Over the Adrenaline Edge Volume 29: Short Stories
Page 1
Over the Adrenaline Edge Volume 29
Short Stories
By William L. Ramseyer
Published by UMaxed™
Text copyright © 2015
(and year below the title of each story)
All Rights Reserved
William L. Ramseyer
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Repayment of an Investment in Time
For Your Information
This Job Sucks
If You Think I Look Ugly You Should See Yourself
Flight Patterns of a Thousand Cranes
An Other
Petite Chaperon Rouge
The Deadliest Sin
Careful
Sampling
Repayment of an Investment in Time (281 D7 7/8/91)
By William L. Ramseyer
A yellow porch light. A swarm of moths, spinning in the warm evening. A woman, white-haired, pale, thin hands--she cups them together.
"Would you like some more tea?"
The man smiles. "Yes. It's very good. Just a little more please."
She picks up the teapot, raises it delicately, and holding the top, tilts it. The liquid fills the cup. Then she hesitates, pours a half-a-cup into her own.
"Oh dear," she says, and giggles. "I don't usually have move than one cup. It gets me too excited. But what you're saying is so interesting."
The man and woman raise their cups to their lips, hold the saucers carefully underneath, tilted, tilted, tilted. The man swings his chair around, moves closer to the woman, makes notes on his pad as he speaks. "You see, the arbitrage allows a return investment substantially higher than bonds or stocks, or bank accounts."
"But I don't need any more money."
The man pauses, thinks for a moment.
The woman touches his arm delicately. "Would it help you if I invested in this?"
"Yes. And, do you have any friends who might be interested?"
"I don't know. Maybe the volunteers at the thrift shop. I'm afraid they're mainly widows."
"That's O.K. Listen, could I meet them next week?"
"Oh I could probably arrange that. I'll have to let you know." She holds her hand in front of her mouth.
*
The white-haired woman arranged the candy bars. Another woman with a round red face counted the day's change.
"He does seem like a charming young man," said the plump woman.
"Yes," said the white-hair, "a very serious person."
"I wish my kids had turned out like that."
"I wish my son were still alive,' said the tea woman.
A man in a wheel chair rolled up. "Pack of cigars," he said in a gruff voice.
"You know we don't sell cigars. Why do you ask for them every day?"
"Some day you'll change your mind. And start stocking what the customers want. Give me a pack of gum. That yellow one there."
"Anyway," said the plump woman turning to the tea lady. "It seems like a good investment."
"What investment?" said the man in the wheel chair.
"Well, Thelma has found a charming young man who is helping us invest our money."
"I bet he's helping you invest your money. He's going to cheat you."
"He already brought $1600 back to Thelma from the thousand that she gave him."
The man snorted, turned, wheeled out.
*
"Got some news for you, Ruby," said the man in the wheel chair.
The plump woman turned. "What's that? You decided to take smiling lessons?"
"You're the one who's going to need smiling lessons." He held up a newspaper. "Recognize the photo."
"Why it's Bob!" Thelma took the paper, read the headline, gasped. Tried to speak. "Bob's...Bob's in jail."
"In jail," said Ruby. "For what?"
"Cause he's a God Damn crook, that's why," said the wheel chair man. "Grand jury indicted him for stealing from hundreds of retired people. You'll probably get a call from the district attorney's office."
"What about our money?" asked Ruby.
"Gone," said the man. "All gone."
"But if I have no money," said Thelma, "then how will I be able to invest with Bob? He'll be so disappointed."
THE END
For Your Information (282 D8 7/14/91)
By William L. Ramseyer
"Mommy. What should I be when I grow up?"
*
Chain link fences, guards, gates, sprinklers, brick mansions, swimming pools, gentle people on horseback, private parks. The Information Owners. Fresh information. Sent. Received. Stolen. Guarded in electron vaults. Threads of gold across the world.
Information: wealth.
Factories on a map. Lights of green and red. Appalachian crackers and Mexican peasants, Muslim Shiites in long robes. Chinese. Malgesh. In the shadow of cinder block volcanoes, they pile belongings on wagons, carts, old beat-up cars. Search for a place where the lights shine. Price of labor high. Lights flicker, go out. Glow somewhere else. Information. Buy this. Sell that. Build this. Abandon that. A tide of people, a sad slow current, a human sludge. Follows the flashing lights, flows past the chain link fences and private estates.
Information: control.
Laser disks, tapes, television shows. Tiny pieces of light clutch at dying brains, inject used dreams, swell them with old information.
Information: daily bread.
*
The woman turned to her child, stuffed a handful of potato chips in her own mouth, and without lifting off her headphones, said, "remember this piece of information". Wagged her finger.
"Get your ass on the other side of the fence."
THE END
This Job Sucks (283 D7 7/18/91)
By William L. Ramseyer
Blanche yawned, stared out at the patch of darkening blue between the glass towers, twisted her head from one side to the other, and stretched, rubbing her white neck with a small hand.
A woman, heavy, with short black hair and sunglasses, stopped in front of Blanche's desk. "Hey. Wake up!"
Blanche raised her head.
