All material on this blog is Copyright 2002 by Ceri Young, Taras Stasiuk, and John David Hickey.
So don't even think about it, bub.

Taras links

This is the story of the worst day of Emile Martin's life.
If you were to ask him, twenty-four hours before the day in question, what the worst day of his life had ever been, he would probably tell you it was the day his father died. Or maybe the day he and his wife finally gave in and separated. These two days, although very difficult emotionally, had not been devastating. He had been expecting his father to die. He had been waiting for his marriage to collapse.
But he had never believed he could hate his job.
Emile Martin had wanted to be a cop all his life. Not a police officer, but a cop. He used to fantasise about his life as a cop, imagining himself in uniform, walking proudly home, his neighbours calling out to him and waving, the perfect model of the approachable protector. This was his lifelong dream, and like a precious few he had realised it. At age 45, Emile Martin had been a cop for 23 years, a Sergeant for 8 of them. He was never interested in the higher ranks, never interested in glory or excitement, and so being the Desk Sergeant at the Grandville Police Station for the 10pm to 6am shift suited him perfectly.
Until that Monday night. Or, for the most part, the Tuesday morning.


What was that? It sounded like a slam. I was dreaming about that creepy guy in the shades, only in the dream he wasn't going to let me go. I mean, he said he was going to let me go and to forget about him but I can't and I bet he knows that and I bet he figures it's only a matter of time before I crack and tell someone, which it probably is and so what would I do if I were him?
That's another sound downstairs.
It's the guy.
He's back.
He's never going to let me go. He can't. He's here for me.
Was that my Mom? Downstairs? It sounded like her, but then she got quiet and what are those other noises and that crashing?
"Mom?"
Oh, God, he's downstairs and he's coming for me and he's - he's - Mom! I have to do something I have to find a weapon Oh God what am I going to do this might be okay it's kind of heavy and has a bit of a sharp edge and I don't hear my Mom any more.
Holy fuck! He's coming up the stairs.
I'm not going to let you, you bastard I'm not going to let you touch me again. He's right outside he's coming in Oh God I love you Mom and
THIS! is for you and
THIS! is for me and you
FUCK!ing bastard I'll show you a
VIC!tim Oh God help me
HIT!
and HIT!
and HIT!
and HIT!
and –
Oh
God.


He looked over his nightly report, the recap, in note form, of the night that had changed everything for him. Emile Martin worked six nights out of seven, and on average, say, on three of those six nights, there was nothing to report. On two others, there might be one or two incidents, such as a minor fight or car accident. Once in six days, once a week, there would be a major event, such as a robbery or accidental death. In his four years at the desk, only three times had there been two major events in one night. Never had there been three or more.
The report in front of him described six major events. Beginning with
11:25.
A neighbour walking his dog noticed a bad burning smell coming from the house of Luiz Ayala. Going up the walk to see if everything was all right, he noticed that the front door had been forced open. He hurried home and called the police, who discovered Ayala dead in his bathtub, beaten and murdered.
The last time there had been a murder in Grandville Emile Martin had been in high school. Martin was upset, naturally, that a murder had been committed at all, but a part of him felt that if this had been fated to happen, he was glad it had happened on his watch, both because he was able to handle it and because, honestly, it was somewhat exciting.
By the end of the night, murder would no longer be exciting. Nor would he feel himself able to handle it.


