His Dark Flag
There is a man who works in my office; he has a wooden leg.
It is not an ultra-realistic, fully-articulated and scientifically-designed prosthetic.
He has a real wooden leg, a one-and-a-half foot stump below his knee.
A polished oak coffee-table leg, standing surreptitious beneath his blood-red pantaloons.
I come in early most days - 5:45 - and hide behind my cubicle wall just to see him as he enters the floor.
At 6 a.m. I hear his card key as it buzzes through the door, awakening the sleeping electronic guardsmen that keep us safe from the outside world. Six on the dot, he is never early and never late.
Punctuality is a rare quirk in a man who sails by the tempers of the Seas.
His galleon floats effortlessly down the width of still-empty halls, shrouded in a pea soup fog, and smelling faintly of crab and the detritus of ancient ports of call.
The huge boat comes to rest directly across from the small kitchenette, with its gleaming steel sink and towering coffee dispenser. He drops anchor and wades ashore, a cold gleaming cutlass in one gloved hand, a thermal mug adorned with the image of a mermaid in the other.
With his tankard filled and his eyes brimming with thoughts of bosomy wenches and bountiful golden booty, he reboards his vessel and sails on, drifting slowly down the hallway, past the fax and the copier, and turns left around a dark and mystic corner. The dark flag, with its facetious snarling skull, curls in the soft ocean breeze and disappears, swallowed up in the pre-dawn mist as a bell buoy tolls lonely amid the waves.
By 6:30 the fog has melted away, seeping out through cracks in the outer walls, and the carpets are dry and salt-free. As the first of our coworkers arrive, I emerge from my hiding place and see him - the Office Pirate - limping ever-so-slightly as he joins the morning banter by the laser printer. Adjusting the lapels of his charcoal grey suit and straightening his Brooks Brothers tie.
No one seems to notice the smell of rum still seeping from between his sharp Pirate teeth, and no one raises an eyebrow when he pays for his bagel with a tarnished gold doubloon.
Henry Rollins and the Better Butter Bacon Burger
“The fuck is this bullshit?”
“I'm sorry?”
Tammy stared down at the terrifying man at table three with a fear born of network news and Cinemax movies about biker gangs. It also didn't help that her boyfriend, Bobby, had just bought a box set of that show Sons of Anarchy, or whatever it was called. Seemed like a whole lot of motorcycles and sex and tattoos and no real story. Not like the shows Tammy liked. NCIS, now that was a show. Mark Harmon. He was plain old dreamy, and never disrespectful like this punk. Dirty Mister California biker.
“I said, What. The. Fuck. Is. This. Bullshit. Question mark.”
Oh he had a potty mouth, this one. He also had a couple of arms like like a bear, all covered with black ink, like some kind of wild man in the National Geographics. His eyes were a bottomless pit of darkness, evil and mean.
“We don't go for that kind of talk in here, young man.”
“Young? Do I look fucki... I am probably old enough to be your brother-daddy! Where is the goddamn manager?”
“Well, I will get him right now, and you'd better hope he doesn't throw you right out of here on your butt, mister!”
Tammy stepped carefully back to the counter, eyeballing the beast-man all the way. No way was he sneaking up on her, tearing her clothes, having his way with her, like they did on the TV. She let him know she was wise to his demon ways. Two fingers, her eyes to his direction. I'm watchin' you, fella. He sat there, shaking his grey-black head, throwing his arms up and swearing a long stream of curses. Tammy's feet ached, swollen and tired and probably, maybe, just a little too fat. Have to lay off the amaretto shakes and double-chili fries. Tammy set her wide pink ass on a tiny stool, eyes still sharp as a hawk on the musclehead jerk and his black-coal eyes. His eyebrows were like live caterpillars, he probably had that coat of dark brush hair all over his body, like her uncle Cal. Lord, how she hated uncle Cal and his stale beer-and-cigarette breath, always grabbing her softies under her Sunday school dress. And what was with that brother-daddy crack? Big meanie sounded like a northerner, or worse, Californian. Keepin' these eyes on you, devil fiend! Tammy carefully worked her long pink nails through a wandering tuft of pale yellow, cotton-candy hair and shouted back into the kitchen.
