Rat-A-Tat: Short Blasts of Pulp

by Russ Anderson, Jr

  “Waiting list? On hold?” Tieber questioned.

  Mr. Uricrat sighed. His response appeared perfectly rehearsed. “Any appointments for imminent invasions and/or destructions of Earth must be scheduled at least six Earth months ahead of time. With the growing number of alien invasions, wrathful gods, demi-gods, angels, and otherworldly beings, Earth’s representatives agreed to give these threats their own proper time. It’s only fair, after all. Earth has a great deal of protectors in all shapes and sizes. They deserve to deal with those threats one-by-one. Anubis, for example, has a longstanding rivalry with Alpha Male and the Cosmic Pack. You can imagine the impatience of an Egyptian deity.”

  Tieber stood there, dumbfounded.

  “Now then,” Mr. Uricrat beamed, scanning his clipboard, “when would you like to schedule the Reptaxian’s invasion? Let’s see. How does the second week of May sound? That’s only four months away. The Paper Mache dimension scheduled the entire first week but frankly speaking, it’s only going to last the afternoon. The Heat alone will likely snuff it out. We had a similar situation with the Orwellians and our atmosphere back in the 50s.”

  “Shut up!” Admiral Tieber shouted.

  He snatched the clipboard from Mr. Uricrat’s hands. The papers presented crammed spots on an event calendar. Many names were unknown: The Machinations of the Absurd Dynasty, The Evil Hand Puppets of Doom, Guy Smile’s Terrible Travelling Troupe, Annoyicus, Hysterix, The Baker’s Dozen, Comma the Extreme Punctuation Machine. The calendar even noted Anorexis the Undevourer. He’d always assumed Anorexis was merely a whispered legend.

  “See an ideal free spot?”

  “I’ll free your head from your shoulders as a trophy!” Admiral Tieber roared.

  He unsheathed his claws and lunged at Mr. Uricrat.

  Mr. Uricrat performed a curt sidestep, followed by a backhand chop to the back of the admiral’s neck. Tieber tumbled to the floor. In the same motion, Mr. Uricrat gracefully snatched his clipboard.

  “Admiral Tieber,” said Mr. Uricrat, squirting sanitizer on his hands that he procured from his pocket, “it’s my sworn duty to ensure that no invasions overlap. We can’t have alien armadas needlessly intermixing with raging deities. Right now, we just can’t squeeze in a Reptaxian invasion.”

  “Our people crave revenge!” Tieber shouted.

  Still a little dazed, he crawled back to his captain’s chair. He pressed every button at his disposal, desperately trying to regain control of The Incinerator.

  “It’s no use, Admiral. We’re in the middle of a high volume season,” the Secretary stated, adjusting his tie and bifocals. “Summer always brings out the big events. Listen, if you really want to get your point across, might I make a suggestion?”

  Admiral Tieber sighed. Feeling defeated – not to mention depressed – he sunk into his chair. “Fine.”

  “Given the high number of invasions, Earth allows the use of heralds.”

  “Heralds?”

  “Indeed! Even the most powerful, like Anorexis, use one sometimes: a mysterious monolith, a garbled message to decode, a minion that delivers a personal warning or softens up your intended target. Even Anubis used a herald. For months at a time, Egyptian monoliths appeared all over the world!”

  “Reptaxians need no herald! We are the warning! We are the threat!”

  “Of course,” the Secretary nodded, bemused. “If I may ask, who is the intended target that’s generated such ire?”

  “The Shatterpack! Especially The Heat!”

  Mr. Uricrat chuckled. “You and half the galaxy.”

  Tieber sighed, feeling deflated. He imagined this as the greatest day in Reptaxian history: a battle remembered for centuries. His ancestors would re-tell its tales.

  Mr. Uricrat appeared at his side with a warm cup of cocoa. The Admiral recalled reading about it during his research. Its chocolate aroma was tantalizingly inviting.

  “Listen, Admiral. I understand,” the secretary said. “This is your first invasion. You wouldn’t believe the number of appointments I’ve had to reschedule over the years because of misunderstandings like this.”

