1. “We’re on the air in five, four, three, two, one…”
Trace Crabtree shuffled his papers and gave Camera 2 a serious… solemn look. “Good evening and welcome to Channel 11 News at Eleven. I’m Trace Crabtree,” he said before turning his attention to Camera 1. He shuffled some papers. The “Top Story” graphic appeared in the upper left-hand corner of the screen. “In tonight’s top story, the series of bizarre deaths and disappearances that began to befall the good people of Anytown earlier this week has continued and in fact worsened, according to a police spokesperson. Kipp Goddard is on location with more on this troubling turn of events. Kipp?”
As soon as Trace was informed that he was off-camera and his microphone was no longer on-air, he shuffled his papers and shook his head, a disgusted expression on his face. “What the hell is this, Randy? ‘Began to befall?’ Is that some kind of joke? Huh? Because I don’t think it’s funny!”
Randy looked confused for his part. “I don’t know what you mean, Trace. I — ”
“What’s next? ‘Peter Piper picked a peck of peppers?’ This copy is shit!”
“Trace!” the news director shouted. “We’re — ”
Randy cowered as Trace jumped up from behind the newsdesk and stomped toward him with his rolled prop “newsies” in hand. “I’m gonna clean your clock, you son of a bitch!”
“Trace!” the news director barked, his cigarette falling from his mouth. “We’re on the air!”
2. Slate Flanagan stood in the doorway or, more accurately, wore it like a close-fitting jacket. He was a mountain of a man is what I mean to say. He lit the thin cigar he’d rolled a moment earlier and stroked his bushy red beard. “S’prised ta see me, are ye?” he asked. “Hmm, the Chief? That’s what yer callin’ yerself these days, innit?”
The Chief stopped munching on the pack of Marlboro Red 100s he’d been enjoying. “Flanagan,” he said.
Flanagan nodded, lumbered into the Chief’s office and took a seat across from him. “Ah, so ye remember me after all these years, then, do ye?” he chuckled. “Wot’s it been, hmm? Twenty? Thirty years?”
The Chief crammed the rest of the cigarettes into his mouth and swallowed hard. “Not long enough, however long it’s been.”
Flanagan smiled and puffed his cigar. “Know why I’m here, boyo?”
The Chief ignored the question and instead offered, “I’ll never forget you, Flanagan, and it ain’t ’cause I wanna remember ya, neither.”
“Forgot to remember to forget, did ye?” Flanagan asked amusedly. “S’alright. Reckon I wouldn’t be too fond of me if I were in yer place.”
“No,” the Chief said, “I don’t guess you would.”
Flanagan puffed his cigar. A long silence ensued. Finally he flicked some ash on the floor and smirked. “Looks like ye’ve healed up, though,” he said, “Much as can be expected, anyway.”
The Chief ate a cigarette butt and barked, “What do you want? Why are you here?”
“Yer lad did it, the Chief,” Flanagan said.
“Did what? Don’t you play games with me, Flanagan! I took you apart before and I can do it again,” the Chief said, although the nervous way he was eating his cigarettes indicated that he was less than confident about that.
Flanagan flicked his cigar at the Chief. “Don’t ye go threatenin’ the messenger now, boyo. Why don’t ye ask him yerself, when he phones ye. Only don’t be surprised if he ain’t soundin’ too good…”
3. “Thank you for calling Domino’s, how can I help you?”
“Yes, I need to speak to Brian, please.”
“Speaking.”
“Oh. Um… hello, then. This is Emily Twiggs,” Emily introduced herself.
“Okay, is this for carry-out or delivery?” Powell asked, his head resting on his scrawny forearm which was in turn resting on the counter.
“No, no, I — ”
“Want to hear about our specials?” Powell interrupted to ask. “We have two large one-topping pizzas with a two-liter Coke product for — ”
“No, I — ”
“Too much pizza?” Powell asked, by now ready to beat himself to death with the phone. “How many pizzas are you — ”
“I’m not looking for any pizzas,” Emily said with more force than she’d been speaking. “I just… umm, sorry. Is this Brian Powell?”
