Curing the Uncommon Man-Cold

by J. L. Salter

  His must have opened first. "Uh, you're a witch!" He gasped as though that notion actually frightened him.

  When I opened my eyes, he was staring at the goose-pimples among the décolletage created by my bustier. "Well, you're…" It took me a second to identify someone in a brightly striped shirt, breeches with a sash, a dagger — hopefully not real — tucked in his waistband, and a disheveled headscarf. Plus, a black eye patch dangled from his left ear by a strand of cheap elastic. "…you're a pirate!"

  "Aarrgghh." He dashed away toward the nearest buccaneer's room.

  Chapter Two

  I clicked the light switch on the other side of that door and passed the pirate in the hallway. I practically had my panties down by the time I reached the toilet in the ladies' room — first door on the left after turning into the intersecting hallway. No time to put down paper and I didn't even think about whoever had used it before me. When your bladder has been chanting for half an hour, you can't be obsessive about hygiene.

  After I'd dealt with my primary emergency, I had enough focus to wonder about the pirate guy. He'd groped my arm, touched my neck and shoulder, and even — supposedly on accident — grazed my bustier. I looked into the mirror. Hmm. This witch costume did reveal a good bit of flesh. I made some quick adjustments to the girls. Slightly more comfortable, but it was still a punishing outfit.

  Checked the bottoms of my feet. My hose weren't completely ruined, but all that traipsing and scurrying had taken a toll. I'd have to rotate those to back-up status and get a new pair. Not that I wore black patterned hose all that often; I tended more toward soft gray or suntan shade for work at the bank. I put my heels back on. Ow.

  For a moment I fritzed with my short hair — which I charitably called honey-brown — before I realized it was beyond hope. Also, my eye makeup had streaked. What a mess. I exited the restroom and stood at the corner of the intersecting hallways.

  "Oh, I thought you'd gone." The brigand approached from the direction of the men's room door. He still couldn't keep his eyes off my visible flesh. "You look… taller."

  I pointed to my shoes and finally got a good look at his face. Nice — under the greasepaint beard and overdone eye makeup someone likely copied from a bad pirate movie. Strong jaw, Roman nose, steel gray eyes. He was probably about six-two. The gaudy horizontal stripes of his tight shirt revealed an expansive chest. Not like a competitive body-builder, but a man who'd been physically fit most of his life. Hmm. Wondered how old he was. Hard to tell with buccaneers. Maybe a hair over thirty.

  "Guess I'm heading out. Which way is the parking lot?" He turned his upper body three directions without pausing very long at any.

  I pointed over my right shoulder. "The main lot's out there. Feeds into a ginormous overhead door they used to need for the trucks that pulled in the big space."

  "Deuce-and-a-halfs."

  "Huh?"

  "Two-and-a-half-ton trucks. There's room in that truck bay for two full-size basketball courts. I had a cousin with a different Tennessee guard unit but most of these armories are pretty similar." The pirate rubbed his head and looked surprised, likely just then realizing he still wore the scarf. He grinned as he pulled it off. His movement also dislodged the thin elastic strand from his ear and the eye patch fell to the thick tile.

  I wondered why he hadn't seen that in the mirror. Maybe he hadn't even looked. Some guys don't. Nice smile. Not movie star caliber, but just right for a real man. I eye-balled his dagger again. "So, you came here expecting trouble?" I pointed to his waistband.

  "Oh, borrowed that from a nephew. Hard rubber." Another smile. "Didn't want to cut anything off."

  No, indeed. "You said it was your first time at the Halloween Festival. So how'd you get left here?"

  "I'm still wondering that myself." He shook his head. "Long story."

  Whatever. "At least explain why it took you so long to come help me get out."

  "First time I heard your voice, I thought I was still asleep and just dreaming or something. My head hurt. Drank too much punch. What'd they put in that junk?" He rubbed the back of his neck. "Anyway, I was ticked off…"

  "Because of that long story you haven't told yet."

  He nodded. "…and I drank a lot more than I usually do. Got real tired and just kind of slumped against the wall off in a corner. Not sure which corner. But not too far from where you were, apparently."