[Living Room of the O'Connor home, a middle-income dwelling decorated and furnished with competence but not much imagination. Left is the Front Door leading outside, Right is the swinging door to the Kitchen]
[Curtain rises on two men sitting and talking. Martin is dressed for a casual night on the town, and seated with his back to the Kitchen. Balsam is in an innocent-looking brown suit, seated with his back to the Front Door]
[pause as Balsam waits for Martin to speak, then gives up]
Balsam: Mister O'Connor?
Martin: Yes?
Balsam: I was asking about the Horrap's Collective Project.
Martin: Is that a charity thing?
Balsam: Pardon?
Martin: At Christmas, maybe? When the store collects donations for food baskets?
Balsam: Not Harrod's - Horrap's.
Martin: Horr-aps?
Balsam: Horrap's.
Martin: A low-income housing for prostitutes?
[loud SLAM from Kitchen]
Balsam: What was that?
Martin: What was what?
Balsam: That sound in the kitchen.
Martin: What sound?
Balsam: It sounded like a bang.
Martin: I didn't hear it.
[a louder SLAM from Kitchen]
Balsam: There it is again! Did you hear it this time?
Martin: Of course not.
Balsam: Are you sure the stove is off?
Martin: Yes. I locked it. Closed it. Shut it. I shut the gas off. Yes.
Balsam: Inhale much of it first?
[Kitchen door swings open, slamming against wall. Martin turns, and Balsam looks up, to see Emertia standing in the doorway, hefting an awe-inspiring butcher's knife]
Emertia: Martin!
Martin: Emertia!
Balsam: Emertia?
Emertia: [seeing Balsam] Henry!
Martin: Henry? Do you two know each other?
Emertia/Balsam: Yes/No.
[pause]
Emertia/Balsam: No/Yes.
Balsam: Yes, we do.
Emertia: No, we don't.
Martin: Yes, you do.
Emertia: Yes, we do.
Balsam: What are you doing here?
Emertia: I live here.
Martin: No, you don't.
Emertia: What are you doing here?
Balsam: That's not important. We're both here now.
Martin: Um –
Balsam: I waited hours for you at the Opera. You never showed. You never called.
Emertia: I'd been dead two days.
Balsam: After waiting for six hours, I called your cell phone. It was Wagner, so Act Two was just about to start. I'm sorry, could you repeat that?
Emertia: I was dead.
Balsam: You were dead?
Emertia: I was dead.
Martin: She was not!
Balsam: What?
Martin: Don't you see? It's the ultimate Dear John letter: "Dear John, by the time you read this I will have been killed; therefore I think it best we end this immediately… "
Balsam: My name is Henry.
Emertia: He killed me!
Balsam: You killed her?
Martin: Obviously not!
Emertia: In all our years together he never could finish me off properly.
Martin: And you came into my life as you left it – dead on your back!
Balsam: Ignore him. [rises and goes to her] I love you, Emertia.
Martin: Necrophiliac!
Balsam: Let's run away together.
Emertia: Yes. Oh, yes, Darling. I just have to kill my husband first.
Balsam: Sure. Go ahead.
[Martin jumps out of chair, a hair's breadth away from Emertia's slashing knife. She chases him around the living room once, twice, thrice, then pauses to give Balsam a quick peck on the cheek. Martin opens the Front Door and runs out. Emertia follows]
[Balsam remains standing as he was, facing the front door. After about a minute, he begins whistling feebly]
[Martin runs in from Kitchen, Emertia in close pursuit. He rounds the chair Balsam was in, fakes right, fakes left, then moves off right and back for the Kitchen. He gets halfway when Balsam shoots him in the chest and he immediately falls behind the couch]
Emertia: Henry?
Balsam: I'm sorry, Darling, but I just couldn't wait any longer.
Emertia: I forgive you.
Balsam: Darling! [bounds forward and gives her a huge hug]
Emertia: Darling?
Balsam: Yes?
Emertia: I was holding a huge goddamn knife.
[Balsam pulls away suddenly, revealing the hilt of the knife protruding from Emertia's gut]
Balsam: Darling!
Emertia: Oh, stop saying that already.
Balsam: My own one. I have slain you. [carries her to couch]
Emertia: Pretty much.
Balsam: My own one!
Emertia: I think I preferred Darling.
Balsam: How can I carry on without you?
Emertia: Are you overcome with grief?
Balsam: Of course!
Emertia: You could always take your own life and die in my loving arms.
Balsam: Yes, I could – What? [snorts] As if! What would I tell my wife? [kisses her on the cheek and heads for the door] Farewell, my Dar – um, my own – err, bye.
Emertia: Darling?
Balsam: [turns] Yes?
Emertia: [points gun at him] You dropped this when you stabbed me.
Balsam: Oh. Ah. Can I, um, have it back?
Emertia: Some of it. [shoots]
Balsam: [grabbing right bicep] Ow!
[Emertia shoots again]
Balsam: [grabbing left bicep] Ow! Dammit –
Emertia: Hold on a sec. [shoots]
Balsam: [clutching heart] Yes, that's done it.
Emertia: Third time lucky.
[Balsam staggers forward, back, forward again, then back, and finally dies, pitching forward onto the knife still buried in Emertia's belly]
Emertia: Ow! [dies also]
[Tableau]


