Menage_a_20_-_Tales_with_a_Hook
Page 28
Their dirty faces and dark eyes stared back at me. A man approached the camel, his coarse black beard covered in dust. He leapt up on the camel’s back in front of me, took the reins, and set off at a gallop.
Once more, I held on for my life. Dust swirled, and riotous shrieks filled the air. Though I could see nothing humorous about my situation, these crazy gypsies were having fun.
Large shadows loomed ahead, and moments later, I realized it was a jet aircraft.
The camel stopped and the gypsy pushed me off, my other sock caught on the reins and slipped off. He barked some kind of order at me. I didn’t know what to do.
A rather attractive woman with full red lips and eyes like pools of dark chocolate approached. She took my hand and pulled me toward the jet. What else was I to do? I followed.
“I need to pee-pee,” Nancy says, “wait for me.” Bubba reaches to pick the last bottle of champagne from her hand as Nancy runs down the corridor. He takes a long swig and passes the bottle over to Ben. When Nancy returns, the champagne is a memory. She frowns and picks up the almost empty box of chocolates before settling down in the middle of the bed.
“In the jet, I must have been drugged. I can’t remember anything. When I woke up, it was dusk…”
I opened my eyes and cringed at the ache in my head. Crazy gypsies, I thought, and sat up.
Looking around, I could see crumbling walls and unlit candles hanging in sconces around the room. A castle? The air reeked of rotten meat. I covered my nose, but I couldn’t get rid of the smell.
A flash of lightning brought my gaze to the window behind me. I stood to look outside.
Daylight slowly waned as rain fell in sheets and thunder rolled in the distance. Turning from the window, I inspected the room, my gaze resting on a sight that sent a chill down my spine.
In the center of the room was a raised dais made of white marble. But that wasn’t what had me backing against the wall in terror. Atop the dais was a coffin, covered in dust. The lid opened; its rusty hinges creaking in protest. A hand reached around the top and a head appeared. Long black hair framed a pale face with eyes that glowed with an eerie red light.
“Welcome,” the thing’s deep voice murmured. “I am Dracula. You, my friend, must be dinner.”
A crack of thunder jolted me out of my stupor. Turning away from the vampire, I lunged for the window, and scrambled over the ledge. I heard a chuckle and risked a glance behind me.
Too late. Dracula grabbed the I-Pod that dangled from my neck, and I had just got the damn thing too. He smiled, a wicked grin that exposed his fangs. The cord was cutting into my flesh, choking me. I yanked it off, and, suddenly free, I dropped to the ground and landed in a heap. In the distance, I saw a structure of some kind. Hoping it wasn’t home to more of the undead, I ran.
My bare feet pounded over the frigid ground, but I dared not slow for fear of what lay behind me. Before me, an old weather station loomed at the top of the hill, a beacon of safety to my beleaguered mind.
Only after clambering up a hundred metal rungs and planting my feet firmly on the top platform did I catch my breath. The breeze lifted my hair and enveloped me in its icy embrace, raising gooseflesh across my chest. I stood at the rail, my fingers clenched around the bar to stop my arms from shaking while I searched the shadows below for any sign of pursuit.
Off to the west, a dark figure glided over the field, swooping left and right…hunting. Choked with fear, I backed away, my eyes riveted on the airborne black creature. A blur of claws and feathers, the winged devil flew right over my head with a bloodcurdling screech.
Launching myself away, I hit the back rail and flipped over into the night. My hands groped blindly as I fell into a tangled web of cords.
High overhead, I could make out the shapes of several massive orbs against the night sky. I dangled from the weather balloons like a marionette, and I started to rise.
My only chance was to get untangled enough to release a few of the weather balloons, so that I could drift back down to earth. Sharp hooks that had served to anchor the balloons before my unhappy accident dug into my flesh and clothes. I jerked and struggled, but could make no headway without my legs being jerked first one way and then another at the pleasure of the wind. Frustrated, I shed my jeans, but my efforts to sever any of the lines from the knots were useless.
