Mini-Collection of Short Stories

By Hank Quense

©2011 Hank Quense

All Rights Reserved.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or locales is entirely coincidental.

License Notes

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Published in the United States of America

Published by Hank Quense

Http://hankquense.com

MacBeth: the Sequel

(With apologies to William Shakespeare or maybe Christopher Marlowe)

(Originally published by Chimaera Serials: July 2007)

Agatha opened the door to the Grubby Shoat. She paused, and, while her eyes adjusted to the gloom, a gust of wind blew a squall of rain through the door. Despite the fog of candle and fire smoke, she saw the elderly barkeeper turn pale. “Be at ease, old man. We seek more virile prey.”

She waddled to the bar, a rough-hewn plank set on empty barrels. The water dripping from her hooded cloak left a wet trail on the moldy rushes covering the dirt floor. The mildew stench from the rushes mingled with the odor of fetid ale to produce a miasmic bouquet.

She spotted five village men sitting on a bench. Exactly what she hoped to find, a flock of potential bed partners. The men sucked in their breath when they saw her, but she refused to let their reaction dampen her excitement.

When Bertha and Carla -- her sisters -- entered the tavern, a collective groan came from the table. One of the men jerked his knee, kicking the rickety table in front of the bench and scattered their leather ale cups.

Agatha opened her cloak. Underneath, she wore a dark kirtle a few sizes too small for her ample thighs and stomach. The men sobbed

Bertha smiled at the table. “Some of you lads will have an unforgettable experience tonight.” She and Carla opened their cloaks. Both were dressed similarly to their sister.

Agatha ignored the panicky response to Bertha’s announcement. Men always looked like doomed cattle when the sisters were on the hunt. She didn’t understand the reaction, but assumed it was quite natural.

“Good eve, Sisters Wyrd.” Having regained his composure, the elderly man behind the plank nodded to them. “What can I serve you?”

“A round of mead with raw eggs on top,” Agatha replied.

“’Tis a celebration.” Carla, a svelte two hundred pounds and the thinnest of the three, grinned at the old man.

“Aye, a great day.” Bertha leaned on the plank, bending it into a deep arc.

The barkeeper watched the plank with a look of alarm.

“We avenged an insult to our Granny,” Bertha added.

“You witches talk in riddles. I do not ken your meaning.”

“When Granny learned that Malcolm had killed MacBeth and was now king,” Agatha said, “her coronation gift was an offer to become his Royal Sorceress.”

“And the fool rebuffed her,” Carla said. In the fashion of the younger witches, she had let her nasal hairs grow long enough to braid. “An insult to all witches and even Hecate, our goddess.”

“Men are simple in the brain, methinks.” Agatha shook her head at the unfathomable ways of men. “Granny is not as pert as we three, but she’s no beldam and would have graced the royal court. The king now regrets his refusal.”

“Aye, you should have seen the look on Malcolm’s face.” Bertha gave the barkeeper a gapped-tooth grin. The man shuddered. Once a week, Bertha used an herbal cream that made warts grow. She had a fat, cucumber-colored one on the tip of a beak-like nose and a smaller, amber one on her left cheek. She called them beauty spots.

“Dark of mien, he was,” Carla said.

“What did you do?” The barkeeper placed the drinks on the plank.

“We placed a powerful curse on Malcolm and his spawn.” Carla held a hand over her mouth as she cackled.

Agatha clapped Bertha on the shoulder, splattering water from her soggy cloak.

“Is the curse secret?”

“Nay. One of the Malcolm’s descendants will be the first married man to leave a toilet seat standing,” Bertha said and giggled.

“What’s a toilet seat?” The old man gave them a questioning look.

“'Tis a mystery and beyond the ken of all here.” Agatha hugged herself in joy. “And so, my pretties and I want to celebrate and have a bit of fun.” She hefted her mug, took a sip, and savored the sweetness of the mead for a moment before swallowing.

“What’s next?” Carla said. “This lot doesn’t appear very interested in us.” She jerked a thumb over her shoulder in the direction of the men.

“I’ll offer them a choice and then they’ll show some interest.” Bertha winked at her younger sister.

“Prithee, what choice?” Carla asked.

“Watch.” Bertha turned to the table and swiveled her hips.

The men, woodcutters and swine herders, were young, but looked middle-aged, worn down from work, poor food and disease. They shifted in their seats and glanced at one another. Two had trouble breathing.

“What will it be, laddies?” Bertha batted her eyes. “Pleasure . . . or pain?”

“Pain.”

“Me too.”

“I can use a bit of pain.”

“Pain, if you don’t mind.”

“What are me choices again?”

Bertha scowled and tossed her head. A small twig fell out of her brown locks.

Agatha suspected their plans for the night had gone awry, as usual.

The barkeeper shook his head. “It takes a rare talent to be an unsuccessful slut.”

“How would you like to spend the rest of your days as a toad?” Bertha glared at the man.

“What news, old man?” Agatha change subjects before Bertha did something rash like casting a spell. She wasn’t the sharpest spell-caster in the family and could easily set the place on fire by mistake.

“A monster has appeared by the village in the loch. And the fisherfolk refuse to go out on the water.”

One of the men at the table approached the sisters. He trembled as he said, “What does this portend, oh Sisters Drearie?”

“Drearie, is it?” Bertha boxed the man’s ears. “It means Nessie has finally molted and now wants to play.”

The man retreated.

“Nessie is Hecate’s pet monster,” Carla said to the innkeeper. “Hecate gave it into my care on my fifth birthday. It was a wee tadpole and she charged me to raise it and protect it. I loosed it in the loch last year.”

“The Laird of the Loch has vowed to kill the monster,” the barkeeper said.

“Kill Nessie?” Carla scowled at the man. “How dare he threaten a defenseless pet.”

Agatha gasped. If something happened to Nessie, Hecate would hold the sisters responsible because of her charge to Carla. She would be in no mood to listen to explanations or excuses, and her retribution would be harsh. This Laird of the Loch had to be stopped before he imperiled their safety. “We must hasten to the loch to see what is amiss.”

“Bah!” Bertha exclaimed. “Every time we try to lose our virginity, something comes up.”

“Hah!” Carla scoffed. “Our maidenheads are intact because nothing ever comes up.”

Bertha heard merriment, wheeled on the peasants. “See if you think being cockroaches is funny.” She extended her hand.

The men dove under the table just as their leather cups turned into flower vases.

“Oh, bugger this.” Bertha placed both hands on her hips and stamped her foot.

“Attend me!” Agatha said. “Let us fetch our brooms and fly to the village and see what is amiss.”

“Aroint thee.” Carla sneered. “I hate flying at night. I always get lost.”

“If you had memorized the star charts you wouldn’t get lost.” Agatha wagged a finger under Carla’s nose. “And we must go to the loch before something happens to Nessie.”

“And how do we see the stars on a rainy night?” Carla’s voice dripped with sarcasm.

“We shall use landmarks tonight. Follow close behind me.”

“But, Nessie is Hecate’s pet,” Bertha whined. “Why do we have to fly to its aid?”

“Hecate placed it under Carla’s protection. The Goddess will hold us accountable and will cause us grief.”

“The fisherfolk are lusty lads,” one of the men said.

Aye,” another said, “randy they are.”

“Insatiable, I hear,” said a third.

As she left, Agatha heard the men guffaw and slap each other on the back.

# # #

In the morning, the sun gradually burned off the mist that hung over the loch. Four boats sat drawn up on the rocky shore and a squadron of blackbirds circled and fought over a pile of stinking fish guts. A narrow dirt track ran east to west, carved through a forest of pine and elm trees.

Agatha and Bertha stood on the shore and awaited Carla’s return. She had disappeared into a fog bank riding on Nessie’s back.

Two fisherfolk approached along the path that led to a small cluster of wattle-and-daub huts. “Is it safe, then?” one asked.

“Safe as can be.” Bertha simpered and sauntered closer to the burly, fair-haired younger man.