  “I’ll be the shame of my people!” Tieber sobbed.

  Mr. Uricrat handed him the cocoa. He took a sip. It was quite delicious. He decided that, once he conquered Earth, he would allow cocoa’s continued existence.

  “Listen, I have a great idea, Admiral,” the Secretary said. “I’ll re-open your hailing frequencies to speak with other armadas. Maybe they’ll let you join in on their timeslot. I bet the Kill-o-Trons would love the help.”

  Mr. Uricrat, sitting on a folded chair that appeared out of nowhere, crossed his legs, sipping his own cup of cocoa.

  “Did you know The Ougun/Shalba war started the same way? They decided to kill time by going to war with each other. The whole thing conveniently spilled onto Earth just in time for their appointment.” He smiled at the memory. “Oh, they didn’t last long. Not once The Vengeance Guild got involved. But it was nice how it worked out for them.”

  Mr. Uricrat looked at his watch.

  “Oop! Listen, I have to go. I have a meeting with Anorexis. I need to convince her not to bother consuming Earth. She just throws it all back up again, anyway.” He patted Admiral Tieber on the shoulder. “Please consider my suggestions and accept my apology on behalf of everyone on Earth. I’ll have Ranjit call you in a few days.”

  He was instantly gone.

  Tieber slumped in his captain’s chair. He sipped his cocoa.

  It was supposed to be a glorious invasion.

  #

  W HAT THE WORLD NEEDS

  By James Kinley

  Nedwin Crane eyed his typewriter hungrily. He’d been at the end of the soup kitchen line when his friend Norvell had given him the tip about an editor needing a story and needing it fast. Without a second thought he’d hot footed it to Seventh Street to get the scoop. 10,000 words by tomorrow and if they were good there was a shot at more work. That was heaven on earth for a hack writer in the year 1934.

  In his near barren apartment Crane flexed his fingers in front of the Underwood Portable. His stomach growled its familiar lament but he paid it no heed. He knew he had to chain his gut, his brain, and everything he had to the task before him. He needed a yarn and he needed it hot. It had to thrill, seduce, and terrify. He knew it had to be something wild with heroes and villains and a warm, pulsing world. Something to really get the blood going. He let his mind range free as he bent over the machine.

  While the staccato clack of the Underwood rang in Crane’s room that same scene was repeated in other parts of the city, the country, and across the world: hungry men and women stoking their imaginations to a fever pitch. Creators endowed with mad and unfettered minds pulling out all of the stops to cook up a crazy tale to sell. Stories that would bring color and adventure, however briefly, to a populace ground down by their depression days.

  New York City, Cross Plains, Indianapolis, London, Paris, Constantinople, everywhere. As these men and women labored at their desks the sheer force of their desperate imaginations arced and crackled through the air. Deep in the heart of the world the mystic engines of creation spun to a higher pitch, fueled by this current of raw imaginative daring. In the forges of the possible and the impossible the heat was stoked to a hotter flame. The scales of what could and couldn’t be were tipped by these new ideas and the architecture of existence began to warp and change. Strange things began to happen.

  In the great metropolises of the world, in the distant deeps of the wilds; bizarre events began to occur and extraordinary personalities emerged as if they’d been waiting for just this desperate moment to be born. Wild plots and fantastic futures blossomed to life. Stories became the seeds for what could grow in the world and they bloomed with their pasts and potentialities complete.

  ***

  In the entombed darkness of the underground temple Ralston prised the jeweled eye from the stone Cyclops’s forehead and held it aloft. The hooded priests that
had been stalking the adventurer suddenly sheathed their daggers and fell to their knees in supplication. Ralston grinned and wiped the sweat from his sunburnt brow. Now that he commanded the Monks of the Hidden Eye, he had a whole new way to fight the gangsters and thieves back in the so called civilized world. They wouldn’t know what hit them.

  ***

  Commander Cypher of the Universal Space Protectorate activated the untested nullifier wave device just as the Raider warcraft began their blitzkrieg attack on New Paris. The glowing beam swept the alien ships with no immediate effect. She gripped the controls of her fighter with a white knuckled intensity and came as close to fear as she’d ever been in her adventurous life. The nullifier had been New Paris’s last hope and the only defense against the raiders’ superior weapons.