12:55.
Gunshots in a residential area. A car was dispatched, and the news was even worse than expected. Two dead. One a cop.
Officer down.
Sergeant Emile Martin wanted to cry. One of his Brothers had fallen in the line. There was nothing more honourable. There was nothing worse. His eyes did go damp.
But something wasn't right. "Can you give me that name again?"
"Balsam, Sergeant. Detective John Balsam."
"There is no Detective Balsam here in Grandville."
"It says Grandville."
"In all my years, we've never had a Balsam on the Force, in any capacity. The ID's a fake."
It was only a temporary relief he felt as he took down the rest of the preliminary details: The blood stain discovered behind the couch that might come from a third party, and the name of the owner of the house, whereabouts unknown. O'Connor.
First name Martin.


For as long as they'd known each other, Andrea and Stu had gotten along in mutual hatred.
His current position did not improve Stu's disposition toward her.
It was supposed to have been so simple. He couldn't remember how many times he'd done it before. The security guard, under orders from the boss, would let him in and show him to the room and he'd take what he wanted.
This time Andrea had been waiting in the room, and she nailed him with a syringe.
But she hadn't counted on his quick recovery, and he'd almost gotten her back.
The bitch had a second syringe.
Now he was tied to what felt like a gurney, tilted almost perpendicular to the floor, with the ropes pinning his arms to his side. There was a table at the far end with some weird-looking odds and ends on it. Andrea stood between him and the table. She was smiling, in no way friendly.
"How does it feel to be the victim for a change, Stu?"
"Suck my cock, Andrea. I don't know what you're talking about."
"Really? How about the alleyway? I was at the bar until closing, you headed me off… Any of this ringing a bell?"
"Some fantasy of yours, maybe?"
"You really don't remember any of it, do you?"
"No, I guess I don't."
"Well, you were drunk. And then there was the part you wouldn't want to remember. But I want you to remember, Stu."
She held something that hurt his eyes when it caught the light. He blinked, he hurt, he was getting a headache, his eyelids were getting heavy.
Even as he realised what was happening, he was in a hypnotic state.
He remembered the SoapBox Derby many years ago, Andrea coming in late, the way her tits held her shirt apart between the buttons, and her staying until closing, and he ducked into the back alley, and she walked past, and he grabbed her shirt and pulled her toward him tearing some of the buttons, and she tried to scream so he tried to pop her in the jaw, but she grabbed his arm and twisted, and he moved forward, and she shifted her body and tossed him over her shoulder, where his back smacked into the wall and his head smacked into the asphalt but his neck couldn't take it and he heard the vertebrae crack and felt them snap and then he understood why his memory had blacked out that whole week, yes, he finally understood everything.
He snapped abruptly out of his trance. "I – I was dead?"
"Not for long, sadly," Andrea told him. "But I mean to fix that. Remember that beer you tried to give me tonight?"
"Yeah." He wasn't getting it.
She showed him the sweater. He got it.
"They're not supposed to be like that. How did they get so big?"
"We found a way to accelerate the process. It doesn't even require a living host." She dropped the sweater on the table behind her and picked up something that looked like a ray gun from an old space hero serial. She pointed it at his chest. "Let me show you."
Stu screamed, loudly, his throat going raw, and then he stopped suddenly, for his lungs were empty, the air having been forced from them, and now his skin was tearing and his breastbone was cracking and his lungs were coming through followed by the long, thin, solid black bodies which slid in a bloody path down his stomach and legs to land in a confused heap on the floor.
Quickly exchanging her gun for a hose-like contraption, Andrea pointed it downward and carefully sprayed the four newborns everywhere with a thick yellow powder.