He stepped back a pace.

“Nessie isn’t a monster, you see,” Agatha said. “It’s a pet.”

Both men looked dubious.

“Even now, our sister rides Nessie to the shore,” Agatha said.

The men’s jaws dropped open.

Carla, wearing a kirtle without a covering robe, climbed out of the water. Her dripping garment molded itself to her body. Rolls of flab, like lumps of wet sand, shimmied and shifted as she walked. Her nasal braids, undone by the water, were plastered to her face like a misplaced mustache.

The first fisherfolk averted his eyes.

The second gagged.

“I warned Nessie to be wary of strangers,” Carla said, approaching a boulder. “Methinks, I’ll take off my kirtle and let it dry on yonder rock.”

The men fled towards the huts.

“So much for the lusty lads of the loch.” Bertha shook her head.

“Fore!” The voice boomed from up the road. “Christ’s blood! A slice!”

A small white ball landed at Agatha’s feet. “What foul dropping from a noisome fowl is this?”

Bertha rolled her eyes.

“Fore!” A second ball, accompanied by still more cursing, landed close to the first one.

Agatha nudged the balls towards the water just as a richly dressed, beefy man emerged from the woods carrying a hooked stick. A claymore rode on his left hip, and fat legs extended beneath a kilt that defied gravity by staying on the man’s huge belly.

“Who dares to touch my balls?” The man stood with his hands on his hips.

Agatha sucked in her breath. “I dare,” she cooed. “If you like.” She gave the stranger a lascivious grin.

The man ignored her, retrieved the balls and dropped them into a leather pouch hanging from his belt. He straightened up and did a double take, staring past Agatha. “Is that a naked crone I espy?” He shuddered. “Squire! To me.”

A young man ran up to the stranger. “Laird?”

“Take your cloak and cover that hag. She offends my eyes and puts me off my feed.”

The squire blanched. The laird pushed him in the back. The lad walked towards Carla. Slowly.

“And might you be the Laird of the Loch?” Agatha asked.

“I am Laird MacMulligan. And who might you be? All three of you look passing similar. Sisters, I’ll propose.”

Agatha heard a slap and a cry from the squire.

“Sir!” The lad ran to the Laird, squeezing the bridge of his nose. “She struck me.”

“For what reason?” MacMulligan raised a bushy eyebrow.

“She told me to put my cloak on the ground and to lie on it with her. I refused and she slapped me.”

“ ’Tis easy to be virtuous in the face of overwhelming ugliness,” MacMulligan said. “Sterner challenges await thee , lad.”

A man in armor approached MacMulligan. “All is ready, Laird.”

“Very good, Captain.” MacMulligan nodded. “Load the men into the fishing boats and drive that monster to yonder shore so I may slay it. I’ll have its head o’er my mantle.” He drew his claymore and waved it about.

The captain hastened towards the shore, shouting orders.

Agatha sensed Hecate’s hand squeezing the back of her neck.

All thee sisters hissed at the laird.

“Do not kill Nessie,” Carla yelled from behind the rock. “She’s a pet.”

“I must. For ‘tis the onerous duty of noblemen everywhere to protect the common folk from such dangers, lest they flee the village and thus deprive me of my taxes.” He stroked his chin. “What be your names?”

“The Sisters Wryd, we are,” Agatha snarled.

“Hark.” The laird drew back and made the sign to ward off evil. “The same that cursed my kingly father and his issue.”

“And if your father is the king, then you must be Malcolm’s spawn.”

“Aye, I’m Malcolm’s son, and now I shall slay your pet monster to gain a double boon. I’ll avenge my clan while I protect the tax money.”

“If you’re the son of Malcolm, have you seen a toilet standing around, then?” Bertha asked.

“Your riddles make my head spin, foul sister.”

Agatha bit her lip. Bertha and Carla hadn’t the wit to come up with a strategy to save the beast. It always came down to her doing all the planning while her sisters stood around and preened. Hecate’s wrath would fall heaviest on her because she was the oldest.

Splashes and squeals of alarm came from the loch. A few minutes later, the captain, dripping and squishing like a sponge, reported to MacMulligan. “'Tis no use, Laird. The beastie is clever and swamped the boats. Except for the shallow water, our lives would have been forfeit. Look, Sire, how my breast plate does wondrously rust out e’en as we speak.”

“Go then and shine your armor.” MacMulligan patted the man on the shoulder. “For on the morrow, we shall launch even more boats and so bring the serpent to the shore.”

“You do so at your peril,” Agatha said, relieved that Nessie had given her time to come up with a plan.

“Pshaw.” MacMulligan took a ball from his pouch and dropped it at his feet. “Fore!” He swatted it with his stick. “By the fates! A hook!” The laird watched the ball’s flight then roared, “Squire!”

The young man with a twist of linen stuck up one nostril knelt to receive his orders.

“Find the ball in yon laurel bushes and kick it onto the road so I may enjoy a favorable lie.”

“I do so enjoy a favorable lie.” Bertha batted her eyes and ran her hands down her hips.

The squire ran off and MacMulligan followed, making a wide detour around Bertha.

# # #

Once the laird was out of sight, Carla meandered up to her sisters. “How can we protect Nessie from that murdering laird?”

“I don’t know.” Agatha chewed on her lip.

“With more boats, the Laird might succeed on the morrow,” Bertha said.

“He should leave Nessie alone.” Carla scowled at her sisters.

“We’ll have to convince him of that, won’t we?” Agatha ran a hand through her hair. They were all balanced on the cusp of Hecate’s anger and retribution.

“Why do we have to do the work?” Bertha patted her nose wart. “It distracts us from finding men.”

“Are you blind?” Agatha crossed her arms. “Hecate will blame us if harm comes to Nessie and she will punish us. Mayhap, Hecate will even exile us to the land of the bloody English.”

“Nonsense.” Carla waved her hand. “The goddess likes me. She would never send me to live with the bloody English.”

“She likes you as long as you protect Nessie.”

“Why should I get blamed?” Bertha blinked a few times. Her face displayed consternation. “I had naught to do with Nessie.”

“Aye.” Agatha nodded her head. “And if you do naught to save the beastie from the Laird, Hecate will be sore wroth with you.”

“Carla’s right. It’s not fair.”

Agatha sighed. Once again, she stood alone and unaided by her thick-witted sisters. “Mayhap, we should meet with the laird’s squire,” she said.

“’'Tis a waste of time.” Carla shook her head. “If the lad won’t lie with me, the comeliest of us all, what chance do you have?”

Agatha ignored Carla’s comment. She had an idea. “We need to know more about why the laird hits the wee ball,” she said. “Then, we can form a plan.”

# # #

That night, Agatha paced around the fire while she clutched her cloak tightly to ward off the cold. The light from a quarter moon made a silver shaft on the surface of the loch.

A breeze stirred the leaves, whipped the flames and chilled her bones.

Bertha and Carla assumed their big sister would develop a plan based on information obtained from the squire and now slept soundly. Indeed, their snoring panicked all the wild creatures within fifty yards.

Agatha’s plan was fraught with danger, based as it was on the squire’s scraps of information. The Laird had a single passion and that was whacking the white balls. He never traveled anywhere without driving a ball before him, and he desired to be the foremost player in the land. Was this obsession enough to protect Nessie? She leaned against a tree and stared at the night sky. Would she see tomorrow night’s sky?

If she gauged the laird’s temperament wrong, Hecate’s blood lust would be aroused.

# # #

In the half-light of dawn, Agatha and her sisters waited for the laird. The features of an angry Hecate were visible in a dark cloud hanging over the loch. Agatha positioned the three of them among the trees near the road because, if the goddess became angry, they would be dodging ice balls the size of their fists. Hands clenched, Agatha leaned against a tree.

“This better work,” Bertha said. “I don’t want Hecate mad at me, a mere innocent.”

“My thoughts also.” Carla leaned against a tree. “Hecate is most inconsiderate to include me.”

