Dani's Shorts 5

by Dani J Caile

  "Guys, we must do something to those French infidels, something dramatic. Our society was made to look like barbarians with 'Charlie'. Our cause cannot die."

  "They killed them, Omair. How much more dramatic would you like? And besides, as I said, none of us are terrorists," said Faakih.

  "Terrorists? We are fighters of freedom!" Omair stood up again and a guard came over.

  "Eat up and get back to your cells."

  "Yes, sir, of course, sir," bowed Omair, sitting down.

  "See? We are not 'fighters', Omair," said Taahid. "What can we do?"

  "Shut up and finish your mashed potato, Taahid," said Omair.

  Taahid played with his food. "Why do we not get crisps in here? Or Doritos? With Picante sauce?"

  "Because we are in a prison, my friend, and somehow they must make us feel that they have taken away our freedom. So, no crisps for poor Taahid," said Faakih.

  "Are you listening?" Omair waited until he had their full attention. "We will blow up the Eiffel Tower."

  Taahid rolled the mashed potato around on his plate.

  Faakih took a scoop of Taahid's mashed potato to quicken the process. "And exactly how do you think we're going to do that, Omair? Recite the Quran at it and it will fall over with the words of God?"

  "No. I have slabs of explosive disguised as Baklava sent through in parcels from my wife. These infidels have never seen any before so it was easy," informed Omair.

  "You are crazy, my friend," said Faakih. "Are you telling us that you received explosives through the post?"

  "Yes, and I have enough strapped to my body to bring this whole place down..." Taahid and Faakih scraped their chairs away from the table, dropping mashed potato on the floor.

  "You're not...you're not going to sacrifice yourself for the cause, Omair, are you?" asked Faakih, looking for a safe place to hide,

  "No, no. These are for the Eiffel Tower!"

  "Oh good," said Taahid, moving back to the table and scooping up some of his food.

  "And how do we get out of here, Omair? Please enlighten us. We all have at least three more years to go," asked Faakih.

  "Very easy, very easy. I have strapped two slabs of explosive to the canteen wall and two others to the outer wall by the latrines, set to blow up once I hit this button." They all stared at the little box and dove under the table.

  “Clear!”

  Challenge 127/AO8 (Christopher A Liccardi Challenge)

  Elements: A death bed vision, a smelly sweat sock, a neuro physicist, a red rain boot

  A smelly sweat sock hung from a lone red rain boot in the corner of the bedroom. Rain pelted down on the window panes. It was freezing.

  "Son! Son! Are you there?" His father lay in bed, dying.

  "Yes, father." He'd cut short his holiday in the Caribbean to be here. His father had been on his death bed since last Tuesday. It was Friday, well over a week later. Every day he sat here from dawn to dusk, waiting for his father to wake up and have some moments of clarity. He himself slept on the old sofa in the other room. But what he was really waiting for was his father's death. Only then would he get the house and land.

  "I had a vision, son," his father whispered, as if he didn't want anyone to hear. There was no one else. The last person to call was the hospital's neuro physicist, a surprise visit, perhaps looking for a gift for all the help and treatment he'd given his father getting him through all the procedures and operations on the NHS these last few months. Fat chance. He's spent all his money on the Caribbean trip and his father's only possession worth talking about was the house.

  "Really, father?" He'd had a vision, too, of a far-away beach, a beach made of fine sand, and women walking by so delicious in their bikinis that they were pouring out of them.

  "Yes, son, a vision. I saw the light and I moved towards it, but before I could reach it, I was taken aside by an angel and told that if I did not pay my social security that I would not be let into Heaven," murmured his father, weak and coughing.

  "Father, you don't need to pay social security, you're retired," he said, reassuring him.

  "No son, you don't understand, I never paid it. Like, ever," said his father, now turning his head to face him. "Ever."

  "What, like, ever?" he asked.

  "Yes, ever. I was self-employed being a farmer, and the authorities never once asked for it," said his father.

  "Well, it's a bit late to pay it now, don't you think?" he asked. "Besides, they never asked for it, so..." His father took out an opened envelope from under the covers. "What's that?"

  "A bill," said his father.

  "A what?" He took the envelope and pulled out a letter. "Wha...? How much? When... when did you get this?" He stood up and held his head.