“Mmm,” Powell affirmed both softly and unintelligibly.
“Is this Brian Powell?”
“Yes,” Powell answered more clearly.
4. Chaser stumbled into the phone booth with whiskey dripping from his mouth. He pulled the bag down on the bottle a bit and splashed some more on his tongue. He smiled a dead cold down and out drunken grin. After a hiccup and inadvertent smashing of his face into the side of the booth, he picked up the phone and dialed a number he could’ve dialed in his sleep and probably had many times before–but how would he know? He was asleep, after all.
“Yeah?” the Chief barked tersely. He was chewing on something. Cigarettes, doubtless.
“Those things…” Chaser paused to burp and fall to the ground. “They’ll kill ya, Ch… Chief.”
“Chaser?” the Chief asked with more concern than he usually showed for anything save the sports page. “Chaser, is that you?”
Chaser smiled and took a long “pull” from the bottle of Jack. He then lit a Black Death cigarette.
“Chaser, talk to me, goddamn it!” the Chief shouted, now quite worried. He popped a few handfuls of pipe tobacco into his mouth to calm his nerves.
“It’s me, Chief,” Chaser answered. “Jack Chaser,” he said, sounding a bit disgusted with his own name. “Detective Death.” He spat and poured some whiskey into his hand and then snorted it up his nose and laughed. “Know who I am? Do you know me? This is Jack,” he burped and smashed through the phone booth with one of his steel-toed workboots, cutting his leg to shit in the process. “Jack fuckin’ Chaser.”
“Chaser, what in God’s name is wrong with you?” the Chief demanded to know.
“It’s all over, that’s what’s,” he hiccupped, “Fucking wrong with me. It’s all over!”
“What? What’s all over?” the Chief asked, still worriedly. He ate a pack of Winston Full Flavors. “Jack, talk to me.”
“The mob’s dead,” Chaser said, slurping down some more whiskey afterward. He let his head fall on his knees.
“Christ, you took down the mob?” the Chief asked amazedly. “You did it, then! You fucking did it, you rough tough son of a dead cold bitch!”
Chaser blew a raspberry in response. He laughed drunkenly. “Great, huh? Great, great, great. It doesn’t feel great. It feels like a waste of time.”
“What? Do you know what you’ve — ”
Chaser blew another raspberry. “It’s all gone, Chief. Just like all those fuckin’… dumb… sons of bitches with their MDs and their Ph.D.s and their blow-mes and…” he burped, “Always said… None of it’ll bring ’em back, Jack. Nothing’ll bring ’em back. You can kill a thousand men, a million men, a million… fucking… they’re not comin’ back, Chief. And now that the mob’s dead I might as well be, too.”
“Christ, Chaser! Listen to yourself!” the Chief shouted. “Where the hell are you? You shouldn’t — ”
“Don’t tell me what to do, Chief,” Chaser warned the Chief, but not with his usual fire. He sounded weak and pathetic.
“That’s it, Chaser, that’s it! Tell me to kiss your ass!” the Chief encouraged him.
Chaser scoffed. “What’s the point, huh? The hatred was… the hatred was the only thing keeping me going. What do I have now? Huh? Nothing.”
The Chief couldn’t think of anything to say in response, so he consumed a cigarette via the left eyesocket.
“I’m gonna sleep awhile,” Chaser said, abruptly dropping the phone and pouring some whiskey into the gaping bullet wound in his gut.
“Chaser? Chaser? Chaser?!”
4. I want to own a farmhouse in Iowa. I’d like to be close to all of the really important amenities–the Olive Garden, the Pizza Hut, the Dress Barn, the Big Lots–but far away from the hustle and bustle of the big city. Secure in their small-town cocoon, Oliver Jr., Olivia, Kingsley, and Eustace would grow up in complete ignorance of the wider world. During the week, I’d walk around Main Street wearing tight brown Wrangler jeans, a loose grey t-shirt that bears the insignia of the third-rate local university, and a ball cap with an unbent brim. On the weekends, I’d take the kids out for ice cream at the Frosty Kiss while my wife gossiped with the other mothers in her PTA knitting circle. After establishing myself in the community, I’d run a nonpartisan campaign for mayor and lose to the incumbent by 150 votes. The victorious mayor would appoint me to the office of county clerk, a post I’d hold until my death in 2058.