Agatha want to spit at their selfish chatter. “Hush,” she said. “I hear the tramp of many feet.”

“Fore!” A ball arced through the air, smacked into a tree and rebounded into the loch. “Saints Alive! I’ve lost another ball.”

Laird MacMulligan led his soldiers to the shore of the loch and spotted the women. “Good morrow, sinister sisters.” He glared at them. “Today, I avenge my clan for your grievous curse. Captain?”

“Here, Laird.”

“Put out in the boats and fetch me the foul beastie.”

“I shall not fail you, Laird, e’en though my breastplate fills with rust.”

“Speak not so fast, oh spawn of Malcolm.” Agatha wagged a finger at MacMulligan.

“To injure Nessie is to court disaster.” Bertha crossed her arms.

“A tragedy never before seen.” Carla nodded for emphasis.

“Vex me not, foul sisters, lest you suffer grievous wounds from iron implements.” MacMulligan grasped the hilt of his claymore.

“Do you think to overawe us with mere weapons?” Agatha held out her hands with the fingers apart. On her left hand, tiny lightning bolts jumped from finger to finger. On her right, flames burned at the end of each finger.

MacMulligan started.

“Touch Nessie and you’ll rue the act,” Carla said.

“How so?” The Laird glanced from sister to sister while he licked his upper lip.

“Nevermore to hit a true drive.” Agatha chortled at the expression on the laird’s face.

“Nevermore? Truly?”

“And,” Agatha snickered, “your putts will ever fall away from their goal.”

“Quicksand, rabbit warrens, mole holes, thorn thickets,” Bertha said. “Thus is the fate of your white pellets.”

MacMulligan cleared his throat. “A dire destiny for merely doing my duty to protect my taxes. And the fisherfolk, of course.”

“Rather you should protect Nessie and gain our blessings,” Agatha said.

“Say on.”

“Ne’er to lose in match play is what we dangle before your unsporting eyes,” Agatha said.

“Ne’er?” The Laird looked at the sisters through widened eyes.

Agatha saw that the Laird was half-convinced. “Ne’er,” she said. “And, to be the foremost duffer in the land.”

“To gain this boon, what is the cost?”

“Protect Nessie and the advantage is yours.” Carla smiled.

“Protect the beastie and lose my taxes, you say. A devil’s bargain.”

“Nay,” Agatha said. “Nessie will increase your wealth.”

“What?” MacMulligan waggled his bushy eyebrows. “How?”

“Travelers will come from afar to marvel at the sight of Nessie.” Agatha felt a surge of relief as the Laird gawked in surprise.

“Bringing gold withal to your greedy hands,” Bertha added.

“Gold. And match play wins. Can you deliver or do you just make comely speech?”

“These gifts are yours, unless you harm Nessie,” Agatha said. “And Nessie will nay harm the fisherfolk.”

“Captain!” MacMulligan shouted towards the shore. “Unman the boats.” To the sisters he said, “I must leave, for I have great work to do. I must be about organizing a championship match.” He stroked his chin. “I’ll call it the Greater Alba Open . . . or maybe the Alba Greater Match.”

Agatha watched the laird and his soldiers leave. She turned to her sisters and said, “We’ve given the villagers a portion of joy this morn. Let us see if the village men are grateful enough to harvest our maidenheads.”

Carla and Bertha cackled as all three waddled off towards the village.

LUCY IN LOVE

Originally published by Glassfire: January 2007

Lucy -- nee Lucrezia Borgia -- sat her desk in the small office. Besides the desk and chair, the Spartan workplace contained a battered file cabinet and a droopy potted plant. Through the plate glass front window she watched people hustle past on the sidewalks of Manhattan’s Upper West Side. The window needed cleaning and, like the Italians in the 1500’s, so did many of the pedestrians.

In the rear office, her father, Pope Alexander VI – a.k.a. Rodrigo Borgia -- fussed around, nervous about the first day of business because Satan had expressed an interest in the operation and wanted reports. Satan hated failure, and as Pope, Alex had demonstrated success in only one area; raising money to wage wars.

A short, skinny man in jeans, a tattered sweat shirt and a baseball cap with a white NY on it, stopped to look at the sign in the window that read Malevolent Money Management. He squinted through the glass and saw her. She waved at him.

Seconds later, he stood in front of her desk and said, “You do loans?” Despite the warmth of the late spring weather, he shivered beneath his sweat shirt.

“Yes, we do, and we have very competitive rates.”

“I need money.” The man spoke in a croaky voice.

“Your name?”

“Juan Gomez.”

Lucy punched a number into the phone. “I have a client who wants a loan. Are you available to speak with him?”

“Send him in,” Alex said.

“Follow me, please.” Lucy stood and smoothed the old-fashioned pleated skirt she wore, the most modern garment she could find in Hell’s wardrobe department. She simply had to go shopping. She opened the door and stood aside for the client to enter. “This is Mr. Gomez,” she said to Alex before she took a seat to watch how Alex dealt with his first client.

Gomez stood at the door, shocked by the sight of Alex who wore a white cassock and had a full beard that reached below his chest. It reminded people of a squirrel’s nest. Alex had a beak of a nose so great that in profile he resembled a bird of prey. Lucy wanted him to wear a business suit but Alex refused, saying that as a Pope, he was entitled to wear the white cassock.

“Good day, Mr. Gutterez,” Alex said.

“Gomez.”

Lucy silently groaned as Alex blinked, frowned and said, “Our standard loan is five thousand dollars for three years. Do you understand?”

Gomez nodded.

“Do you have any collateral, Mr. Gonzelves?”

“Gomez. No I don’t.”

“Gomez, you say. I thought I had a meeting with Gonzelves.” Alex looked at Lucy. “Where is he?”

“There is no Gonzelves.” She shook her fist at Alex. “There’s just Mr. Gomez.”

Alex started and turned away from Lucy’s glare. “Well. With no collateral, I’m afraid we’ll have to apply our top interest rate to this loan.” Alex extracted a sheet of paper from a folder. “Your payments,” he read, “calculated at one percent interest, will be $141.04 per month.” Reaching into a drawer, he took out a blank contract and filled it in. “Look this over carefully. Our company is very adamant about on-time monthly payments.”

Gomez glanced through the paper.

“If you’ll sign,” Alex gave him a toothy smile, “my assistant will write a check in your name for five big ones.”

“I don’t get cash?”

“Of course not. If we kept large amounts of cash in the office, every criminal in Northern Manhattan would be lined up outside our door to steal it.”

Gomez sighed and, with a shaky hand, scrawled an illegible signature.

Lucy took him to her desk and typed a check. “This is drawn on Diablo Off-Shore Trust Company in the Bahamas.” Diablo – run by dead bankers -- was Hell’s biggest money launderer. It generated a ton of cash for other ventures. “Have a nice day, Mr. Gomez.”

Gomez looked euphoric as he took the check and left.

Lucy sat back in her chair pondering the remote chances of Gomez ever making a payment. The fine print – exceptionally fine print -- in the contract stipulated the loss of his soul if he was late with a payment. Satan insisted that the condition be added to all contracts issued by his realm. It was part of his Ambivalent Truthfulness campaign designed to counter Heaven’s propaganda about Hell’s deceit.

She sensed a presence in the office and felt a tendril of trepidation. She focused her eyes on a building across 73rd Street while scanning the room with her peripheral vision. For an instant, she glimpsed a pair of small wings. A cherub! Just opened and already Heaven spied on the loan office.

# # #

Lucy stood in front of a full length mirror in her apartment above the loan office. The Real Estate Division, staffed by late industry executives and experts, owned the three-story town house and made it available for Alex’s operation. The Division had grown into the biggest slumlord in the city and produced a steady stream of souls because of the late rent payment provision in its leases.

She twisted in different directions to get a better look at the clinging, low cut dress that came from Sak’s Fifth Avenue. Earlier, Lucy had gone on a midnight shopping spree at the closed and locked up store and came home with six shopping bags of new clothes. She liked the contrast between the black material, her dark blonde hair and her olive complexion.