  "The doctor brought it when he came the other day," replied his father. "I guess they finally found me."

  He reread the figures. "No, this can't be! This... this is more than the house is worth, more than the farm!"

  "They did some special tests on me, spent a lot of money," said his father.

  "Wha... what are we going to do?" he asked, pacing around the room, his voice stuttering.

  "Not we, son," said his father. "You." And he died.

  Challenge 128 (Vance Rowe Challenge)

  Elements: Bacon, a football, a cigar and the image (Kermit drinking Lipton tea)

  Don Kermione

  Fozzie bundled through the door, ready to greet his old friend Kermit. Their last movie had been a blast and they hadn't met since then. Maybe Kermit had some good news about the next. Scanning the large, luxurious penthouse, he spotted the green guy on the white leather sofa.

  "Kermit!" The frog turned his head towards Fozzie. "Hey, Kermit! It's so good to see you! What have you been up to, buddy?" There was a smouldering cigar resting in an ashtray on the solid walnut wood coffee table in front of Kermit's crossed legs. A cup of tea next to the ashtray completed the inventory of objects Fozzie saw in the whole room. It looked like Kermit had turned into a minimalist. And the frog looked so relaxed, stretching his long, green arms across the top of the sofa. Fozzie took another look at the cigar. Surely the little guy didn't smoke now?

  "Hello, Fozzie. Please, take a seat."

  With a wide, open, happy smile, one of his trademarks, Fozzie sat down in a matching white armchair opposite.

  "Wha... wow! Hey, this is so comfortable! I can’t believe it, Kermit! Wow!" He jumped up and down on the chair.

  "Yes, Fozzie, they are comfortable. They should be for the price."

  Fozzie noticed Kermit eyeing him sternly so he stopped with the jumping. He shifted around.

  "So, Kermit, what, erm, why, erm...?"

  "I want to talk to you about something," said Kermit, picking up the cigar and taking a puff. He exhaled the smoke towards Fozzie, who fanned it away.

  "Really? I... I didn't know you smoked, Kermit?"

  "There comes a time for change."

  Fozzie sat there with Kermit's eyes locked on his. Something was... different about his little green friend. He noticed that there was a waft of freshly fried bacon in the air.

  "Mmm, breakfast?"

  The frog nodded and a thought popped into Fozzie's head.

  "Where's Miss Piggy, Kermit?"

  Kermit's staring went on a little longer until he broke it off and sipped his Lipton tea. Another puff of smoke filled the space between them before Kermit spoke again.

  "She... has been attended to, as has Gonzo." Kermit waved his hand over to the corner where a life-size model of Gonzo dressed in the Arizona State Sun Devils' uniform posed, precariously holding a football.

  "That's so cool, Kermit, so lifelike!" enthused Fozzie. Kermit's eyes were now slits, cutting into Fozzie's soul.

  "I had him stuffed."

  Fozzie gulped.

  "What?" he asked, huddling behind his furry paws.

  "I'm moving on, Fozzie, and I don't need any... slackers," he said.

  Fozzie started to sweat, nervously pullin
g his bow away from his neck.

  "I'm afraid I will need to have you 'whacked', Fozzie."

  He froze. Fozzie had to think quickly.

  "Whacka whacka whacka!" he shouted.

  Kermit looked confused.

  "Don't you mean 'Wocka wocka wocka', Fozzie?"

  "Artistic license." Fozzie sprang from his armchair to the front door, only to be greeted by a wall of yellow feathers.

  "Fozzie, you've met Big Bird, haven’t you?"

  DL Zwissler Amazon Special

  Elements: 500 words, ketchup, fish stew, the Invisible Man, image of man holding a peeing baby

  Flatty Flat Flat

  "Well, I tell ya, I was giving him a right bashing..." beamed Flatty, flailing his arms in the air, recreating the fight.

  "What? The Invisible Man? You can't even see him? How can you fight him?" laughed his mate, Dicky, sipping on his beer.

  "Hey, I'm fantastic, I am! I can do anything! Oi!" He called to his girlfriend Mavis. “I can smell fish! You know I’m allergic!”

  “No fish in here! Come and help with the dinner!" she shouted back.