1:50.
Alarm triggered at the Finnegan Warehouse Complex. Call made to confirm. No answer.
A squad car was dispatched, and found the guard station empty. The security cameras had been disabled. Backup was called for and a thorough search was made.
A number of questionable items were discovered, the most notable being the body of Stuart Casey, aged 39, found in a sub-basement. There was only one wound on his body, but it was serious enough: It looked like his chest had exploded from the inside outward, cause unknown. The night guard, Clancy, had yet to be located.


She, Margie Flaherty, had done it.
All of it.
The costumes were done, and they were a smash.
And she had been threatened by a criminal and acted brave and in control.
And Ayala was going out of her life forever.
Neal, poor Neal, was expecting her to be in bed, tuckered out, when he came home.
She jumped him as he walked in, slamming the front door for him while her other arm grabbed him around the waist and she started kissing him and biting his lip. He turned around without a word and pressed her to him but one of her hands took one of his and led it under her skirt to where her pussy, free of underwear, pulsed eagerly for him.
His fingers started gliding inside and outside of her as she undid his pants and pushed them off his hips, then roughly backed him onto a chair. She heard something hit the floor but ignored it as she climbed on top of him and wrapped her sex around his, carefully only the first time but once it was solidly in place she rose up and drove down, over and over, pounding her pelvis into his, giving him the fuck of his life, the fuck of her life.
She thought of Ayala, thought of his muscular arms under his shirts and the hardness of his ass as he walked and the way he used to look at her, the way he'd suck on his upper lip as his eyes roamed the curves of her tits, she thought of the way he smelled and imagined his naked body, imagined it with scars all over it as Detective Balsam punched him and kicked him.
She started to groan, then gasp. Neal reached up to cover her mouth, probably afraid that Jodi would hear them, but Margie didn't care, let Jodi hear, let Jodi get woken up to the sound of her mother rutting like a beast and discover that the old housewife was really a sex animal so as Neal reached up she tossed her head back but – oh! the angle and she could feel herself going she grabbed the back of his hair and held him there, driving down and driving down until her other hand held his in place and she screamed into it, just screamed as her loins convulsed and Neal gave a whimper and came with her, the two of them shuddering together but frozen in place, then she allowed herself to fall on top of him and kiss him and hold him.
Neal sighed.
Margie sighed. She kissed her husband, gave him a squeeze, and rolled off. She brushed her skirt down, chuckled a little bit, and headed for the stairs.
"Where are you going?"
She turned around with a mischievous grin. "To make sure we haven't woken our convalescing daughter."


"Was that a bar or what?"
"Yeah, nice place. Friendly."
"Really friendly. How many beers did you have?"
"Three or four. Five, maybe."
"How many d'you pay for?"
"Maybe one. Two."
"Same here. That's a lot of free beer."
"Yeah. Definitely a place to go back to."
"Figure there's a catch?"
"Figure who cares."
"Point."
"Sure smoky, though. Hang on a sec."
"What's that?"
"Nose spray. Corticosteroid."
"Steroids?"
"Not like you think. It's okay. I take it twice a day."
"You always take that much?"
"Nah. But I forgot it this morning, and my nose is really bothering me."
"You know you're not supposed to take double doses of any medicine, ever, right?"
"Yes, Mom."
"Feel better?"
"Not right away, dummy. You know a drug that works right away?"
"The illegal ones."
"Figures the only good ones are illegal."
"Hey, you okay?"
"I dunno. My chest is kinda tight."
"Asthma?"
"I don't – ah! – I don't have asthma."
"Yeah, but the smoke in the bar. Maybe you're getting it."
"Ahhhh!"
"Jesus!"
"AAAAHHH!"
"Oh, Christ!"