  I liked the way his mouth moved when he spoke. A bit like Sean Connery when much younger — extra mobility in his lips.

  He continued. "Well, anyway, I tried to make my way over to your voice, but I don't see so good in the pitch-dark, so it took a while to reach you."

  "Why didn't you say something so I'd know you were coming?"

  "I didn't know who you were. Plus, you'd threatened to shoot me! A disembodied voice yelling, 'Hey!' was all I knew."

  "I'm a little surprised nobody tripped over your big feet as they were leaving."

  "Yeah, you'd think people cleaning up would've noticed at least one of us."

  "I was lying down on that shelf-bench so they probably didn't see me. And I don't think they did any cleaning-up. I was on the committee and everybody said the county jail convicts would clean up Monday morning. No need to do anything but turn out the lights and leave, which apparently is just what they did." Would've been nice if they'd checked for live bodies first, however.

  The buccaneer shrugged and headed toward the door I'd previously indicated. "Okay. Guess I'm outta here."

  "Hold on. You said you were new in town. Who are you anyway?"

  "Just your run-of-the-mill pirate." He grinned. "Who are you?"

  "A witch who puts nasty spells on rude pirates." I didn't grin. Why'd he dodge my question?

  He turned again to leave.

  "Hey, I'm not staying here by myself." I'd had my quota of being alone in large dark buildings near Halloween.

  He took another quick gander at my chest and his gaze clearly wanted to linger. "Might be chilly outside in a witch costume."

  My leather jacket was something else I'd left locked in the car. I sighed heavily and followed him toward the door. It seemed like I was forgetting something, but nothing clicked.

  "It's been… interesting." He looked like he might shake my hand or something. But he just winked clumsily and pushed open the heavy door.

  Brisk night air swirled into the wide hallway and I shivered. Wondered what time it was.

  The newcomer stepped outside and clasped his arms around his chest; I stayed pretty close so he could be a windbreak of sorts. Right as I heard the massive door slam behind us I remembered my purse was still tucked under the bench inside the wooden cage. "My keys! My purse!" I tried the door. Locked tighter than my Aunt Tilly's coin pouch.

  "Locked?"

  Before I could nod my head, I started sniffling. The new guy stepped closer, tentatively, but stopped short of hugging me. You can't let a strange swashbuckler embrace you even if he is compassionate enough. As I shivered from the cold breeze, it made my sniffles sound even worse. Don't let strangers see you cry!

  "Uh, is there something I can do to help?" He also shivered, but not as much as I.

  I'd spent the last thirty minutes being strong. "Not unless," I sobbed, "you have a key to the armory."

  He shook his head. "But I guess I could give you a ride." He didn't sound like he wanted to.

  And I wasn't certain it would be a good idea anyhow. "Don't ride with strangers" had been ingrained in me since kindergarten.

  Vehicle brakes squealed in the parking lot and we both turned just as a piercing bright light temporarily blinded me. "Stop right there! Verdeville Police! Hands in the air and don't move too fast."

  ***

  Another funny read from Dingbat Publishing

  "Bob Ross: Vampire Hunter" is a satire by Rob Marsh, and for all legal intents and purposes is not intended with any malice aforethought. Rob Marsh has invented all names and situations in its stories, except in a couple cas
es where public figures are being satirized. But seriously, Bob Ross doesn't even appear in the book, and I only used his name because it sounded like a really silly book title, but the fact is, there is NO appearance by Bob Ross in the book, but instead a generic public television painter named "Bob the Painter", who is strictly my own creation. Any other use of real names is accidental and coincidental, or used as a satirical and fictional depiction or parody of personality. Don't sue me, please. The book is intended as a joke, and it's unlikely anyone will read it anyhow…

  Myles is Interrupted

  It all started one rainy day, deep within a warm and cozy public television studio, somewhere in Glendale, California. Myles Kieffer, an unassuming young man in his early thirties, sat at his desk and tapped idly at the keys of his computer. As director of programming at the local public television affiliate studio, it was his responsibility to complete the task of keeping the programming interesting, a task virtually impossible considering the mediocre content available.