"Come on girl. It's Friday afternoon. Let's go out and have a beer."
"I'm too tired."
"You're always tired."
"No, only since I started working here."
"You need to exercise. Let's play tennis. How about tomorrow?" The woman in sunglasses leaned over. "We can sit in my hot tub, drink Chablis."
"No, really, thank you, Ruby. But I'm just too tired."
"All right." The woman threw a paper down on the counter. "Someone needs to type this," she said and stomped off.
With great effort Blanche picked up the paper, yawned, then turned to the man in the cubicle to her left. "Rudolph, do you think that you could type this?"
The man pumped his legs slowly, screwing his buttocks into the chair, then he carefully smoothed out a piece of paper on the desk in front of him. "Sorry, dearie. But I have more important things to do." He turned the paper over and meticulously smoothed it out again. "I'm a professional."
The buzzer sounded. The girl got up, grabbed a set of reports, and walked into the corner office.
"Well," said the red-faced man, "are the reports done?"
"Mr. Rubidoux, I can't finish them. I'm too tired. I'm sorry."
"Hmmmm."
"Must be something in the air-conditioning," said the girl. "I'm tired all the time. I'm just going to have to give my notice."
"I see," said Mr. Rubidoux. He twisted his large red nose, turned and looked out the window.
"I'm really sorry. I'll come and pick up my check next week."
The man spun arou
nd. Large white pointy teeth hung down each side of his mouth. Vampire fangs. "Don't bother," he said. "I'll bring it by, tonight."
THE END
If You Think I Look Ugly You Should See Yourself (284 D5 7/18/91)
By William L. Ramseyer
"It's all your fault." The man shook his fist. "I gave up everything for you. Everything. I worked. I slaved. But you never gave a shit; you didn't care. Everything. I sacrificed. All the time I lost. My whole life lost. Just because of you." He screamed.
The man grabbed a metal curtain rod, and arching it over his back, smashed it against the mirror, again and again. "You ungrateful son of a bitch," he yelled.
THE END
Flight Patterns of a Thousand Cranes (285 D6 7/18/91)
By William L. Ramseyer
Published,
7/94
Pablo Lennis
The stewardess put down the phone, picked up the microphone. "We will have a three hour stop here in Honolulu." she said to the passengers.
The businessmen and women carried out their bags and camera cases. One passenger stopped, surveyed the stewardess with a scowl. He shook his head, sending back waves of black hair, stuck the thumb of each hand inside of his thick leather belt, wrapped his hands around the belt buckle, looked to the left and right. He walked on, bowlegged, down the ramp, his leather boots showing underneath leather chaps.
*
After customs the Japanese cowboy set down on a blue plastic chair in the airport lounge. A red-headed boy sat in front of him, reading.
"Howdy," said the Japanese boy.
The red-headed boy bowed slightly.
"Where you going partner?" As he spoke he looked over the boy's loose Aikido suit, sandals, black belt.
"Japan," said the red head. "And you?"
"Wild West," said the Japanese boy. "I'm going to work on a ranch. What part of Japan are you going to?"
"I thought that I might hike the mountain trails between Endo and Kyoto, perhaps live in the forest, meditating, practicing." He stood up, flashed the newspaper in Kendo sword moves.
The Japanese boy started to say something, then shrugged. "Yeah," he snickered, "that's a great idea."
"Maybe I'll study in a monastery, reach Satori. Or perhaps I'll become a wandering Samurai. A ronin. They still have Samurai in Japan, right?"
"Oh, sure. All over the place."
"At least some place isn't just parking lots, roads, shopping centers and neon signs." He held up his hand. "I think I'll find serenity."
"Where can I find some cowboy bars?" asked the Japanese boy. "Los Angeles?"
The red head looked over the Japanese boy's clothes. "Maybe Hollywood. Lots of people dress like that at night there."
A garbled voice came over the loud speaker.
"That's my plane," said the red-headed boy. He stood up, packed away his copy of 'Haiku and the Samurai Way'. As he walked off he looked back at the Japanese boy with his Louis Lamour paperback and string tie. He shook his head. "Good luck," he said, and thought 'what a idiot'.
"You too," said the Japanese boy, and thought the same thing.
THE END
An Other (286 D7 7/18/91)
By William L. Ramseyer
First one, then another. And another, and another. Over around. Through. Stitch. Stitch. Stitch. A line of stitches. A sheet of patches. A sleeve from sheets. A collar. A vest. A dress. Piece, after piece. First one, then the other. And another and another. Reds and blues. Starched and plain. Fancy. Bright. Gray.
The girl sewed. A young girl now. Then a woman. And always another piece of clothing. She put them on. She became thick. A full woman now. Padded and rounded. Stitch one, then another. And another. Middle age. And still she worked. Older now and slower. Adding one piece of clothing after another, until--weighed down--she could barely move across the floor to pick up another piece of thread. A wad of clothing with a head and tiny tips of fingers sticking out. She inched across the room in her giant ball of clothing.
Then one day, she couldn't carry it anymore. And sighing, the ball of cloth rolled over. She slipped out, floated up, up, through the roof, and away. She waved and shouted, but no one seemed to hear as she drifted off.
