Fleming looked up with barely disguised hate. “Good.”
“That’s great, really great. Auditioning for the series, are you? Good luck with that.”
“Hey, Ishmael, I’ve been wondering. Where’d you get the wig?”
Suddenly, as though someone whispered in his ear, Ishmael heard the words “Kill him!”
“Uh … what?”
“The toup. I have a friend who could use one, and I thought you could recommend the place you got yours. I thought maybe you got it at Rachel’s, but then I remembered you showed up with it after it got robbed of all its merchandise. So it couldn’t be from there…could it?”
“Kill him,” insisted the voice.
“No… No, not Rachel’s. It was a place I found on the internet. I’ll get you the link.”
“Yeah…weird, though, right? Place gets robbed and the next day, you have a head of hair.”
“KILL HIM!” yelled the voice.
Ishmael clenched his fists. It took every bit of effort he had not to put his hands around Fleming’s throat and squeeze the life out of him. Just picturing it filled him with joy. Watching his eyes bulge out, Fleming’s hands clutching at Ishmael’s, trying to loosen his grip. Watching Fleming’s fat life slip away. Ishmael shook off the fantasy, and then he realized he wasn’t imagining it, he was doing it. He felt himself forcibly pulled off Fleming by a couple of actors. He watched helplessly as Fleming, red-faced, fell to the floor spluttering.
“What? What the fu…”
Ishmael stared in horror at his hands, and turned and ran out of the room.
What was that?
What the hell was that?
When he got home, he pulled the toupee off his head. It was a struggle, as though the rug didn’t want to go. Ishmael was scared, more terrified than he had ever been in his life. He was hearing voices—correction—one voice, telling him to kill Fleming, and he was almost certain that the voice belonged to the rug. It’s evil, he realized, and thought of Rachel’s flickering eyes. He almost giggled at the absurdity of it. He put the toupee back in the box and shoved it in his closet. He locked the door.
He went to his liquor cabinet and poured a glass of bourbon, downed it in one gulp. The phone rang and he jumped. He picked it up and in the steadiest voice he could muster he said, “Hello?”
“How’s my lovely baby treating you?” Ishmael could almost hear her eyes darting. “Rachel?” he whispered.
“I’ve found all the others. Yours is the last.”
“Mine? I’m sorry, I don’t understand what you’re talking about. Surely you’re not accusing me of stealing a wig!”
“You are a good actor, aren’t you? A nice mixture of indignation, hurt, and anger. Yes. I knew you were a good actor when I saw your commercial. You’ve changed a bit since I saw you last.”
Ishmael winced. He hadn’t even thought that Rachel might see his work.
“I don’t have your hair. The one I have is …” He trailed off. “So what did you see me in? The Robitussin bit? Or—”
“You can’t fool a mother. Never fool a mother. See you soon.”
Ishmael hung up and ran to the closet. He had to get rid of that rug before that crazy woman showed up. As he bent down to open the box, he faltered. What if I keep it? he thought. So what if it fills me with homicidal thoughts now and again? I mean, the work I’ve been getting! Ishmael caught himself and took a deep breath. No, I can’t start killing people just so I can look good on camera. He opened the box.
It was empty. Ishmael’s bowels clenched. Immediately he was covered in sweat. Not light perspiration. Heavy, heavy sweat.
From the top shelf of the closet, the toupee jumped onto Ishmael’s head like a flying squirrel. Ishmael could feel the rug tighten its unholy grip on his scalp when he tried to rip it off. The harder he pulled, the harder it clung to his skull. With a strength born from desperation, Ishmael managed to tear it off his head and throw it to the floor. He screamed in horror when he saw little pieces of his scalp attached to it. He ran to the mirror and examined his head. Blood ran down his face from the small divots in his scalp.
“Son of a bitch! I have an on-camera audition tomorrow!”
He ran back to the bloody toupee and stomped on it as though it were a bug.
“Wear me! Wear me!” The words rang through his head in time with the stomping.
“Shut up! Shut up!” Ishmael stomped until the toupee was in tatters. Clumps of hair lay lifeless on the broadloom. Looking at it, Ishmael was overcome with remorse. It still looks good, he sobbed to himself. Maybe it can be trained to be non-homicidal. Maybe… Ishmael shook himself from his crazed reverie. “Get out of my head!” he screamed. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the stove, and a half-remembered made-for-TV horror movie came to mind. Something with Karen Black and a murderous doll. He ran to the stove and turned the oven on to broil. He ran back to the spot where he had unleashed his rage. The toupee was gone.
A little trail of loose hairs led under the sofa. Ishmael went to the couch and knelt down.
“Come on, baby. Come to Daddy.”
He started feeling around underneath the couch. He patted the carpet, grasping for strands of Manila Ice Chocolate brown. Then he felt a sharp pain in his hand and he cried out. He yanked his hand back and gasped at a deep bite mark on his index finger.
It bit him! The little bastard bit him!