5. Chaser was gripping the bottle and clenching what was left of a Black Death cigarette between his lips when morning and death came more or less at the same time. This raised the question of “What would morning and death do if death had become pregnant with morning’s child?” Abort the thing, most likely. But as they sat and smoked and talked, death came up with a crazy idea. “What if?” “What if” what? What if they tried to raise the child? It would be hard, to be sure, and they’d have to be crazy to try, but wouldn’t they have to be even crazier not to try? It was just so crazy that it might work, in other words.
6. Emily Twiggs strode confidently into Leeds’s office, where the latter was playing Sonic the Hedgehog on his Sega GameGear. “Mr. Leeds,” she said.
Leeds looked up. “Yes?”
Emily tossed a few papers that had been fastened together with a paperclip onto Leeds’s desk. “I finally finished that Brian Powell story.”
Leeds glanced at the papers before immediately turning his attention back to his GameGear. “Looks great.”
Emily put her hands on her hips and sighed. “That’s it?”
Leeds paused his game and sighed, too. “Oh, yes, I almost forgot. You’ll be promoted for this. Great work. Good job. You’re a real asset to the company.”
Emily smiled. “Really? A promotion?”
“Sure,” Leeds said. “After all, I’m obligated to make a few promotions every now and then. And since you and that other guy — Binkman or Burton or whatever his name is — are my only employees, I choose you. Congratulations. See you at the party.”
Leeds picked up the GameGear and resumed his game.
“Party?” Emily wondered.
“Hmm?”
“What party?”
Leeds paused the game again. He set it down on his desk, stood up and walked around to Emily’s side of the desk, at which point he threw his arm around her and gave one of her thick thighs a little squeeze. She laughed awkwardly. “Oh, sure. We’re going to throw you a party for the great work you’ve been doing.”
“Really?”
Leeds nodded and kissed her on the cheek. “Absolutely. Have you ever been to Morton’s?”
“Hmm… I don’t… No, I haven’t.”
“Oh, they have great steaks,” Leeds promised. “The best. There’s a reason they call themselves ‘The Steakhouse.'”
“Actually, I’m a vege — ”
“It’ll be great,” Leeds assured her. “What say we meet there after work tomorrow night? You can knock off a little early, if you like. I want you to have plenty of time to get ready… Pick out some nice clothes, buy yourself some new shoes, get your hair done, put on plenty of lip gloss, lose a few pounds…”
“What was — ”
“Sound good? Good. See ya then,” Leeds said, shoving Emily out of his office and locking the door behind her. “Alright, Sonic,” he shouted at his GameGear, “You and your fox friend had better grab some goddamn rings or you’re fired!”
7. “Oh, yer golden boy,” Flanagan said as he exhaled a plume of smoke through his flaring nostrils and again stroked his bushy red beard.
“What about him?” the Chief snapped back, his bristles raised both by Flanagan’s line of questioning and indeed his mere presence. “What’s Chaser — ”
“I was gettin’ ta that,” Flanagan chuckled. “Ye always were a hothead, weren’t’cha? Openin’ yer mouth when ya had oughtta be lis’nin’, mmm?”
“The point,” the Chief said as he gnawed the filter off a Camel Wide. “Get to it, Flanagan.”
Flanagan smirked and flicked some ash on the floor. “Aye, Chaser’s done a hell of num’er on the, hmm, ‘organized crime’ of our fair city, ha’n’t ‘e?” Flanagan asked, showing a few of his yellow teeth. “A real wild child, that one. Reminds me o’ myself, in a way.”