“Lloyd! Got a problem out here. This fella wants to see you!”
Now, you're gonna get it, Mister California biker. One long nail caught in the hairspray-lacquered web of her hair and Tammy yelped as she yanked her hand free, the nail a sure goner. She smiled a wide, toothy grin as Lloyd grumbled and groped his way out of the back, huffing and puffing as he hefted his weight around the tight corners and squeezed through the swinging door.
“Hellzapoppin', Tammy! Hell's goin' on out here?”
She just pointed, using her mouth to chew and pop her stale pink gum.
“You got some kinda problem there, man?”
Lloyd fairly waddled to the booth and plunked down, one wide ass-cheek taking up what space he could fall into.
“This is bullshit, man. Are you people out of your fucking minds?”
“I don't get ya, pal.” Lloyd mumbled, reaching out to snake a fry, flipping it back into his mouth like he was a trained seal.
“This burger. This cockamamie retardation of Diner cuisine. What in the sweet bloody fuck is this supposed to be?”
“That there is the pride of Arkadelphia. What the heckfire's your problem, fella?”
Mister California biker held his hands out in front of him, knifing the air as he talked.
“What's my problem? Seriously? Are you that stupid? Look at this thing.”
He batted the top bun away from the mess of lettuce, bacon, tomato...
“Is this a stick of butter? This is, like, literally, just a stick of fucking butter with garnish.”
“And bacon. That's the best part, the bacon.”
“It's raw!”
“Stove's broke.”
“The stove is broken? How are you open? This is ridiculous, and a health code violation, I'm sure. Are you people special or something? Am I on camera? Is Ashton Fucking Kutcher going to jump out from behind that chair?”
“Who?”
Lloyd threw a confused glance towards Tammy, still parked at the counter trying to reattach her disfigured nail.
“That new boy on Two and a Half Men. The new Charlie Sheen fella.”
“Is he comin' to town?”
Mister California biker stood up, muscles knotted and tight, shoulders bulging through his tight black t-shirt and upended the table.
“YOU PEOPLE ARE FUCKING CRAZY!”
He kicked a black booted foot into the door as the remains of his Better Butter Bacon Burger slid slowly down the incline of the formica tabletop, leaving a greasy smear behind. The door swung wide, smashing into the outside wall before rattling back against the jam. Lloyd reached down with a wheeze and righted the table, licking the butter from his fingers before standing up with a creak and a moan. He waddled back to where Tammy sat like some truck stop Buddha, meditating on the bubble gum hue of her pudgy fingertips. They watched as the man stomped back and forth in the parking lot, throwing his hands to the sky and hollering obscenities to the heavens.
“Strange fella.” Tammy offered.
“Yep.”
“Didn't like the butter burger.”
“Yep.”
“I think he was from California.”
“Asshole.”
Rosie's Chicken & Biscuits
Zeke had seen all manner of nature’s savagery during a lifetime on the trails – Death and dismemberment, cannibalism, all manner of killing – this was different. These were no bloody wolves, no mountain lions, no coyotes eating their own dead, no giant Tenochtitlan eagles sweeping down on the cool night breeze to carry off a tup or two. These were goddamn monsters from hell.
Q was twisted up, long legs stretching out with his boot heels in the dust, body low to the ground and his shoulder up against the edge of the trunk that was shielding them. Q had grown up hunting cougars in West Texas. He knew how to creep out, get a clear shot at a rabid heap of teeth and claws. Rosie called Q Ol’ Dog and Zeke was the Young Pup. The Ol’ Dog had hunted damn near everything that could be killed with a knife or a gun, but he didn’t look like a hunter now. Zeke could feel Q next to him, trembling like an autumn leaf, the oaty smell of fresh piss wafting up to mingle with the stench of slaughter.
He ain’t never shot no Chupacabra. Zeke thought to himself. He remembered Rosie saying it, crossing herself over those big, sweet caramel teats and mumbling in her queer backwoods Spanish. Chupacabra. Goat-suckers. Demon Dogs.