Ishmael ran to the kitchen and got his biggest carving knife. Kneeling carefully in front of the couch, he wildly stabbed the dark underneath. He waited. Nothing. Slowly, slowly he looked under the couch, but could see nothing. Then, Ishmael raised his head to the height of the sofa cushion and out of the corner of his eye, saw the toupee sitting, hairs crossed, in the armchair. Before he could react, the rug pounced.
“Not the face! Not the face!”
The toupee clung like a starfish, suffocating him. Struggling to breathe, Ishmael got out a muffled, “I’m your father!” but to no avail. He gulped for air that never came. He heard the door of his apartment opening, softly. His last thought was: I hope they don’t give my part to Fleming.
Then he was still.
The person who had entered Ishmael’s apartment walked over to his body, gently removed the toupee from his face, and put it in a fur-lined pouch. Her eyes flickered as she gazed about the room.
It was the devious-cruising Rachel, that in her retracing search after her missing children, only found another orphan.
Casey at the Bar
INSPIRED BY ERNEST THAYER’S
“CASEY AT THE BAT”
The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the Mudville nine that day:
The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play…
The side struck out, all hopes were dashed—so close and yet so far…
Then someone turned the TV off at Sam McCluskey’s bar.
With Happy Hour just starting and the room devoid of cheer,
Disappointed patrons drowned their sorrows in their beer.
Mudville is a baseball town, through their team they live and die.
It doesn’t matter much to me, for I’m a hockey guy.
Been a fan since ’64, when there only were six teams.
Drank champagne from the Stanley Cup (though only in my dreams).
The league now numbers thirty, and not that I’m berating—
But two are now in Florida, a state not known for skating.
Having seen so many games in the fifty years that passed,
And versed in hockey trivia—can’t be stumped by what I’m asked.
I know the players’ faces, from Dick Duff to Bobby Orr.
So imagine my surprise, seeing Casey at the door.
He strode into McCluskey’s, as the jukebox played Adele.
He hadn’t really changed much, since he left the NHL.
The greatest goalie
of his time—he could have been, hands down…
Instead all went astray, and they ran Casey out of town.
He was a goalie phenom rated highly by the scouts;
He was superstar material, of that there were no doubts.
Toronto celebrated. He was drafted by the Leafs!
“We’ll win the Stanley Cup now!” was the popular belief.
Fans all hoped that this was true: it was time to dry their tears;
They hadn’t tasted victory in over forty years.
Could this Casey spur the team? At that thought, the fans did foam…
Could this finally be the year that the Stanley Cup came home?
The promise started early with a ten-game winning streak.
The way the team was playing, not one person could critique.
The forwards, they were scoring. All believed the hype:
This team could not be beaten, not with Casey ’tween the pipes.
Nailed the Eastern Conference, due to Casey’s acrobatics.
Playoff fever swept through town; it really was dramatic.
Casey took the league by storm; he was the King of Hockey.
And then, oh-oh, it all went south, for Casey became cocky.
He was growing quite conceited, which much concerned the Leafs.
Case in point: website photos of Casey in his briefs.
Without expressing sorrow as other people would;
He arrogantly smiled and said, “Man, I’m looking good.”
The team got through the first round, then the second and the third.
It almost felt too easy, these playoffs were absurd.
They made it to the finals, every hockey team’s one wish.
Casey said, “We’ll win in four! All comers we will squish.”
This spurred the opposition, as the Leafs fans feared it would—
The Penguins won the first game. (Casey wasn’t very good.)
The Leafs bounced back the next match, they won the third one too,
The Penguins ruled the next one, scoring five on you know who.
The fifth went to the Penguins, but the next was theirs to lose.
A seventh game was needed. Who would win? Too hard to choose.
Leafs fans, ever hopeful that the Cup would come their way,
Longed with such intensity that even atheists prayed.
The hockey game was started, back and forth the teams did skate.
Both played their very best, every player pulled his weight.
It came to pass the score was tied, one minute left to play.
Surely there’d be overtime. Oh no!—a breakaway!
An errant pass was picked up by a player from Pittsburgh,
He headed for the net, but Casey didn’t seem perturbed.
He calmly touched the goalposts with his custom-made Sher-Wood,
Then gliding to his crease’s edge, there mighty Casey stood.
The Penguins lad raced closer—the fans were on their feet.
Thousands screamed their lungs out, “Casey, don’t get beat!”
Casey spun upon his skates, then bowing to the crowd,
Slipped and lost his balance, falling hard and big and loud.
The Penguin shot, he scored the goal, then jumped in celebration.
Boos rang out, they said it all: crushed hopes of a Leafs Nation.
“Casey, Casey, what a bum!” The crowd was all agreeing.
Don Cherry ranted from the booth: “He must be European!”
The newspapers were vicious; the fans called for his blood.
From hero down to scapegoat, Casey’s name had become mud.
He was run right out of town, speeding in his fancy car.
That was the last I saw him till he walked into this bar.
Turning to the barkeep: “What’s the story with that guy?”