  Suddenly the lead attacker veered off course, wavered, and crashed into the planet. The other ships of the Raider phalanx fared no better as they began to plummet to the ground, their power supplies rendered inert by the sweep of the nullifier wave. Cypher gave a whoop of triumph and opened a channel to rally the defenders on the ground. By the glow of the burning Raider ships she saw her forces converging on the invaders’ stricken ships.

  ***

  Manetti split knuckle skin against Bigsby’s already battered face. Bigsby would have loved to block the next punch heading toward his breadbasket but the two palookas holding his arms were too good at their work. He respected that kind of diligence. Air gusted from his lungs as the fist sank into his gut.

  “Yeah, you can take it, chump, I’ll give you that,” Manetti sneered sucking his bleeding knuckle.

  “That’s only one of my talents.” Bigsby wheezed as his fought to get his breath back. “I can dish it out too. Maybe someday I’ll show you.”

  “Yeah, I heard you was a tough guy. Too bad you’re too dumb to know when you’re beat. If you ain’t gonna tell us where the dame is stashed we’re gonna have to get you out of the way.”

  Manetti pulled his heater from under his overcoat and pressed the muzzle against Bigsby’s forehead. “Say ‘bye bye’, tough guy”.

  Bigsby tried to frame a clever line but all he could do was taste the blood on his tongue.

  Suddenly the flare of flashing red lights filled the alley. Cops swarmed from both ends.

  Bigsby grinned through his blood as the palookas on either side were yanked away by the boys in blue. Lieutenant Reed sauntered up and relieved Manetti of his shooter.

  “Nice work, Bigsby. You kept these yahoos busy long enough for us to get to the skirt. She’s safe and sound back at the station.” He eyed his friend’s bruised and bleeding face. “Good thing you know how to take a beating.”

  Bigsby spit blood to the pavement and eyed Manetti. “Give me a second before you put the cuffs on that joker, Lieutenant, there’s something I need to show him.”

  ***

  Mademoiselle Evette slinked through the shadows of the Grand Hotel of Budapest, her supple voluptuousness sheathed in skin tight black silk. Her sleek form slipped through the night shrouded hallways of the luxurious hotel. She paused momentarily to listen for danger when a chance bar of light fell at just the right instant to illuminate her cat green eyes before she melted again into the darkness.

  She crept to the door of the Tsar’s suite and applied a pick to the heavy door’s lock. It was the work of a moment to gain entry to the sumptuous stateroom. She padded gracefully to the hidden safe which, despite its complicated mechanism, yielded to the skill of her lovely fingers. Under her mask her full lips curved into a sly smile as she removed the counterfeit crown and replaced it with the true article. She imagined the duke’s face when he discovered his scheme had been foiled. Once again she’d used her wits, courage, and beauty to destroy the plans of evil men. Not for nothing was Mademoiselle Evette known to the police and the underworld of three continents as the Thief of Dark Desire.

  ***

  The mist swirled in tendrils around Carter’s ankles. The encroaching darkness threatened to seep into his mind as he circled around to the back of the rotting farm house. He found the strange mounds despite the obscuring low fog that seemed to crouch over them. Graves, he knew, of the ancestral owners of the land. He swallowed hard and wiped his hands on his trousers before hefting the shovel to pierce the ground. He hoped against hope that he wouldn’t find what he’d found at the other farms, the perverted remains of some twisted caricatures of humanity, buried with the weird and frightening artifacts of some obscene cult. The sweat was clammy on his skin as he worked, the ground, even the fog seemed to resist the shovel’s blade. It seemed that his brain itself shuddered in his skull as he recalled the disgusting mucus that seemed to line the dirt of the graves. He felt a tug on his leg and he started in terror as he the mist solidified into a damp, reeking tentacle and pulled him down into the yawning, wet grave.

  ***

  As each audacious idea kindled in the creator’s mind and caught fire on the page it inspired something else but equally amazing in the world. The day broke weird and bold and full of light. For some it brought the spark of courage to endure another day, for others it brought the inspiration for noble deeds, or the blueprints of strange devices and dire plots. The new day rose, lit by wonder, and things would never be the same.