THE END
Petite Chaperon Rouge (287 D5 7/18/91)
By William L. Ramseyer
I had often thought about going to Petite Chaperon Rouge for a vacation. Who hasn't? After seeing the ads: the lush forests, the flowers, the waterfalls, the beautiful woods. When I saw the notice, 'No cost adventure in a virgin paradise, Petite Chaperone Rouge. Help needed in labor management dispute.' Wow.
*
The red cap at the agency looked up at me. That's what I call the natives of Petite Chaperon Rouge. No one really knows if they really are natives. They look, frankly, like amazons. Big chests. Scraggly hair. Big hips, thighs. A big red flap of skin behind their head that folds over, some kind of ear I think, although they never seem to hear that well. They look vaguely human. But hard to describe, really--ugly I guess, is the best word. That's probably what they think of us too.
"You hire on for six months," said the red cap. "Supervising the mine. Everything's in the contract."
Three weeks later I arrived at Chaperon Rouge. A beautiful planet. But none of the red caps ever did anything. They just sat around, eating, watching dream vids. Humans did all the work. I went to the Geo Mine, found a cluster of humans pounding busily at the rocks, a red cap dozing in the corner. My job: track down renegade mine workers--lo los--the red caps called them. You'd hear them at night out in the wild howling, yelling--they really sounded like they were in pain. Anyway, I lost interest in the whole thing, something about the atmosphere of the place--you just don't care anymore. I started to sit around like the red caps, drinking, eating, sleeping. After a few days one of them noticed that I hadn't done any work.
"Hey," it said. "No sangro. Until you bring back a lo-lo."
I laughed. I could find food in the forest. I stopped laughing at the end of the next day. They'd drugged my food, and probably the food of all the humans chipping away so busily searching for the G-rocks. Sure enough. Without the spice, they said, none of them would work.
I was desperate. Somehow when you're like that your mind comes alive. Suddenly, I had dozens of schemes, plans to trap renegades. And I talked to a few of the human mine workers about revolting. They laughed. "He's gone lo-lo," said one.
I rigged up infra-red cameras where I'd heard the howls of lo-los. Then I sat back, waited, and watched. When I saw one in a narrow canyon headed towards the mouth of the canyon. I cut around and waited.
"Zoopp." I hit the lo-lo with a stun-dart, then I dragged it back to the camp.
"Give me some sangro," I said to the first red cap I came across. The red cap nodded, handed me a tray of food. I gulped it down. And felt much, much better. The lo-lo woke up. It grabbed the plastic tray, searched, found it empty. Then it turned, leaped through the air, grabbed the red cap by the arm and started biting it.
I raised the stun gun just as the lo-lo came after me with a rock in its hand.
*
"Is he telling the truth?" asked the Judge.
"Yes," said the Truthchecker. "The truth. But not the whole truth."
"I see," said the Judge, leaning over. "What are you leaving out?"
But I said nothing. I had my reasons.
"You're facing serious charges," said the Judge. "conspiracy to aid and abet kidnapping, false imprisonment."
Still I waited.
"What is this sangro stuff? Where does it come from?"
I said nothing. The judge turned angrily to the prosecutor.
"Call your next witness. Let's get this over with."
I waited. The prosecution said some gobblygook. I recognized it as the name of a red cap.
The red cap walked into the room. Then it saw me staring at it.
"Look at the red cap's arms," I yelled.
It turned towards me. "Bite me," it screamed.
But by then, I was halfway across the space, closing rapidly, my jaw wide open, teeth thrust out.
"You bet I will, Sangro Baby."
THE END
The Deadliest Sin (288 D5 7/28/91)
By William L. Ramseyer
"Your application, Mr. Gershwin, is denied."
"What do you mean denied?" said the man. He waved his hands. "Everything's there."
"On the contrary. You're missing Form Q."
"Form Q? What the hell is that?" The man grabbed the thick stack of papers: pink, yellow, green, white. Leafed through them. "I got all kinds of papers here."
"But you don't have," the woman leaned forward, "and you must have--a completed form Q.
"So what's a form Q?"
The people behind him, a long line of men and women, shuffled their feet, made sniffling and grunting noises, and generally indicated their annoyance.
"You can find form Q at your local public library," said the woman coldly.
"God damn it," said the man, grabbed his pile of papers, stomped off.
Everyone else in line moved up one place.
*
"I need a form Q," said the man to the librarian.
"Why do you need a form Q?" asked the librarian.
"Because," said the man and showed his teeth. "Because, I'm going to kill myself."
"What was that?"
"I'm going to kill myself,' repeated the man quietly.
"Why are you going to kill yourself?" shouted the librarian.
Patrons looked up from their books, a few snickered.
"That's private."
"Oh. I see. Well, I'll have to see your library card first. You know we can't issue a form Q until we confirm that you have no overdue books or fines." She took the card and ran it through the scanner. "You have an overdue book--'Control Your Life through Positive Thinking'". The librarian looked up and spoke, "what did you think of that book? I was thinking of reading it?"
*