3:05.
A patrol car heard a male voice screaming in a public park and investigated, discovering the body of 22-year-old Gordon Riley. Preliminary investigation revealed at least a hundred or so wounds consistent with tiny bite marks. Cause of death seemed to be trauma resulting from being partially eaten.
The park was searched and three hundred metres from where Gordon lay was discovered the body of his brother, William Riley, aged 23. His chest seemed to have been ruptured from within, in a manner similar to that of Stuart Casey. The Medical Examiner was threatening to assign autopsy priority by means of a board game spinner.


His pants not yet fastened, Neal Flaherty walked to the downstairs bathroom in the house he shared with his wife and his daughter. After a quick pee he fastened his pants and took a box of tissues with him to the living room, whereupon he set to the task of cleaning his favourite chair.
Half an hour ago, this had not been his favourite chair. He had not, in fact, had a favourite chair. But half an hour ago, everything had been different. He had been working until late, again, and on the long drive home had been thinking about his marriage, again. The way Margie and Jodi weren't getting along. The way Margie and Neal were not getting along. She had a secret. He could tell, and she knew it. It hung between them, driving them apart little by little. He was afraid to ask. She was afraid to tell. He was hurt, he was angry, he wanted to help but didn't know how.
There had been something in Margie's eyes tonight, something that said things were different. Could it just have been stress about the costumes? Was there even a secret after all? He couldn't say why, but he knew it no longer mattered.
The mess was cleaned up.
Now, he recalled there had also been some bumping, and a crashing sound... Ah. The ceramic lamp had fallen off the end table, perhaps fatally.
He could only vaguely recall liking that lamp anyway, for a brief time, long ago. Maybe it was broken. He felt lucky tonight.
He walked over, put the lamp back on the table, and tested it. It still worked. He considered breaking it.
Some sort of commotion upstairs. He left the lamp and took the stairs two at a time, momentarily enjoying an energy he had not felt in who knew how long.
He found Jodi in her room, on the floor, holding her mother. One of Margie's eyes had burst open, the blood spilling from the socket and mixing with blood from many other wounds on her head and body. Margie's other eye was open, pointed at the ceiling, seeing nothing.
"Daddy?"


Every cop hears the stories about Brothers in the big cities. Through constant daily reminders of Man's capacity to be inhuman to his own kind, some lose touch with their feelings, growing detached and ironic where once they had been compassionate and healing. Proud of his reputation as a people police, Emile Martin had never understood how this could happen. Defense mechanism? Partial insanity?
4:45.
A man called to report the death of his wife. The body was found in his daughter's bedroom, with the husband and child still tightly holding on to their wife and mother. The body had been dead for several hours. She had been savagely beaten to death. By her daughter.
Martin heard ringing in his ears, could feel his stomach dropping and his chest tightening, and then he understood. It was partial insanity as a defense mechanism.

5:20.
Call from the Medical Examiner. The night watchman at the Morgue had a lump on his head the size of a fist and the two bodies from the Martin house were missing, no longer on their gurneys.
By this point, Martin did no longer, could no longer, care.
He simply told the ME to put ice on the guard's head. And to find the bodies again.
He made a note for his report.

6:05.
"You are not serious."
"That's the report," Martin told his Lieutenant. All those things happened."
"But that's… "
"Six. Six major events."
"That's gotta be a record."
"Hope so."
The telephone rang, and Martin was about to go get it but he remembered his shift was over. The day shift Sergeant answered it, and after a quick exchange called out to him.
"Martin! How many we supposed to have in the Morgue right now?"
"One… three… four… six… seven… minus two five. Five."
"We only got four now."
Martin looked straight at his Lieutenant who had been about to speak. "Not my problem. I'm going home to bed.
"And taking a sick day tonight."