The things had fallen on them quicker than anything Zeke had ever seen. They came dive-bombing out of the black night like eagles, but bigger. Black and huge and hungry. Goddamn panthers with wings. They came with an unearthly banshee howl and the sound of thunder behind them, picking animals from the ground with hooked talons and muscular arms, dropping them from high, the sheep wailing through the darkness as they plummeted back down to the rocky earth to burst like sloppy meat piñatas. Zeke had dropped to his knees, hands over his ears as livestock exploded around them like mortar shells. Q was half deaf already and still ducked his head, his face twisted up with the agony of the shrill blast of noise. The things had already picked off a half-dozen animals before either of the men had time to open their mouths in surprise. Zeke had screamed, and felt a rush of warmth down the front of his legs, when Ol’ Dogs hand hooked in the back of his collar and yanked Young Pup from the dust, scrambling for cover behind the rotting hulk of a fallen tree. Now Zeke was clear-headed and Q was the one cowering in the dust.
Zeke pulled himself up and steeled his resolve to look out on what had turned a hard old cowboy like Q into a scared child. He thought better of it, remembering Rosie’s stories of the dreaded goat-suckers. Twisted alien monsters that would just as soon gut a man as blink an evil, night-red eye. Creatures of the pit she’d called them.
Zeke looked at Q – body still as stone, hard and unforgiving – but his lips twitching like a hell-bitten dog. There was no reason left in the Ol’ Dogs pale blue eyes, just panic.
Ought to leave him here Zeke thought. I ain’t dying here. I can take care of Rosie. Rosie and her big warm tits, and those thick ruby lips. I can’t carry the old bastard outta here, can I? Won’t be my damn fault he lost his nerve. He’s old and weak and…goddammit...
Zeke clambered to his knees, demons be damned, and grabbed Q rough by the shoulders and cocked his arm back to lay a slap across the old man’s face.
“Fucksakes Quentin! Snap out of it!”
Zeke’s hand flew out in a wide arc, but found nothing but air and he tumbled forward, face down in the dirt. Zeke reached out to the darkness. There were no screams from Q. There were just his eyes, wide and white and mad with fear, fading into the black night on the rhythm of beating wings, leaving Zeke alone and trembling under the blood red moon.
Zeke felt his legs moving under him before his brain registered the thought to run. The muscles were knotted hard as his legs pumped and his vision shook, barreling out of the clearing towards the cover of the clutch of pines standing on the east side of the clearing. The confused screaming of the sheep and the high-pitched wail of the demon-beasts was a furious wind blowing at his back, but all Zeke could hear was his own heart pounding in his ears and the rush of air in and out of his throbbing chest. So close. So very close. Zeke reached out to grab the thick green salvation of the branches, and felt the world spin as his foot caught on a stump and he flew forward, crashing to the rough ground a bare couple of feet from safety.
Zeke sat up and froze, realizing how deadly silent the night had become. Hot, moist breath, reeking of blood and rot, played against the skin of his cheek. The corner of his eye registered a shape, dark and thick, and as he turned, the terrible pieces of his ill-digested glances came together like a horrifying puzzle. It had a long, grey face. Skin stretched tight over hard bones, thick brow shrouding glassy eyes of hellfire red. It had a flat snout, like a bat, and a mouth full of serrated teeth, jagged and horrible, yet dwarfed by the two long dog-teeth that curved inwards of the gaping maw of the thing. Zeke felt another one moving in on his left. It nuzzled its snout into his neck, sniffing, and Zeke jerked away, causing the monsters to jump back, snapping in panic. There were three of them, half the height of a grown man, but twice as broad, and more heavily muscled than any ranch-hand Zeke had ever known. Zeke pulled himself into a crouch and began backing away from them, edging slowly toward the brush. It was a few short feet to the trees. The creature on the right jumped at him first, head shooting forward, long arms waving through the air, fleshy cape pulled flat against it, lunging with one sharp talon, flailing at Zeke’s face. Zeke ducked and lashed out a boot that caught the thing full in the side of the head, knocking it back in the dirt with a squeal. It was only stunned for a second before jumping into the air with a whip-crack of its wings to disappear into the shadows. The other two advanced, creeping forward with their awkward waddle, arms dragging behind them. Both bared their fangs and screeched, their voices combining to create a single ear-splitting sound that bore through Zeke’s head and blinded his every sense. He rolled, desperately trying to crawl free of the clearing and bury himself in the thick wall of trees. Two feet. Just two feet. Zeke forced his hands away from his ears and reached out for the trees, shaky legs moving an inch at a time beneath him. The wail of the beasts was replaced by a high-pitched whine inside Zeke’s ears and he put a hand to the side of his head, fingers coming away sticky and hot.