Her elation over the new clothes clashed with her uneasiness about the loan operation. Alex gave out twelve loans in the first day. Every one of them went to people who were alcoholics or drug addicts destined for Hell with or without a loan. She had warned Alex this was the wrong neighborhood, but he refused to listen to advice from a woman.

Click. Bang. “Damn!”

The noise came from Alex’s apartment upstairs. The apartments contained shotgun-style rooms, each room behind the other with the kitchen in the rear and a living room in the front.

The annoying thing about the loan operation was that it was her idea. She touted it as a guaranteed way to improve Hell’s market share in souls. She presented it to Satan who put Alex in charge because she was only a woman.

Click. Bang. “Hells Bells!”

Her father must be hitting golf balls in the kitchen, trying to pitch them into the front room.

She looked back at the mirror and giggled. The men in Renaissance Italy would go crazy if they saw her. The spaghetti straps alone would have the Inquisition sniffing around. The Renaissance! What a wasted life she had back then. Married for the first time before her boobs had blossomed. Married twice after that. Each marriage had been arranged by her father as part of a treaty designed to strengthen the Papacy’s temporal powers. Her husbands weren’t bad men but she never loved any of them. Her father always ended the marriages, legally or fatally, so he could use her as a bargaining chip in another alliance.

Click. “Yes! . . . Uh-oh.”

The sound of a breaking window was followed by a metallic thump and a howling car alarm. More of Alex’s irresponsibility. She had to give him credit for constancy.

After Alex had died, Satan appointed him Hell’s chief-of-staff to piss-off Heaven at the joint meetings that took place every hundred years. Alex, dressed in papal regalia, always outraged Heaven’s emissaries. She had ended up in Hell because of Alex’s insistence. He had her appointed as Satan’s personal secretary.

She sighed. If nothing else happened during her time here, she hoped some guy would make love to her. If it happened, it would be the first time a man made love to her instead of taking his pleasure. All she had ever experienced were contrived arrangements between a woman and a guy.

# # #

The next morning, Lucy sat at her desk dressed in a short skirt and a tight sweater. The blue of the sweater matched her eyes.

The door opened and a tubby man in a wrinkled suit entered. Lucy smiled at him until he pulled out a badge and flashed it in her face. “Gafney. Buildin’ Inspector. You gotta CO?”

“A what?”

“Certificate of Occupancy. You gotta have one of them to legally open a business. Let’s see it.”

“We misplaced it.” Lucy gave him a dejected look and batted her eyes.

He ignored her and examined the ceiling. “No sprinklers. No smoke detectors.” He barged into Alex’s office without knocking. He disregarded Alex who sat at his desk reading Penthouse magazine. “No emergency exit.”

“Who is this cretin?” Alex said.

“This is Mr. Gafney, a building inspector. It seems our office doesn’t pass his inspection.”

Alex raised an eyebrow.

“That’s right, lady. I’m shuttin’ you down until you get the work done.”

“Umm, perhaps Mr. Gafney could use a loan.” She gave Alex a warning look. “At very low interest rates.”

Gaffney looked at her with a quizzical expression on his face.

Alex looked at her with an astonished expression on his face.

“How much and how low?” Gafney asked.

“Let’s say five thousand for five years at one percent interest?” Lucy ignored her father’s openmouthed stare.

“One percent interest.” Gafney rubbed his chin. “I can get a lot more than that by investing the five thou.”

“Oh.” Lucy put a hand on Gafney’s arm. “You men are so clever. How do you come with these money schemes so fast?”

Alex recovered, opened a folder and ran a finger down a page. “That comes out to $85.47 a month repayment.” He took out a blank contract.

“I’m sure we don’t need a contract with Mr. Gafney.” Lucy made a face at her father behind Gafney’s back. “A handshake is all we need to do business with a man like him.”

“I don’t see any buildin’ violations.” Gafney gave her a wink. “I’ll mail you a CO when I get back to my office.”

“If you’ll come to my desk, I’ll give you a check. Made out to ‘cash’ of course.”

At her desk, Lucy wrote out the check while saying, “How did you know we were open?”

“Funny thing. I gotta phone call about your business.”

“Really. Who called?”

“Don’t know. It was anonymous.”

Lucy mouthed swear words much favored by Renaissance Romans.

“Whoever it was must have used a cell phone inna church.”

“Why’s that?”

“I could hear this singin’ in the background. It was . . . that chantin’ stuff.”

“Gregorian chant?” Lucy’s anxiety grew.

“Yeah, that’s the stuff.” He accepted the check from Lucy. “Thanks for the loan,” he said on his way to the door. “See you next year.”

Lucy slammed her palm on her desk as soon as Gafney closed the door. Heaven wanted to close them down. Why? Heaven should be more worried about the real estate business or Hell’s money laundering in its Caribbean banks. They were much more dangerous to Heaven’s market share as were the deceased lawyers who managed to clandestinely alter contracts with soul-binding clauses. Not to mention the late-lamented ministers who preached Reformed Satanism as an alternative to the boredom of Heaven. What was so important about this obscure loan operation?

“Lucy, my dear,” Alex said from the doorway. “You just bribed an official. Bribery is a man’s work and it is unseemly for a woman to do it.”

“Unseemly?” Lucy counted to ten, then turned and glared at her father. “What’s unseemly is your bias towards women.”

# # #

While Lucy read the New York Times the next morning, Alex practiced his putting on his office rug. He regularly played on Hell’s golf course. Carved into the side of an active volcano, the course – nineteen miles, six holes, par 525 – featured bubbling lava pits instead of sand traps.

Two beefy men walked in. They wore jeans, t-shirts and tattoos. One looked to be in his thirties and the other in his twenties.

“May I help you?”

“Yeah, stay out of the way,” the older one said while scanning the office. “Over there.” He pointed to Alex’s door.

“Wait,” Lucy said. “You don’t have an appointment.”

They crashed into the office and she heard one say, “Time to retire, old man.”

Lucy heard Alex’s putter hit the wall. She grabbed the phone and dialed 666.

“Special Services. Beelzebub speaking.”

“Bubba. It’s Lucy. I need four imps right away.”

“What’s going on?”

“Two thugs are beating up Alex.”

“Alex, huh? How about I send the imps tomorrow?”

“If they’re not here in thirty-seconds, I’m calling the boss.”

Just joking. They’re on their way.”

The imps arrived as Lucy hung up. Each of the three-foot hairless, jade green creatures had a set of teeth that would make a piranha jealous. “This way.” She led them into Alex’s office just as the young thug punched Alex in the gut. Alex, already sporting a black eye, folded up and groaned. “Leave the guy in the white dress alone, but get the other two.”

One imp jumped on younger man’s shoulders and tried to pull off his scalp. The second imp bit his buttocks. The man roared and reached up to get the imp away from his head, but only succeeded in getting his hand bitten. He tripped, bounced off a wall and collapsed in a heap.

The other two imps attacked the second man and grabbed mouthfuls of bicep and thigh. The thug screamed, released Alex and tumbled to the ground.

Alex smoothed his cassock as if nothing had happened.

“That’s enough for now.” Lucy positioned the imps to attack again and said to the younger man. “Who sent you?”

The guy said nothing.

“You better tell me now.” Lucy smiled. “Because, after an imp rips out your throat, you won’t be able to.”

An imp leaned closer and sniffed the man’s throat.

“We don’t know who he is.”

“Yeah,” the second one added. “He comes up to us and gives us five hundred to do the job. Didn’t tell us his name and we didn’t ask.”

“What did he looked like?”

“Weird.” The younger one said.

“Yeah. Really tall. About six-six.”

“And he had his head shaved.”

Lucy crossed her arms and took a deep breath.

“He had these strange eyes,” the older one said. “Like they had lights behind them, or somethin’.”

“Yeah, it hurt your eyes to look at his.”