Theirs was a great patience, but they had been waiting a long time. The two of them clicked their legs together in their restlessness, waiting for their siblings.
There were always four to every birth, two pairs.
And they were born hungry.
The host body was useless to feed upon, having fed them in the pre-birth stage.
So upon birth, each sibling pair had to find a meal.
The pair that waited now had fed upon the closest one, chasing him a short distance and then running over him until he fell and their mandibles could tear the sumptuous flesh from his arms and legs and elsewhere and their heads could tilt back and let the dripping morsels fall into their tiny mouths.
He had screamed loudly, but it made no difference. They had no ears. They knew no sound.
But they had felt he was doing something. And then he had stopped.
They had not been completely sated, but they had stopped eating. The dead were not palatable.
Meanwhile, their siblings had gone in search of their own birth meal. And while they did this, the other pair had gone into the sewers to wait for them.
It was the best place to wait. Dark, damp, dank.
The scent was instinctively comforting to them.
And now they perceived a new odour. Their siblings were returning.
With a meal.
The waiting pair lost the rest of their patience and surged forward, for the meal was still alive and now they could satisfy themselves fully.
Then, they would begin looking for others like them.
There were many in the sewers. Their scent was everywhere.


"Ah, Marty, good. You're awake."
"Who the hell are you?"
"Oh, don't worry about it. I'm a friend."
"Where am I?"
"Please don't worry; you're quite safe."
"Where's Emertia?"
"I'm not sure, honestly. I think she and the other one left the Morgue earlier."
"The other one? The Morgue?"
"Oh, yes. All three of you were dead when I showed up. Sadly, I only had time to move you away before the police arrived. But I did find this nifty gadget under your table. Any idea what it is?"
"No. Did you say I was dead?"
"Quite. Shot in the chest. I've had the bullet removed."
"I was dead?"
"Yes. Past tense, though. You're fine now."
"And she's with – another guy?"
"Yes, the third dead one. From your house. You must relax."
"Relax? How the hell do I relax?"
"You might begin by lying down."
"No way, I – Hey! I'm shackled to the bed!"
"Yes, sorry. Regrettable but necessary and all that. Death can be quite a trauma."
"Let me the fuck out of here!"
"Please stop shouting. Relax. I will leave for a while to study this gadget, and in the meantime you can lie down and find your emotional centre."
"But – "
"Byee."
"Wait no, come back!
"This is terrible! I've been killed. And I've come back from the dead. And I'm kidnapped. And, worst of all, Emertia's out there somewhere. With another man. Okay, that last bit is actually more of a relief than anything, but the rest is pretty bad."
"Hey, buddy, I feel for you and all, but do you suppose you could stop whining for a bit, please? It could be worse, y'know."
"And who the hell are you?"
"Name's Gordon Riley. Got any gauze?"

posted by anonymous @ Friday, July 12, 2002

Perkins struggled against his bonds, but the rope bit through his skin, burning him. How many times, he thought, was it me who peered over a fella who struggled in a chair under the hot lights. I knew it would eventually be my turn in the chair, but not so soon.

And this woman, he thought. Which side was she on? How much did she know? Or was this whole affair yet another exercise to test his loyalties? The questions brought on a piercing stab at his brain and he winced slightly.

"That's quite a lump you've got there," the female voice continued. "I use much gentler submission techniques, but apparently we didn't all study at the same school." Perkins heard a clothes shuffle and footsteps approaching. "I think it's time to get that blindfold off you now. Time's a wasting."