  Myles scratched at his shaggy blond hair and stared at the screen, exhaling deeply. He loosened his tie and studied the figures before him. Station ratings had been plummeting, and the latest fund-raising blitz had been a complete, abject failure. Viewers were so frustrated by the money-beg telethon that long-time supporters actually requested refunds of their previous donations. With another sigh, Myles glanced at the stack of bills on his desk, several emblazoned in red ink with vicious demands to pay, else have the power cut, the water shut off, and various other acts of brutality committed against the studio employees and their family members.

  But all things considered, Myles thought, gazing out the window, his job wasn't too bad. Most of his day was spent behind the desk, arranging and rearranging program schedules for his crew of aging public television celebrities. Indeed, for some strange reason, straight out of college Myles had landed the job directing the one affiliate with the largest collection of old and irrelevant actors and their programs, but he didn't mind, for the most part. He did his job well, and was happy to be able to put his Communications major to work. For many years, perhaps too many, it had been his profession, and he nobly did his best, considering the situation.

  The young executive left his office and headed to the break room, where he opened a brown bag and extracted a bland sandwich, an apple, and a mug of herbal tea. Outside of the room, two bearded figures debated with great animation the value of British television, particularly ones involving characters in powdered wigs. Myles grimaced and, ignoring them, opened his newspaper and sipped at his tea while his eyes scanned the classified section.

  Suddenly, out of nowhere, an alarming figure sprang into the room. Garbed in a lab coat, a tinfoil conical helmet, a frenzied beard, and wild, rolling eyes, he grabbed at Myles' shoulders and shouted to him. "Myles Kieffer! YOU are the chosen one! Only you can save us from the inevitable destruction and annihilation of all mankind!!!"

  Myles smiled politely, put down his tea, and calmly said, "Ah, this is about that unpaid gas bill Listen, I…"

  The raving lunatic suddenly sat down across from Myles, silenced him with an open hand, and proceeded to produce a bundle of papers. Hastily removing a rubber band, he spread the pages across the table, and began to explain, in frantically elaborate details, the years of research that he had done of ancient Mayan prophecies, Sumerian pottery inscriptions, Egyptian mummy dust samples, and endless charts, maps, hieroglyphics, and strange architectural structures, all emphasized with wild waving of his hands. Myles simply sat and listened patiently.

  "What it all boils down to is that there's an evil mastermind who, aware of the ancient calendars, is harnessing evil energy to help bring about conditions to end all life on earth. We aren't sure who exactly it is, but we know where… somewhere…" a pause and a cold shudder, "…in New England!"

  Myles continued to listen calmly, slowly drinking his herbal tea.

  "He has a device or something that is drawing explosive, and colorful, space rocks to earth," the lunatic continued, "and as each impacts with the surface, it has a distinctive effect on the population, bringing about horrific transformative and destructive effects."

  Myles studied the pages on the space rocks, each rock carefully illustrated by hand and colored apparently in crayon. "But what does this have to do with me…?" Myles asked.

  Suddenly even more frenzied, the conspiracy nut grabbed Myles by the edges of his shirt and shook him frantically. "Public television is the catalyst of the destruction of the world!" he screamed, and springing to his feet, the table toppled over and papers scattered everywhere. "It's not just dull and irrelevant television programming… it's about life-draining creatures. Myles, take the papers and no…!!!!" Suddenly a pair of unfamiliar men, dressed completely in black, stepped into the room, grabbed the loony, and proceeded to haul him away.

  "Nothing to see here. You didn't see anything or hear anything," stated one of the two shadowy figures. Myles nodded silently and took another sip of tea.

