the fence he had crawled through half an hour before.  Lucas took out a laser pointer and deployed a red dot to the fence.  The zombie lunged at the dot, rattling the fence in the process. 

            “They’re pretty dumb, aren’t they?”  Julie said.  She remembered when they first started showing up.  The grown-ups all got scared.  Then they got guns and started shooting at the zombies and anyone they thought was a zombie. She remembered watching from her bedroom window.  Watching the grown-ups shooting all over the street.  Now it was mostly the kids that were left. 

            Lucas started luring the zombie away from the fence and across the lawn.  Lucas will be fine, Julie thought.  Lucas has a knack for getting rid of the zombies, and he doesn’t need a gun.  The zombie followed the shiny red dot as it left the grass and disappeared into the water of the swimming pool, only to reappear a moment later on a raft floating in the middle of the deep end.  Fixated on its one, all-important goal, the zombie plunged into the water, only to discover that it couldn’t swim.  It thrashed for a few moments before sinking to the concrete below.

            “That was a good one,” Julie said, helping Lucas lower the rope ladder from the roof into the backyard.  They descended, and stepped onto the dry grass.  Stuck in a bush near the edge of the lawn was the blue plastic Frisbee they had been tossing before the zombie interrupted.  Julie grabbed the Frisbee while Lucas went over to take a look in the pool. 

            That was probably my second best, he thought, remembering the time he put a paper bag over one of their heads and it fell down a set of stairs at the park.  After the grown-ups went away, most of the zombies did, too.  A lot of times, they would just fall over and break their heads, or sometimes they’d even kill each other.

            “Don’t forget we’re going to Mikey’s house tonight,” Julie said, tossing Luke the Frisbee, “He got his TV working, and he’s got Toy Story.”