Lucy’s irritation climbed. Michael, Heaven’s war-chief. But why? She nudged the young one with a toe. “You two can leave. Make sure you don’t come back.”

Alex crossed the room, picked up his putter and examined it. “I was sure those ruffians had bent it.”

Lucy went back to her desk. “I want you guys to stick around,” she told the imps. “Catch the cherub that’s spying on us.” She sensed that more trouble was on the way, for still unknown reasons. The use of violence by Heaven shocked her. Was nothing sacred anymore?

A few minutes later, one of the imps squawked, jumped onto a file cabinet and leaped in the air. He fell to the floor holding a cherub by its leg. The angel had a Mohawk cut, wore a black leather jacket covered with metal studs and looked more scared than tough.

Lucy stared at the figure and said, “Why is Michael doing this?”

“I’m not telling you.” The angel scoffed.

“All you cherubim act like male gangsters these days. Let’s see how tough you are after I make you look like a girlie cherub. I’ll put a dress and panty hose on you. Add some lipstick and eyeliner and let you go. I’m sure your punk friends will be very interested in how you got that way.”

“No!” The cherub’s eyes became as big as billiard balls. “You wouldn’t do that, would you?”

Lucy shrugged. “I will unless you tell me what I want to know.”

The angel sighed and said, “Michael was ordered to get that guy who used to be Pope.”

“Alex? Why?”

“He was the worst pope in history.”

“Well, that’s true.” Alex spent most of his time as Pope auctioning Church offices and selling Papal Indulgences to raise money to fight wars against other Italian city-states. When not involved with those schemes, he found time to impregnate a few of Rome’s prostitutes.

“He betrayed Heaven and broke his vows. Michael has to mess up whatever he’s doing. Maybe even destroy the guy.”

“Michael hired thugs to beat up Alex. Since when does Heaven allow him to commit crimes?”

“Michael was told to do whatever he had to do.”

“Let him go,” Lucy told the imps. So now she knew. Alex’s sordid past came back to haunt him. Heaven wanted revenge for all of Alex’s nasty deeds while he ruled the Vatican and much of Italy. That wasn’t really surprising. The shocker was the methods Heaven used to retaliate.

# # #

Taking a lunch break, Lucy left the office and walked to nearby Central Park. On the way, she stopped at an Italian deli and bought a chunk of salami, some mortadella and a wedge of provolone cheese. She carried an uncorked half-bottle of Chianti wine in a paper sack. Underneath many of the trees in the park, masses of red and yellow tulips waved in a slight May breeze. Jonquils, in a riot of colors, grew everywhere, giving the park a festive look.

She found a bench, sat down, fished a pocket knife out of the sack and cut a slice of salami. The spicy taste and aroma brought back memories of sitting in the ducal gardens in Ferrara. That happy earlier time contrasted with her present foreboding. She wasn’t going to be around long enough to have an affair. Just her luck to finally get back here only long enough to get a taste of life without any time to enjoy it.

Alex’s loan operation was turning out to be a disaster. Not only was Heaven out to screw it up, but everyone who applied for a loan was certain to go to Hell without any help from Alex. When Satan visited the shop tomorrow for a status report, he was sure to spot this flaw.

She needed a plan to rescue the loan venture. It was the only way she could stay around long enough to have an affair. The first step would be get rid of her father so Michael would stop interfering. How was she going to do that without insulting Alex? The man had an enormous ego, even though there was no reason for him to have one. Her only hope was to convince Satan that her original business model was better than Alex’s. She didn’t think her chances were too good.

# # #

Lucy barely made it back to the office before three uniformed officers from NYPD burst in.

“Where’s the dogs?” The first cop looked pugnacious.

“Dogs?” Lucy was taken back. “What dogs?”

“Listen. We have two guys who were mauled by dogs. They’re inna hospital gettin’ sewed up and they gave this address as where it happened. Now, where’re the dogs?”

“There are no dogs here. I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“Search the shop,” he ordered the other two. He had a weary expression, as if he didn’t expect any cooperation.

Lucy turned toward Alex’s office. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a man in a suit walk in from the street and wave to the cops. A detective she assumed as she hustled into Alex’s office and said, “These policemen are looking for dogs.”

“Dogs?” Alex blinked. “How absurd! I hate dogs. I’m a cat person.”

“Where do you live?” the first cop asked.

“Upstairs,” Lucy said.

“We gotta look.”

“My key is in my desk. I’ll get it for you.” She brushed passed the detective, opened a drawer and handed the key to the officer who said, “C’mon. We’ll search the apartments.” All three left.

She sat down and looked at the detective. He looked at her. Both stared into the other’s eyes.

Lucy felt dizzy. Her stomach lurched and her groin tingled. The guy reminded her of the first crush she had as a ten-year-old. She wondered whatever happened to that young nobleman.

The detective grew pale and put a hand on the file cabinet as if steadying himself.

Lucy took a couple of deep breaths to slow down her back-flipping heart. This guy was IT. He was tall and slender with a slight bulge at his gut. He had brown hair and eyes and even, white teeth. His features were more rugged than handsome. And he didn’t wear a wedding ring.

The guy looked as if someone had clubbed him in the back of the head.

Lucy had to act before he got away. She smiled and said, “The answer to your two questions are ‘No’ and ‘Yes’.”

He frowned. “What --” He cleared his throat. “-- questions? You’re not talking about the dogs, are you?”

“No, I’m not. Your first question is, ‘Are you busy tonight?’ and the second is, ‘Want to have dinner with me?’”

He frowned again.

Lucy experienced a pang of despair. Maybe she had been too forward with him. “Unless you’re busy. Or don’t want to have dinner with me.”

“No. . . I mean yes. . . Wait. I’m not busy and I’d love to take you to dinner.”

“Pick me up at seven? What’s your name?”

“Vinny Risotto. Seven is fine. What’s your name?”

“Lucy Borgia.”

They exchanged pleasantries until the cops returned.

“Ain’t no dogs up there,” the one in charge said to Vinny. “No water bowls and no dog food in the closets. Know what I think?”

“Tell me,” Vinny said.

“Those two jokers busted into someone’s house and got chewed up by guard dogs. They gave us this address to throw us off. We gotta ask them some more questions before they leave the hospital.”

“I think you’re right. Let’s go,” Vinny said. He followed the cops out the door but paused before shutting it and turned to Lucy. “See you later.”

Lucy blew him a kiss.

# # #

Lucy lay in bed in Vinny’s apartment in Manhattan’s Inwood section. He slept alongside her. Lucy beamed at the memory of a great evening. Vinny was the first man she ever met who believed that sex was something to be enjoyed by both partners. She had never experienced an orgasm with her three husbands and tonight she had two.

She had worn a slinky red dress and exotic underwear, clothes that would have gotten her burned at the stake in the 1500’s. In Chinatown, they dined on steamed vegetable dumplings, Szechwan shrimp, and Hunan chicken. Afterwards, they bought a bottle of wine and went to Vinny’s apartment.

Vinny, divorced and without any children, faced one of life’s turning points. Next month, he would have twenty years with NYPD and he planned to retire, but wasn’t sure what to do after that.

Her mood shifted when she thought about Alex and the problems with his loan venture. She wanted to stay here and spend more time – a lot more time – with Vinny, but this assignment was about to end. Tomorrow, when Satan found out that Michael harassed Alex and that Alex handed out loans to dubious clients, they would both be back in Hell. Her only chance to remain here was to convince Satan that the operation failed because of Alex’s intransigence in following a woman’s advice. But, how could she persuade him to let her run the loan business? If she explained how to operate it successfully, his instinct would be to put another man in charge.

She pulled the blankets up to her chin. Face it. Tonight was her last night on Earth. Nothing was going to change that. Maybe she should wake up Vinny and have some more fun. It would be her last opportunity for at least another millennium.

A sudden idea made her sit up in bed. Her mouth dropped open in surprise. If the boss let her stay here to run the operation, maybe she could have another child. The thought of motherhood brought a flood of emotions she hadn’t felt in so long she forgot she had ever experienced them.