  "Myles Kieffer…" yelled the loony as his voice faded down the hall. "You must be the one to stop this… the prophecies have said so… nooo…"

  Some doors slammed, and Myles heard the distant sound of an engine starting and the squeal of tires, then suddenly there was silence, broken only by the hum of the refrigerator behind him. Myles finished his tea, but as he set the cup down on the table, one of the pages caught his attention and he furrowed his brow, examining it more closely. What appeared to be the rocky wall of a Peruvian temple showed a strange series of shapes: some figures of humans, some animals, some exotic fruits, and…

  Myles held the picture more closely. The photograph was a black and white image with a figure circled in red. The figure appeared to be that of a puppet, one of the infuriatingly irritating puppets from the morning television line-up. Could it…?

  Nah, it couldn't be, he thought.

  He scanned through more of the pages. One crumpled, thickly folded document opened up to reveal a carefully annotated map of the United States. His public television station was noted with large letters saying "START HERE," and from that location a crimson line was scrawled across the map that stretched across the country, from west to east, doing a couple circular loops for no apparent reason, then finally reaching the coast and crawling north, to an enigmatic location heavily circled and noted with strange symbols, cryptic notations, and a coffee stain. Myles furrowed his brow and studied the final destination of the line and pondered…

  His break time over, Myles remained seated in the break station and leafed through page after page, skeptical yet curious. What did this all mean? Why did so many of these images, symbols, and locations seem so oddly familiar? And that final destination… could it be…?

  Myles bundled the pages together carefully and returned to his office, puzzled and curious. He located a large manila envelope and inserted all of the documents, then resumed his afternoon of programming responsibilities, yet the images and words of the stranger continued to gnaw at the back of his mind.

  Little did Myles know, he would soon be encountering a number of things that gnaw at your mind…

  Dinner with the Folks

  Myles drove his lime green, energy-efficient, one-passenger vehicle home through a haze of smog and pulled into his parents' driveway. Still living at home, he thought, shaking his head at that sad bit of expositional character detail. Meeting him at the door was his round mother, who greeted him with a kiss on the cheek.

  "Your father was just about to write his evening emails, dear," she said.

  "Oh no," sighed Myles.

  His father, an animated bald fellow garbed in flannel, sat down at his desktop computer, monitor yellowed with radiation, and cracked his knuckles luxuriously. Turning to see his son enter, he bellowed, "Hey, boy, you're just in time! Time for some powerful patriotism!"

  "Caps lock on," intoned Myles sardonically.

  "Caps… lock… ON!" boomed his father, and over the next half hour, in a 7
0-word-per-minute frenzy, his father proceeded to write to every single politician, local and federal, some even foreign, telling them in anguished detail how they were doing everything completely wrong, wasting his money, and that they all deserved to be fired immediately and punished publicly. Myles sat on the couch watching the evening news with his mother. Finally his father composed his magnum opus…

  "Dear Department of Public Transportation…" he said aloud, then resumed his frantic typing.

  "Oh, don't mind your father," said Mother, as she sat down across from Myles and busied herself with her latest decoupage project. "He's just in one of his moods…"

  "Dad writes to these same people every night…" Myles sighed.

  "Yes, I know, dear. It's his therapy…"

  Father seemed undisturbed by the background conversation, and his fingers continued to hammer at the keys with a relentless clackety-clack. Suddenly the left-shift key sprang from the keyboard and hurled across the room. Myles absentmindedly reached up and caught it with a quick clap of his hand. He tossed it back to his father, who grumbled, opened an old tube of glue and reattached the key, then resumed his hammering.

  "Mom, there was something strange that happened at the studio tonight. This… crazy guy stormed into the studio and told me all this bizarre stuff about…"

  "Done!" announced Dad with a look of contentedness. "Let's eat!" he said, rubbing his hands together and heading to the kitchen table.

  "Well, dear," said Mother, setting down her colored-paper cutouts on the coffee table, "you can tell us all about it during supper." She rose and went into the kitchen.

  Myles ran his hand through his hair and started to rise, but then his eyes looked down at the paper shapes on the table before him. One of the paper shapes looked exactly like a silhouette of the extraordinarily old Wall Street financial analyst from his studio. But how…? Myles shook his head and stood up, and dismissed it as yet another strange coincidence, then proceeded to the room where the meatloaf was served. He sat quiet at the meal, drawing patterns with his fork in his mashed potatoes, while his thoughts raced.