He didn’t hear the thud as Ol’ Dogs body exploded in front of him like an overstuffed garbage bag, blood and meat and god knows what else, spattering up into his face. There was no head and, perhaps worse yet, the torso was wide open and empty, like a gutted turkey in a torn denim shirt. Zeke could see the inside of the rib cage, little notches and chunks missing from the short ribs, where one of the damned things had taken a bite. Zeke felt his gorge rise up in his throat and a tight lump form in his chest. The meat-husk was wearing Ol' Dogs boots, the tooled leather ones, with the big letter ‘Q’ just above the ankles, the boots Rosie gave him for their anniversary last fall, just before she started taking Young Pup to her bed instead of the Ol’ Dog.
The thought of Rosie brought Zeke to his senses. He stood and dove past the carcass of his oldest friend, rolled over his shoulder and took to his feet, tumbling into the hard scrabble of the underbrush, branches tearing at his shirt and his skin, and he’d never been so happy.
Safe. Zeke thought. Need a goddamn coffee. Whiskey. Some of Rosie’s good chicken and biscuits.
The last thought lodged in his throat, with the sound of pine trunks cracking and a pressure at the base of his spine as one hooked talon sliced through his backbone and his face hit the dirt with no feeling.
Rosie? Rosie. No! I made it to the trees! Rosie?
He only felt the blood rush to his head as he was pulled up into the treetops, and he felt nothing more than wind in his eyes as the the ocean of green and the hard ground below rushed back towards his face.
I’m comin’ Rosie. I made it to the...
Dark Flush of the Sith
From the desk of:
Janine Mothma, HR Sector 12, Block 46 Rebel Alliance SWU.
Re: Applicant Interview – Position RSS Level 3, Waste Management – HQ Arbra Base
Applicant: Genevus Fervo Ozzel
Work Experience: 10 years with Light-Snake Droid Drainage Services, Coruscant
5 years independent contractor, Imperial Navy – Death Star I
3 years independent contractor, Imperial Navy – SSD ‘Executor’
Transcript of personal interview follows:
JM - “Good morning Mr… Ozzel? I’m Janine Mothma”
GO - “Call me G
ene.”
JM - “Gene. So why do you want to defect to the Alliance, Gene?”
GO - “Well, it’s not really defecting, is it? I mean, I’m just a contractor…”
JM - “A contractor for the Galactic Empire.”
GO - “Everybody makes mistakes, right?”
(Nervous laughter)
JM - “What was your capacity on the Super Star Destroyer ‘Executor’?”
GO - “Capacity? I’m in waste management. My capacity was cleaning up after about seventeen hundred stormtroopers and Galactic Empire enlisted. Not to mention that prick Vader and his ‘guests’.”
JM - “Excuse me?”
GO - “Sorry. I get a little riled up about that guy.”
JM – “I meant about the ‘guests’, Mr. Ozzel.”
GO – “Gene. Yeah, Vader’s always bringing up dignitaries and big-shots. He likes to show off and brag about his private destroyer. Acts like it’s a yacht or something. Big parties with real scumbags. Last week he had some ugly space-slug of a Hutt up there. Some mucky-muck from Tatooine. Showed up with this big entourage of bounty hunters and call-girls. Had a whole pile of Gamorreans with them too. Have you ever seen what a Gamorrean can do to standard space plumbing?”
JM – “I’m sure it’s very unpleasant. How is it that you are aware of these ‘guests’ of Lord Vader’s?”
Living Dead at Zigfreidt & Roy Page 3