The possibility of another child fortified her determination to stay here. She had to convince Satan that modern times called for modern methods, like women in charge. If it worked, she had a shot at true love, happiness and motherhood; a combination worth fighting for.

She ticked off on her fingers what she wanted from Satan tomorrow. First, permission to run the loan business according to her original design. Second, no male supervision. Third, at least forty years on earth.

Now, that was a set of objectives worth fighting for.

Just in case she was unsuccessful in reaching her goals, she shook Vinny’s shoulder.

# # #

Satan showed up before the shop opened.

He acknowledged Lucy with a nod and walked into Alex’s office. He was dressed casually in slacks, a knit shirt and sneakers with a red cape draped across his shoulders. Satan reserved the red suit, horns, tail and pitchfork for formal occasions like the meetings with Heaven. Tall and well-built, he looked ordinary except for his eyes that frequently acted like miniature black holes, sucking up light. When in a good mood like now, his face was visible, but when his anger grew so did the darkness. Enraged, his head and upper torso would be hidden in a black cloud.

She followed him into the office.

“I’m glad you’re here, Master,” Alex said. “My loan store is a unqualified success.”

“Really?” Satan chuckled. “With your record, claims of success make me nervous.”

Alex nodded.

Lucy sighed. Her father always played the sycophant.

“Look at this.” Alex picked up a sheath of papers. “Thirty signed contracts. I’ll wager not one of them makes all the payments on time.”

“Hmm. Most surprising. I suppose Lucy is responsible for this success?”

Alex almost choked. “She’s nothing but a clerk. I tell you, my business plan is brilliantly coming to fruition.” A red-faced Alex picked up his putter and ran his hand down the shaft.

All three jumped when the front window shattered inward and four sticks of dynamite with burning fuses rolled across the floor.

“That’s an awfully big firecracker,” Alex said just before the dynamite exploded.

Once the smoke cleared, Lucy saw the blast had destroyed the office.

Alex sobbed. His white cassock was a smoldering rag and the contracts were ashes. His putter was wrapped around a lamp stand. He picked it up and tried to straighten it. He threw it to the ground in disgust. “My favorite putter.” He looked crest-fallen

Satan stared at Alex for a few moments. “I think the pressure of the job is getting to you, Alex. Why don’t you go play a few rounds of golf?”

“You’re right. These times are treacherous compared to the simple days in Rome.” Alex cheered up. “Lucy can clean up.” He disappeared.

Sirens sounded in the distance.

Lucy noticed that the explosion had ripped off her clothes. She was naked while Satan’s clothes were untouched. “A gentleman would offer me his cape until I can get more clothes.”

“What happened here.” Satan handed her the cape.

“Michael did this.”

“Michael? Why would that underachiever do this?”

“Heaven hates Alex for all the wicked things he did while he was Pope. It ordered Michael to sabotage anything Alex does on earth.”

“I don’t believe it. Heaven is migrating towards lawlessness while we’re moving into legitimate businesses . . . well, semi-legitimate businesses.”

“I’ll be right back,” Lucy said. “Don’t go away. We have to talk about this loan business.”

When she returned in slacks and a blouse, she said, “All of Alex’s contracts were useless. Those people would have ended up in your domain anyway. I know how to make this loan business impact on your market share.”

“You always were a lot smarter than your father.” Satan paced the office, kicking debris out of his way. “All right. I’ll send somebody else up here. You fill him in.”

“No.” She held her breath.

“No?” Satan was so shocked he stopped pacing and stared at her with his mouth open.

“It’s my plan.” Lucy stood with her hands on her hips. “I want to run it.”

“You’re a woman.”

“It’s the twenty-first century. Women run corporations now. Women are judges, police officers, lawyers, soldiers, politicians. Women can do anything they want and I want to run a business. This business.”

“How droll.”

“Well?” Lucy could barely contain her excitement. She almost bounced on her toes. Satan hadn’t rejected her plan.

“Convince me you’ll do things differently than Alex.”

“I’ll open up in neighborhoods where people go to church. Most of them end up in Heaven. But I’ll be looking for a neighborhood where the folks experience financial problems. Lower middle-class in other words. They’ll be desperate for low interest loans. But, you have to keep Alex in Hell.”

“I’ll give you a year.”

“That won’t do any good. To put a dent in Heaven’s market share, I’ll need franchises everywhere and it’ll take years to get them up and running. That’ll take at least forty years.” She started making a mental list of things to do.

“Lucy!” Vinny ran into the office. “Are you all right?”

Satan faded from human view.

“Yeah. I’m fine. I was upstairs.”

Vinny looked around the at the damage. “I heard about the blast at the station house and drove over to see if you were okay.”

“How sweet.” Lucy patted his cheek. “Listen, I’m tied up right now. How about dinner tonight? I’ll need a strong shoulder to help me through this mess.”

“Sure. Seven?”

Lucy nodded just as the NYFD trucks pulled up in swirl of noise and yelling.

“The bomb squad will ask a lot of questions.” Vinny raised an eyebrow as if he had a few of his own.

“I’ll explain tonight.”

Vinny left.

“Who’s that?” Satan asked.

“He doesn’t know it yet, but next month he’ll be my chief of security.”

“Is it serious?”

“Very serious.” Lucy smiled at Satan.

“That explains why you’re so anxious to stay and run a business. When you get back to Hell, someone else will be my secretary.”

“When I come back to Hell, maybe I’ll fight to get my old job back.”

“I look forward to seeing that.” He patted her shoulder. “Good luck, girl.” He disappeared.

SPONSORED BY . . .

Originally published by Darker Matter August 2007

The ground rumbled under Captain Dave Stiller’s feet as two M81 pocket tanks rolled by. Large red letters on the turrets spelled out B-U-D-W-E-I-S-E-R and negated the usefulness of the camouflage paint. The tanks threw up clouds of Fort Dix sand and scattered swarms of gnats.

Fueled by anxiety and disillusionment, Stiller’s churning stomach growled almost as loudly as the tank engines. He hated these artificial battles. Too many innocent people died. As a West Point graduate, he followed Pentagon directives even when he disagreed with them and these battles brought in a lot of money needed to compensate for the deep budget cuts.

He glanced over at his heavy weapons platoon where a soldier dropped a round into a mortar. The tube was painted in the US Postal Service blue-and-white with the legend, “We Deliver.” The mortar round exploded on the hilltop and rearranged some rubble. Piles of stone and wood were all that remained of a village. Had any of the poor bastards survived the barrage? Most of them probably had no idea why they had been moved there yesterday. The platoon lieutenant gave a hand signal to cease fire and Stiller relaxed slightly. The contract called for twenty-five rounds and all had all been fired. His troops had completed Phase One.

He activated his cell phone and heard a lilting female voice say, “My panty liner is so wonderfully soft and absorbent that I don’t even --”

He held the phone away from his ear and wished the Pentagon would go back to using radios. Once the commercial finished, he called his lieutenants in charge of the rifle platoons, “Move out!” He clicked his stop watch.

The three rifle platoons stood up and moved towards the slope.

“Faster!” Stiller yelled into the phone. “Get those troops running!” Speed would help determine which unit won the grand prize and there was a lot of money at stake.

The lieutenants yelled and waved their arms; the soldiers trotted up the hill. Their bobbing heads transformed the Golden Arches decal on the back of their helmets into moving bands of color. They all wore a red-and-white bulls-eye patch below the division badge on their shoulders. The patch was the logo of the department store that was the official sponsor of his infantry unit. Stiller’s wife liked the extra discount she received there on diapers for their infant daughter.

The soldiers fired from the hip -- as stipulated by the producer to increase the drama -- even though none of them could see a target. The bullets kicked up sand and rock splinters along the crest of the hill.

Recording the action, two camera crews stood on the beds of a pair of 4X4 trucks, while overhead, a helicopter circled the hill providing a different perspective. Blue and white letters identified the trucks and helicopter as part of the World-Wide Broadcasting Corporation.