  "I'm only halfway through my story!" He picked up his beer and gave it a swig. Ignoring his girlfriend’s request, he continued on. "So, it was like this..."

  From the kitchen, Mavis and her friend Josie heard only muffled laughter and whoops from the other room.

  "I am starting to really hate him. He's so full of shit."

  "Not from this photo he ain't." Josie had stolen an old photo album from the drawer and showed the picture up. It was Flatty as a baby, being held by his father. By some freak of coincidence or luck, the photographer, probably Flatty's mother, had caught the moment when the kid had 'released' himself of liquid waste. He was peeing a fountain. Mavis and Josie laughed and both grabbed their wine glasses.

  "Cheers, girl."

  "Cheers."

  "Hey, you!" His face popped through the kitchen door. "Where's the grub? I'm starving!"

  "It's coming!"

  "Hurry up with it!" The door closed again as Mavis growled.

  "Are... are you guys doing okay?" asked Josie, downing the wine.

  "What, Flatty? He's just... full of himself, you know."

  "That's a good thing, isn't it? Confidence, isn't that what a woman wants from a guy?" Josie held out her empty glass and Mavis filled it up.

  "Yeah, 'course, but this? He's all mouth..."

  "...and no trousers?" Josie laughed but stopped, noticing Mavis wasn't joining in. They shared some nervous glances until Mavis burst out laughing.

  "Well, he ain't called 'Flat' for nothing!" They laughed so hard, two heads slowly appeared through the door.

  "Oi! Can you keep it down? I'm trying to tell me mate a story here!" Flatty gave his 'disappointed' face. "And get a move on!" Both heads left.

  "Wow. What a shit." Josie downed her second glass. This time she helped herself to thirds.

  "Easy on the vino, girl, you'll need some space for munchies." She knew she couldn't stop her, that's why she'd bought four bottles.

  "Anyway, Mavis, if he's such a shit, what are we doing here? What the hell are we celebrating?"

  "Oh, you'll see. Flathead in there doesn't even know it's my birthday. I woke up to rants of how great he is and how he's going to take the music world by storm with his fantastic groovy lyrics and beats."

  "I've listened to his stuff, it's...it's..."

  They both shook their heads.

  "Pass me the ketchup, Josie, I've run out of tomato purée."

  Her friend took the bottle from the fridge and handed it over.

  "What are you making?"

  "Fish stew."

  Challenge 129 (Autumn Open Prelims)

  Elements: A worldwide holiday celebrating a fictional character (you must name the character), testing the first bullet-proof vest, the first mosquito of the season, pancake batter

  Losers United!

  I opened door number twenty-three and there he was, Dave, lying in a hospital bed, bloated up like a balloon. Every part of him visible was red and inflammed, the poor sod. When he saw me, he sat up.

  "Bob! Good to see you! Come on in!”

  After some hesitation, I took a chair next to the bed. "Dave, you look… you look… what the hell happened, Dave?"

  "I tried out my new thing, Bob, my anti-mosquito t-shirt. Look!” He pointed over to the bedside cupboard and I saw a colourful promotional flyer with Dave splashed all over it wearing some strange t-shirt. Was this his latest ’get-rich-quick’ scheme?

  "What’s that on the t-shirt, Dave?"

  "That? That’s my own secret concoction of chemicals designed to repel and kill all mosquitos! It’s stuck together with pancake batter, which is both an excellent base and glue. And if I mix food dye in it, I can also get different coloured t-shirts! Ingenious, huh?"

  I guess I didn’t jump up and down enough, because the next thing I knew, I was watching a video on his flashy new android phone. The camera was a bit shaky but there he was, standing next to a river. "Is that the Tisza, Dave?”

  "Yep.”

  People were walking by him quickly, holding their noses, basically running away.

  "What are you doing?"

  "Waiting for the first mosquito of the season. The Tisza's always the first place they appear. I’ve got to start production of these t-shirts as soon as possible. I’m telling you, once they hit the shops, sales will be immense!" A baby in a pram started crying as it was pushed past briskly. "Oh, Bob, how did your thing go?"