“Chaser’s ten times the man you ever were, Flanagan,” the Chief spat, sucking a handful of Camel Wides down his gullet. “You — ”
“I’m not here to quibble o’er the multiplication tables, boyo. My point, if ye let me get to it, is that yer diaper dandy’s wiped out the competition, as it were. Lotta money to be made for,” Flanagan’s smirk grew into a grin, “An enterprisin’ individual like meself, hmm?”
The Chief cocked his enormous melon of a head to the side. “What the hell are you talking about? What’s the score, Flanagan?”
Flanagan drew his revolver from its holster and shot the Chief in the stomach. “99 to zip, Flanagan. Game over.”
8. “Taking off early, Emily?” Oscar Berkman asked with the same awkward amorousness he’d been heaping upon Emily Twiggs since he’d first met her.
“Hmm?” Emily asked, somewhat startled.
“I, uhm… asked if you were — ”
“Oh, yes. I’m taking off early,” Emily answered. “I have to get to the party.”
Berkman lit a clove cigarette and stared at the floor. “Party? What party?”
“Oh, Leeds promoted me,” Emily said with a smile. “He really liked the story I did about Brian Powell.”
Berkman nodded and puffed his clove fag. “The director turned pizzaboy? It was a good story.”
“You liked it? Really?” Emily asked, showing more interest in Berkman than she’d ever shown in him before. “I’m surprised you read it.”
“Oh, I’ve read all of your writing,” Berkman lied. “You have a real arm for detail.”
“Huh?” Emily asked, thoroughly confused.
Berkman shook his head. “Eye. You have a real eye for detail.”
“Aww,” Emily said in the same condescending way that most women addressed Berkman. “Thanks, Ohvuh.”
9. My mother followed me from room to room. I put a chair under the knob of the door I’d just passed through, but the door was open so she came right through, too. She’d been saying something about how many clothes I owned. No one in the world owned more clothes than me, she’d said. I owned four pairs of pants and maybe ten T-shirts, none of which I ever washed because what’s the point of putting clean clothes on a filthy body? I could shower until I shriveled up like a prune or a raisin in the sun and I’d still be filthy. I went through the second door, but the second door was the first door and the first door was a hole leading up to the stagefloor, where the hoarse-voiced child-killer played by a young Charles Grodin screamed, “Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeey, boys and girls!”
10. “How’s your steak?” Leeds asked as he rubbed Emily’s bare leg beneath the table with the toe of his black “crew sock.” He smiled and chuckled, “Hmm?”
Emily laughed uncomfortably. “I told you I don’t — ”
“You know, I’ve had my eye on you ever since you, uh… I first saw you, back when what’s his name was running that place… the old guy,” Leeds said, scooting his chair closer to Emily.
“The Chief?”
“Right, right,” Leeds agreed readily. “Whatever his name was, he’s gone now. All that matters is what I knew then and what I know now, and that’s, um, that you’re going places. You’re really going places, Stacy.”
“Emily.”
“Emily,” Leeds said, brushing some of Emily’s hair out of her eyes and behind her ear.
Emily recoiled a bit. “What do you mean?”
Leeds shook his head. “What do you mean what do I mean? I mean you’re on your way to the top! Isn’t that what you want?”
“I…I guess I don’t know what I want,” Emily said nervously.
“Then how about letting me do the thinking for the both of us, darling?” Leeds asked.
Emily fidgeted with the uneaten pieces of her steak. She had no idea what to say.
11. You can’t make me feel any worse than I already do. That’s why I have to smile but also why I have to frown and cry and want to murder myself. I feel like garbage and have for quite some time. But you’re a special person. I knew it then and I know it now. I loved you then and I love you now. Why don’t you love me now? You did or at least said you did. I could tell you did. I can remember what it felt like to be loved but I don’t feel now what it is to be loved. Does that make sense? “I’m thinking about my boyfriend,” you said, “I love my boyfriend.” Were you talking about me? Were you ever talking about me? To be your boyfriend is to be something. I’m nothing.