“Come on.” Stiller beckoned to Mathis, his company sergeant. They climbed the hill and were swallowed by an acrid cloud of cordite left behind by the rifle fire.

A hum-vee plastered with so many logos that it wouldn't be out-of-place at a NASCAR race rolled after the rifle platoons. The vehicle carried the two umpires and the referee in charge of scoring.

When the first rifleman reached the hilltop, Stiller clicked his stop watch: four minutes, thirteen-seconds. Much less than the five minutes the goddamn producer allocated to the move. He should be happy with the time and with his men firing a truckload of ammo to make his video look good.

His phone buzzed. “Sir,” the first platoon lieutenant said. “I counted forty-five people alive. A fifty-five percent Kill-Ratio is an outstanding score, sir. Much better than anything I’ve seen from other units.”

“Keep looking for more survivors.” His stomach threatened outright rebellion. Out of a hundred illegal immigrants penned into the village, less than half had survived and would be allowed to stay in the country.

He and Mathis reached the village. The mortar-blasted area offered no shade from the midsummer sun. Waves of heat radiated from the sandy soil and distorted everything in view. His troops faced a long, hot afternoon. Stiller removed his sunglasses and wiped the sweat from his face with his sleeve. He found a spot where he had a view of the slopes and established his command post. A quick assessment of the area told him the counterattack would come from the woods closest to the village, either the north-western or western slopes.

“I want the first platoon facing west,” he told the assembled lieutenants, “the second fronting northwest and third due north. The woods on the east are too far away from the slopes, so I don’t expect any trouble from that direction. Any questions?” He looked at the two men and a woman. All much younger than he. “Okay, go and set up your troops.”

The referee walked over and gave him a signed form, the official tally. Fifty-two killed. Good. They found a few more survivors and he still had a great Kill-Ratio.

He and his men lunched on cold rations while a convoy of ambulances transported the survivors. After the last vehicle left the hill, the referee displayed his wristwatch to Stiller. “The counterattack can take place anytime after fifteen minutes from . . . now.”

Stiller nodded his understanding. The next event was deadly and involved a mob of people desperate enough to attack professional troops. Soon, five hundred bankrupt citizens, armed with machine pistols and high on booze and drugs would try to take the village from his company.

During the Terrorists Wars, Congress revamped the justice system and tilted it to benefit for-profit institutes. Insolvency was now a crime punishable by stiff prison sentences because individual bankruptcies lowered the profits of the lending companies. The Attorney-General then cut a deal with the entertainment industry to give the felons a chance to get out debt while reducing the number of expensive jail cells required. The Attorney-General proclaimed the arrangement a victory for the taxpayers.

“Captain?” Sergeant Mathis look worried. “I can’t get air support.” He waggled his cell phone over his head.

Stiller frowned.

“All I get is a loud squeal.”

Stiller punched the power button on his cell phone. Nothing but noise. Not even a commercial! He leaned on a mound of rubble to keep his knees from buckling. Bile flooded the back of his mouth and left him with a horrid taste.

It had to be the producer! What was the fat fuck’s name? . . . Zephyr . . . Zachery Z. Zephyr. 'Z-Cubed', as he liked to be called. The sonuvabitch wanted more bloodshed so he blocked the requests for air support. Without the cell phone, he also couldn’t direct the fire of his weapons platoon at the base of the hill, and his riflemen had used most of their ammunition on the way up the hill. He looked around for the camera trucks that should be in the village with his men. Both crews were still at the bottom of the hill, drinking beers. Even worse, the hum-vee with the officials sped down the hill to join them. Stiller almost threw up his lunch.

He took a deep breath. The whole day was an outrage. First, he had to shell the illegal immigrants because it was too expensive to send them back to their native countries. Second, he had to fight off a frenzied mob of bankrupt people. Third, Zephyr put his men in extraordinary danger to punch up excitement and to increase the ratings of his reality show.

In the last year, his respect for the Pentagon had plummeted because they supported this gross and dangerous spectacle to placate the entertainment industry, amuse the public and earn money. He could take no more of this immoral charade and he resolved to resign his commission before the day ended.

If he survived.

He pulled out the canteen-shaped bottle of sports drink, took a swig, spit it out and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “Boysenberry! I hate that flavor.”

Mathis chuckled and offered his own canteen. “Coconut-kumquat.”

“Gawd!” Stiller swallowed a mouthful. “How can the supply people accept this shit? Better round up some runners, Mathis. We’ll have to do things the old-fashioned way.”

While he waited for the runners, he wondered if the other officers felt like he did. Two other rifle companies had undergone similar maneuvers recently. The producer would splice together a two-hour-long special from tapes of all the battles.

Mathis returned with three privates.

“Tell the platoon lieutenants I want an ammo check,” Stiller told one of them. “Fast.” The runner sprinted towards the closest platoon. An idea sprang into his mind. To another runner, he said, “Go down to the tanks and tell them to get their asses up here. Go! And don’t come back without them.”

The ammo report was as bad as he anticipated: an average of twenty rounds for each rifle. His troops didn’t have enough ammo to stop a force of five hundred maniacal attackers. Not without air or heavy weapons support.

“Fix bayonets.” The lieutenants looked at him as if he was insane. The soldiers hadn’t practiced bayonet fighting since boot camp. The officers gave a terse order and the blades flashed in the sunlight. Every bayonet carried the logo of a condom company on both sides of the blade. “Set all rifles on single shot,” Stiller yelled. “No automatic fire.”

Mathis pointed in the air. The network helicopter swooped down and hovered behind the south side of the hill. Stiller frowned. The position of the chopper made no sense. If the attack echeloned to the north face of the hill, a distinct possibility, the helicopter would be in the line of fire.

A deep growling noise interrupted his thoughts. Thank God! The two tanks, call names Bud-1 and Bud-2, bellied up the top of the slope with his runner on back of the lead tank. Stiller placed a tank on each of his flanks. With armor anchoring his lines, he felt a bit safer.

“Here they come!” a soldier shouted. A burst from an automatic weapon sent bullets whizzing over Stiller’s head. The soldiers in the second platoon returned the fire.

“Hold your fire!” their lieutenant yelled. “Wait ‘til they get closer. Much closer.”

Stiller moved towards the point of attack and sucked in his breath. Only fifty attackers ran up the slope. Where the hell were the other four-hundred-fifty? In answer to his question, gunfire and more shouts came from his rear. Bud-2 fired its cannon and opened up with its turret machine gun.

The fifty attackers flopped to the ground and sniped at his men. Stiller cursed at them. They would pin down a portion of his soldiers; troops needed to repulse the much larger attack. Someone had given the attackers a good strategy. Z-Cubed?

Stiller ran over to Bud-2 where heavy fire from the insolvents churned up the dirt on the edge of the hill. Protected by the bulk of the tank, he saw the main strength of the debtor force charge uphill on the east flank of the hill, an area undefended except for the tank. He had been outflanked! He backed away from the tank and grabbed a runner. “Get the first platoon over here. Fast! You,” he beckoned to another runner. “Get the other tank.”

Now the position of the helicopter made sense. It hovered out of the line of fire of the attack and could take ground-level film of his men getting overrun.

The fire power of Bud-2 rattled the attackers and slowed them enough for the first platoon to move across the hill and drop into firing positions.

To the panting runner, Stiller said, “Round up as much ammo as you can from the other platoons.”

The defaulters slogged forward, firing their automatic pistols and howling, “Debt free! For you and me!”

The crack of weapons rose to a deafening volume then subsided only to rise again.

“I’m hit!” one of his soldiers yelled. The man gripped his forearm while blood flowed through his fingers.

Bud-1 joined the defense and the two tanks ripped holes in the attackers who surged forward but in smaller numbers. Stiller heard more screams followed by cries of “Medic!”