I gestured then to Casey, who was giving girls the eye.
The barkeep looked and smiled, “Mr. Casey is his name.
He comes here every night, leaving with a different dame.
“The women they all love him, and the men, they all turn green.
For Casey, mighty Casey, is the best they’ve ever seen.
He might not be most handsome, and not the very smartest,
But that there Mr. Casey is a mighty pickup artist.”
I watched as Casey sauntered by the tables where girls sat,
His eyes searched out the talent, like a horny alley cat.
He circled very slowly round the barroom, no mistake.
His movements showed to everyone: Casey’s on the make.
So easy was his manner as he walked around the place,
He took his time just looking, knowing love was not a race.
And from his average visage, confidence did ooze
From the curls upon his head to his fake Italian shoes.
Two hundred eyes were on him as he walked up to a blonde,
Two hundred ears were straining to hear how she’d respond.
He wavered for a moment as he saw her in the light.
“She’s way too drunk,” he muttered. “Wouldn’t be too fair a fight.”
He quickly passed her table; his eyes flicked round the room.
He paused for just a second, then his hunt he did resume,
A brunette in the corner looked like she might be the one
That Casey, mighty Casey, would pick up to have some fun.
She sat there in the shadows, then lit up a cigarette.
The flame was like a spotlight; Casey broke into a sweat.
He quickly changed direction, as though it was meant to be.
What in the dark seemed thirty, in the light looked sixty-three.
I thought he’d call it quits, but no, Casey was determined—
His eyes blazed like a zealot’s in the middle of a sermon.
And then he saw her standing there—the Beatles song come true.
Casey now had found his prey—I had the perfect view.
Her eyes shone like two diamonds, and her cheeks were rosy fair,
Her lips were quite inviting; blonde and curly was her hair.
With more curves than mountain roads, her lush body was divine.
Though I couldn’t read his mind, I’m sure Casey thought, “She’s mine!”
He smoothed his hair and gave a nod, then checked out his reflection.
Satisfied with how he looked, he moved in her direction.
Uncoiling like a cobra, he appeared right at her side.
Oh, he was in his element, and wouldn’t be denied.
He started off by asking, “Tell me, is this seat here free?”
Before there was an answer, he plunked down rapidly.
He sat there for a moment, then he ordered up a drink,
Then Casey, mighty Casey, glanced at me and gave a wink.
He leaned upon his elbow, not quite looking at his prey,
Joking with the barkeep, overtipping all the way.
His eyes then locked upon her, and he gave a little start
As though he had just noticed her, whose beauty stole his heart.
He started with some small talk, in his soothing sexy voice.
She looked like she might weaken. Did she really have a choice?
Then slowly she leaned forward, whispered to this ladies’ man:
“Ain’t never gonna happen, guy, ’cause I’m a huge Leafs fan.”
Oh, somewhere in this favored land the bars now have last call;
Guys and girls have hooked up, with each other are enthralled,
And somewhere men are laughing
, and somewhere children shout;
But there is no joy in Mudville—mighty Casey has struck out.
The Nineteen Hundred and Eighty-Fourth
INSPIRED BY GEORGE ORWELL’S
NINETEEN EIGHTY-FOUR
It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen. Tyro Tinnywinkle looked up from his roasted wanbuck sandwich and sighed. Ever since King Fairdwych had declared a twenty-six-hour day to increase productivity, thirteen o’clock had been a symbol of gloom. In fact, the general consensus around Tarnez (the once-proud capital city of the Great Continent of Geologa) was that pretty much any o’clock was a symbol of doom now that Fairdwych was king. Tyro usually paid no heed to the affairs conducted within Castle Hardstock, mostly because the affairs conducted within Castle Hardstock never paid heed to him, but this latest decree was hard to ignore. King Fairdwych showed little interest in the health and happiness of his subjects, and everyone in the kingdom knew it.
But there had been a time, not so long ago, when the lives of the royal family and the Tinnywinkle family had been intricately entwined. Sardoz the Curious, Fairdwych’s father, spent hours browsing the dusty shelves and bins of what many considered to be the most complete and well-stocked magic shop in the world, Tinnywinkle’s House of Magic and Mystical Oddities. And he always bought something: the Canine Bisecting Trick Apparatus, the Mesmerizing Orb of Thallos, or even just a box of itching powder. (The former king wasn’t one of those canker-bottoms who browsed in a store, asked for a clerk’s recommendations, talked to him for an hour, and then said he had to talk it over with his wife.)
The connection between the royal family and the Tinnywinkle family went even further back. In fact, for as long as the Tinnywinkle family had lived on the Great Continent of Geologa, they had literally dwelled in the shadow of Castle Hardstock. After it had been damaged in the War of the Clinking Sparrows, Tyro’s grandfather had been one of the builders who restored it to its soaring splendor, fortifying its ramparts and getting plastered under its flying buttresses. (Tyro’s grandfather became the black sheep of the family when he eschewed a career in magic for the construction business.)
Not QUITE the Classics Page 4