  Thing? The Winnie-the-Pooh Appreciation Society just had Pooh Day, celebrated across the world, and I was nominated as head of the county’s, yes, county’s happenings. I had the great idea of re-enacting ’The Heffalump’, seeing as Mavis the treasurer looked so good in the elephant costume. Of course, Hundred Acre Wood wasn’t available, so we had to find somewhere suitable. Getting permission didn’t work out, so we did a ’Flash Mob’ performance at the local garden centre. There wasn’t much of a turnout but it was great. And to Dave it was 'a thing'?

  "Well..."

  "Listen!” There was a close up in the video.

  "Remember this day, remember it well!” said the Dave in the video. "Wow, I feel like that guy, you know... Zepplin, testing the first bullet-proof vest."

  "Err, Dave, it was Zeglen, I think."

  "Whatever.”

  Then the Dave in the video moved like he'd been hit, falling to the ground. The camera view dropped, showing only grass.

  "Who... who is that woman screaming, Dave?"

  "That's me."

  "Oh." I didn’t understand. Why was he in a good mood if it had failed? "What happened, the t-shirt didn't work?"

  "Of course it works!"

  "So... what happened?"

  "I got bitten by a tiny 3mm white crab spider. That’s what happened!”

  Mamie Pound’s Halloween Special

  Down at Creepy Manor – The Locksmith Only Rang Twice

  Down here at Creepy Manor, when the gate bell rings, it's a problem. The front door is jammed, has been since James broke the key in the lock the other month when the zombies attacked again and the locksmith, no matter how many times we called, never picked up. Typical. So we go through the back door, run around the side of the house, jump over our chained three-headed mutt Ainslie shouting 'Coming!' and try to get there before the person leaves. The postman doesn't like us, no idea why, so when we get a parcel he writes out his slip, posts it, gets on his bike, rings the bell, and pelts down the road at top speed. By the time we get to the gate nowadays, he's gone. At 11pm though, it's not the postman.

  "Who was it?"

  "Nobody."

  "Damn kids. I’ll have to dust off the flamethrower."

  The bell rang again.

  "Now what?"

  "If you catch them, give them a good thrashing with your bullwhip!"

  I opened the gate. Again, nobody. James popped his head out on a stick. The rest of his body followed so
me moments later.

  "So?"

  "Nobody."

  "What's that?"

  He was pointing to a small piece of card lying on the floor, a business card.

  "Oh, a locksmith."

  "That's just what we need. Where is he? And why does he ring at this time of night? My kind of guy."

  I decided to call the number on the card, the same one we'd been calling for months. Nothing.

  "He doesn't pick it up."

  "Why don't you try the other number?"

  "What other number?"

  "The one on the other side."

  I turned the card over and there was another phone number, handwritten in blood. I called that one and a woman picked it up. She sounded sleepy.

  "Hello?"

  "Hello! I'm sorry to call at this time but we're looking for a locksmith..." As soon as I said the last word, the woman began to cry. "What's the matter?"

  "It's... it's Jeff. He… he died."

  "Oh. I'm sorry to hear that." She cried some more. "Do you know how I can contact him?" The phone went dead. "Hello?"

  "What happened?"

  "A woman picked it up, said the locksmith died. Then she hung up."

  "Oh."

  An owl howled out some distance away.

  "I've got an idea," said James.

  "What's that, then?"

  "Leave the gate open tonight."

  So we did. There were no more rings from the gate bell that night, nor any night. And the other day while cleaning the hall with my pet tarantula, I touched the front door handle by accident and the damn door opened. I shouted out to James and he appeared, without his arms. It was a Tuesday. They needed squeezing.

  "Yeah?"

  "The front door, it's open. See?"

  We looked at it each other in shock and I remembered that one night with the unexplained rings.

  “Remember that night?” I asked. James shrugged his shoulders.

  "Well, at least the locksmith only rang twice."

  Challenge 130 (Autumn Open Final)

  Elements: A post-game media interview with a gladiator, a contract, a spider, a hideous steampunk mask

  There’s Danger in that Arena

  [Image of a gladiator stadium from the main tunnel. A fight is on, the crowd cheers as two gladiators battle it out in the sand. Camera moves to reporter.]

  TINTINUS: Hello and welcome to The Arena on this auspicious day! I’m joined by six times champion, Maticus Weavus, also known as Maticus the Word, before his next match. Ave!