  Dawn cracked the sky through Crane’s window as his aching fingers beat out the story’s final words. His back creaked from the hours hunched over the typewriter and black letters seemed to swim before his weary eyes. He placed his hand on the stack of foolscap feeling the buzz of strange energies at work. He could sell this yarn, he knew. It had fire and blood. It had a smooth skinned femme fatale and a hero with a brilliant mind. It had a terrible villain and incredible events that boggled the senses. He’d built a whole world of passion and brave humanity and he knew the public would eat it up.

  He’d be able to feed himself today, but, tired as he was he knew he shouldn’t put the Underwood away. The world would always need more stories.

  O NE DEAD DATE

  By Edward J. Indovina

  She looked like one of her photo ops. As she lay face down on the bed with a sheet conspicuously covering her more demure parts, I couldn’t help but notice the dimple at the end of her bare back as it disappeared under the sheet. Of course she was nude as her fans liked her to be, but she was also one thing they didn’t want. Dead.

  Normally I wouldn’t be allowed near a broad like this but I didn’t approach her. Nope, she called me.

  I got to admit; when I took the call I thought it was a joke. I mean, who wouldn’t think that? Since when does a world famous actress call a lowly flatfoot like me?

  “Hello, Mr. Jenkins?” she breathed into the phone. In my mental state at the time I couldn’t be sure if I was hearing things. The next thing I expected out of her voice was “Happy Birthday, Mr. President.” But, I thought to myself, not a chance.

  “Yes, I’m here, what can I do for you, ma’am?”

  She giggled coyly on the phone. It was then I realized that it really was her. “Ma’am? My, you really are polite aren’t you? Anyways, I’m in town as part of a publicity tour for my husband and I may have a job for you.”

  I paused. “Okay. What can I do you by?”

  “Well, I don’t really feel right here. In fact, I guess you could say that I’m having some woman’s intuition. Say, do you think you could come by here a little later? We could talk about what I would like to hire you for and I could give you an advance.”

  What could I say? When one of the most beautiful women in the world phones you out of the blue you have no choice but to comply. I mean, heck. Out of all the private dicks in the Butte area, for her to choose you has got to mean something.

  “All right ma’am, I’ll come up. Name the time and place.”

  “Thank you, thank you very much. If you don’t mind, come up and see me at seven at the Mountain View Hotel.”

  “Seven? Sure, but—”

  “Mr. Jenkins, I do realize that it is cu
rrently one in the afternoon. But, a girl does need her beauty sleep. And, I think I will be doing such for a bit after I hang up this phone.” With that the receiver went dead and I stood there in my office staring at the receiver of my phone.

  Well, that answers that. If I had any doubt that the rich and famous led a different life than most of us, that little conversation put it to rest. I resigned myself to going to see her at seven.

  ***

  I pulled up to the hotel at a little past seven. I figured that it would do me no good to arrive promptly because if she was anything like her phone demeanor you could guarantee that punctuality, like modesty, wasn’t a virtue of hers either.

  As I walked up to the front desk I noticed that I sub-consciously adjusted my tie and patted down the front of my jacket.

  “Yes, can we help you?” the desk clerk drawled as though he was in a Busby Berkely picture.

  “We? All I notice is you, mack. Anyways, I’m here to see Mrs. Rothman.”

  “Righttt… Sir, we don’t have a Mrs. Rothman registered here.”

  I smiled, yep. I knew this game. Shine on the supposed fan or rummy and run him out of here. Poindexter though would discover one thing about me, my perseverance.

  “Wilfred, look, I know what this may seem like. But I was invited here to see her.”

  “Sir, my name is not Wilfred. And, to bear repeating myself, the person you seek is not here.”

  “How about if I tell you that she told me to come up here at this time. This is the time she normally gets up, correct?” As I said this I leaned on the counter and smiled my pearly whites at him.

  “Sir, as I said…” as he spoke I grabbed the register and spun it towards me. As I glanced down the names I saw what I was looking for.