The cannon blasts, the steady fire from both the turret machine guns and the infantry broke the attack. The survivors retreated towards the woods and prison, their chance at economic redemption ended. The bodies of those who no longer needed a jail cell littered the slope. His men had executed a large number of people who wouldn’t be guilty of a crime back in his parents’ time. He gawked at the red-stained grass, then forced his mind back to business.

He waved to the commander of Bud-1 who stood in the open turret. Stiller pointed to the area in front of the first group of attackers. The tank commander nodded and the tank spun around, sending a shower of sand over the nearby soldiers.

“Get me a casualty report,” Stiller told a runner. He saw a number of soldiers writhing on the ground.

Stiller heard a blast from Bud-1’s cannon.

“Where you goin’, cowards,” a soldier near that tank yelled.

“Come on back and give us a fight,” a second called out.

When the runner returned, she reported, “Sir, fifteen wounded. No KIA.”

Stiller tried his phone. “Now! Mortgage rates guaranteed to be lower than any other lending company--” He closed his eyes and held the phone against his shoulder until the spiel ended, then called for medical helicopters. Two arrived within minutes, one emblazoned MERCK and the other WYETH.

Stiller heard more approaching helicopters.

A pair of them set down outside the village. One had WWBC on the side and the other COCA-COLA. To Stiller’s surprise, the division commander, General Westly, jumped out of the red Coke bird followed by Colonel Maitland, his battalion commander. Both wore starched and pressed Class A uniforms in contrast to his rumpled, sweat-stained fatigues.

Z-Cubed and a few go-fers climbed out of the WWBC helicopter. Z-Cubed wore an iridescent blue-green djellaba and yellow combat boots. Six-foot tall and weighing close to two-hundred-and-fifty pounds, the man’s weight was concentrated in a huge paunch that stretched the material of the gown. A rubber band held his black hair in a pony tail but his untrimmed beard flowed in all directions. When Z-Cubed moved, the sunshine changed his djellabah into shimmering patterns of light that dazzled the eye. It was like looking into a bank of strobe lights. He kicked a rock, said something to a go-fer and backhanded the man in the chest.

Stiller came to attention, saluted the officers and watched for an opportunity to resign his commission.

The officers returned his salute.

“This man,” Z-Cubed wagged a fat finger in Stiller’s face, “screwed up the whole production. Shoot him or hang him or whatever you do with traitors.”

Stiller made a fist and shifted his weight. Before he could throw a punch, General Westly gripped Z-Cubed’s elbow. “That’s how our officers respond when you fuck with them.” Westly’s voice came out like a snarl. “You changed the script without telling him and he changed his tactics.” He turned to Stiller and held out his hand. “You turned a potentially bloody defeat into a victory. Well done, Captain.”

“My boss loved the new script.” Z-Cubed pounded a fist into an open palm. “The public is tired of watching people get slaughtered by air strikes. Viewers want to see some deadbeats get to the top and win.”

“Captain Stiller,” Colonel Maitland said. “Everyone in your command can now wear a combat badge.”

The Pentagon hadn’t been in a battle since the Terrorist Wars ended and almost everyone with combat experience had retired. The Pentagon’s press releases justified these battles as a way to fill this experience gap. Stiller knew this was the ‘good’ reason given out to the media while the ‘real’ reason was making money.

“What am I supposed to tell him?” Z-Cubed said, hands on hips. “I couldn’t shoot the script because an officer can’t get his men killed properly?”

Stiller cleared his throat to get the general’s attention.

“You may not like it,” General Westly replied, “but Captain Stiller is a hero.”

“He is?” Z-Cubed gave the general a wary look.

“Sir, I want to res . . . I am?” Stiller didn’t feel like a hero. He felt like someone who had been used by unscrupulous people.

“He is. You are.”

Z-Cubed tapped his foot while he stared at Stiller. He made a frame out of his two thumbs and forefingers and sighted Stiller through it. “My God! The man’ll photograph like a movie star. Look at that jaw line. The strong nose. The blue eyes.”

Stiller’s mouth dropped open.

“I can see it now, General.” Z-Cubed grinned. “The show will feature this man as the heroic officer. We’ll interview him before and after each film clip. He’ll give us a voice-over of what’s happening on those clips. Stiller’ll be a national hero for his sterling defense against the low-life scum who dared to attack his unit.”

Stiller gawked at Z-Cubed.

Z-Cubed stroked his beard. “Hmm . . . our unspoken sub-text will be the superb training and adaptability of American officers.” Z-Cubed hugged himself. “This show will break all market share records. We can raise our advertising rates.”

“I have an opening up at Division,” General Westly said.

Stiller broke his opened-mouthed stare at Z-Cubed and turned to the general.

“I need someone to reorganize the training. Someone who can teach the rifle company officers to think under fire. I love the way you compensated for the lack of air strikes and mortars by using the tanks. I want you to teach these people how to think like that. By the way,” Westly paused to give Stiller a smile, “the position is to be filled by a major, so I'll have to promote you.”

Stiller’s mind threatened to shut down from the over-load, but before it did he postponed his resignation. After all, he had a family to support. It would be selfish to resign without talking it over with his wife.

“Not a bad day, Stiller,” Colonel Maitland said. “You put up a great fight, you’ll be on national TV and you get a promotion.”

“And you knocked off those undesirables,” Z-Cubed said, “in a most bloody and colorful fashion too. It’ll be a TV classic in no time. The residuals alone will be worth a mountain of cash. You win the prize, Stiller. All ten million dollars.”

Stiller blinked and tried to sort things out. His wife would love it that Wal-Mart sponsored the division staff and provided more lucrative discounts than the other store. His rifle company would split up the prize money. With his portion, he’d buy shares in Pentagon Inc., the subsidiary that owned all military advertising space and dealt with the corporations that wanted to rent some of it.

His resignation faded into oblivion. Maybe, the Pentagon knew what it was doing.

A few words from the author:

If you liked these story, there are seventeen more of them in my collection of short stories, Tunnel Vision. It's available in print versions from the publisher eTreasures and from Amazon. Ebook versions are available from Smashwords.

You can also get a signed copy for $20.00 and I'll pay the postage. Send me an email at hanque99 (at) verizon (dot) net

Here is what some readers and reviewers say about Tunnel Vision:

Army tanks with Budweiser logos? Satan sending the Pope to sell mortgage loans in NYC? Know that you are bringing a few good chuckles to an old friend.

Tunnel Vision is a collection of short stories with a science fiction theme. The stories, all previously published, have bizarre characters including: witches, the Loch Ness Monster, dwarves and a dead baseball player.

Hank knows how to take the every day ordinary and twist it into a parallel universe of you-never-know-that-could-be sense of humor that keeps me hooked.

Get your copy now and enjoy some laugh-filled reading.

OTHER STUFF

And now, even more words from the guy who makes this stuff up, Hank Quense.

In addtion to these short stories, I have another collection of six short stories and two novellas. It's called Tales From Gundarland

As for novels, I have currently have two published: Fool's Gold and Zaftan Entrepreneurs: Book 1 of the ZAftan Trilogy

For an even better reading experience, you can get both Tales From Gundarland and Zaftan Entrepreneurs at a packaged price of $30.00. The books will be signed (by me, not one of my neighbors) and I'll pay the postage within the USA. To take advantage of this outrageous deal, go to my website. This is a limited-time offer and will expire the next time our planet is hit by a large, civilization-threatening meteor.

Book 2 of the Zaftan Trilogy, Zaftan Miscreant, is scheduled to become available in January 2012. Book 3, Zaftan Lovers will follow in January 2013.

Many more stories will be set in Gundarland. The next one, tentatively titled, Falstaff's Big Gamble combines Shakespeare's most popular character with two of his most famous plays, Hamlet and Othello. This will be published later in 2011.

Links? You want links? Here you go:

My website: http://hankquense.com

My blog pages: http://hankquense.com/blog

My Facebook fan pages: http://www.facebook.com/pages/Hank-Quenses-Fiction-Writing-Page/102293491907?v=wall

Twitter: http://twitter.com/#!/hanque99