Terrified and frozen, clad only in my boxers, I drifted up into the night sky.
Bubba accepts the last of the Honey Balls and makes a gesture of impatience. He can’t wait. Up and up in the air? Wow!
“I could barely move; I’ve never been so cold in my life,” Ben says with a shiver. “I floated in inky darkness…”
The only sounds were those of my rapidly tiring heart, when blinding light surrounded me. I must be dead, I thought.
Then millions of lights covered the horizon, and I realized my weather balloons were inexorably dragged toward a vast spaceship. A rectangular section opened to one side and a pink beam darted from its entrails, pulling me in, as if I were ensnared by the tongue of a ravenous chameleon.
When the huge door slid closed. I remained entangled in the web surrounding the weather balloons.
A hiss and tens, hundreds, of small naked men with gray bodies and tiny heads poured in and stood on a circle. I thought they looked like children, but for the color of their skin, their miniature heads and, most surprisingly, oversized scrotal sacks. The ranks parted and one of the beings, slightly taller and with a tuft of white hair on his nose approached. His balls reached almost to the ground and would weigh a good five pounds each by the looks of them.
White Tuft drew level with me, smiled, drew a tiny gun from his belt, pressed it against my neck and did something.
I heard a puff and lights blurred. I could have imagined it, but I could swear White Tuft whispered, “Hello, ducky,” before I lost consciousness.
Endless days of bright lights and anal probes followed. I endured the grays’ poking and prodding with a species of weary resignation. Peripherally, I noticed my boxers had disappeared during the abduction. One day, I spotted White Tuft in sequined platforms, a là Elton John, wearing my boxers.
Left alone in a padded pink room, I was surprised to discover one final nugget of resolve.
The next time one of my abductors entered; short, gray, skinny, his dark eyes expressing first curiosity, then surprise and anguish; I punched him, kicked his oversized balls, and ran like hell down a pink corridor, pursued by alarm claxons and squelching footsteps.
The corridor ended in a door. My pursuers neared, wielding sharp metal objects that promised pain. I shrugged and pushed a button on the wall. The door hissed open, revealing a small room. The only furniture was a chair with a large red button set in the armrest.
A sign, curiously in English, stood by the chair. “Paradox Engine,” it said.
“My whole life’s become a paradox,” I muttered, and sat in the chair. “OK, deep breath, close eyes and…” push the button.
I immediately understood what a mouse must feel like being swallowed by a python.
Swallowed and regurgitated. The last thing I remember was tremendous pressure like my eyeballs were about to explode, and then... nothing.
Bubba waits, but Ben shrugs and offers his hands, palms up. “And that’s all. I awoke in this bed, where this lady, looking concerned, offered me food and drink.”
Bubba stands, his shotgun in his fist. With his free hand, he reaches to a hook behind the door, grabs one of his shirts and hurls it at Ben. “Put it on.” Then Bubba gestures with the shotgun toward the corridor.
Down to his feet, Bubba’s shirt gives Ben a curious ghostlike appearance.
When they reach the living room, Bubba nods to an easy chair. Then, he rests the shotgun on a low table, steps into the kitchen and returns in a trice with a crate of beer.
He settles on the sofa, opens one bottle with his teeth and holds it over to Ben. “Tell me more.” Bubba says. Then he smiles and raises his b
ottle in a silent toast.
GOOD STORYTELLING CAN MAKE OR BREAK A WRITER. 1 Gwen McIntyre
2 Lauren Stone
3 Jeanne Voelker
4 Rita J.Webb
5 Rita Stradling
6 Kate Quinn
7 Michael Keyton
8 Susan Curnow
9 Minnie Estelle Miller 10 Kelley Roby
11 Andy Love
12 Isabella Erlenmeyer 13 Roy L.Pickering Jr. 14 Diane Condon Boutier 15 D.B.Pacini
16 Henry Lara
17 Renee Miller
18 Wendy Swore
19 Carlos J.Cortes
20 Paul Mitton
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