Panicking, he lurched against the bonds that tied him to the chair, trying to jump to his feet. He felt the chair lean backwards and sideways, teetering on one or two legs for a moment before finally submitting to gravity. Perkin's stomach lurched sickeningly as his body unwittingly flipped around and crashed against a cold floor. Metal floor, metal walls, Perkins assumed, hearing the echo bounce all around him shrilly.

"Relax Gerkins," the female voice soothed. "I'm not going to hurt you, but you might hurt yourself if you don't calm down." Perkins felt strong hands wrap themselves around his shoulders, setting him back level with the chair. Judging by their size and texture, they didn't belong to the woman who spoke. So they were at least three in this room.

"I suggest you close your eyes. The lights--"

"Are bright in here. I guessed that part," Perkins growled. He closed his eyes as he felt a pair of delicate hands gently lift the blind fold. He slowly opened his eyes.

The room swam before his eyes, everything was blurry and out-of-focus. Not that there was much in the room to focus on, he thought. He could make out a woman sitting on a table before him, her legs crossed and she was peering at him intently. Glancing to the left, he could make out a man that seemed to be staring out into space, stock still.

"That'll be all Clancy," the woman gestured lazily towards the man. "Go wait out in the hall until I require your... services."

"Yesssss," the man slurred. Perkins' vision cleared up enough to see that Clancy's eyes were wide and unseeing, but he had no trouble finding the door and slipping through it. Craning his neck, Perkins glanced out the door, but all he could see was another door across the hall marked as SB26. Where the hell am I, he fumed.

"Let's get to business then 'cause I haven't got all day," Perkins noticed that the woman fidgeted nervously, glancing out the window in the door every few seconds. "Why were you following me?"

"I wasn't," Perkins grunted. "I was just going to pick up a package from a frie--"

"In a dead end street? Come now," the woman snorted, crossing her arms and leaning back. "We both know that you were tailing me. I spotted you 15 minutes before I went down that alleyway. I'll ask you again: why were you following me?"

"I don't know what you're talking about. Where am I anyways? I want to talk to my lawyer."

"You think this is a cop station? Ha! You're funny... In a cop station, you'd be safe. But here," she glanced out the window again. "Let's take a different tack... what do you know about the Horrap's Collective Project?"

Perkins tried to hide his recognition, but it was no good because she had already spotted it. The woman hopped down from the table and rushed towards him, leaning into him with her hands braced up on the armrests. "Aha! You do know something about it. Tell me and I'll get you out of here safely. Tit for tat. Even trade. Whaddya say?"

"You're crazy," he gasped, twisting away from her gaze. "I've never heard of such a thing. Let me go."

"Not my decision," she replied. "You may not believe this, but I'm not your captor." She pushed away from him and turned back to the table, risking another quick glance out the window. Perkins heard two clicks and the hiss of a vaccuum seal that was broken. She reached forward and turned suddenly, thrusting a package onto his lap.

One look at it and Perkins knew. He knew what she suspected and it filled him with horror. The see-through package contained a sweater that seemed stained with a liquid. But even though he was protected from it with the plastic, Perkins struggled, shaking his legs, hoping that the package would fall to the floor. A low gurgle of a scream erupted from his throat as he screeched "Get it away from me!"

The woman deftly snatched the package from his lap and covered his mouth with the other hand. "Shhhh Gerkins... So, you know, don't you? You know all about this!" She thrust the package towards him so that it was only an inch from his face. Perkins twisted away again, clenching his eyes shut, but not before he caught sight of the tiny black mandibles that were already spawning, reaching up from the sweater's material, pressing against the plastic, reaching for his skin.

Heavy footfalls resounded outside, approaching swiftly. The woman looked up in shock and cursed. She tossed the package back into the suitcase upon the table clicking it shut. She stood in the corner of the room next to the door and put a finger to her lips, telling Perkins to be quiet.

The door flew open with a crack and a hulking figure clad in black exploded through it. He glared at Perkins, looming over him, his hands outstetched heading for his throat. Perkins could just make out the expression of shock and rage on this newcomer's face when it suddenly went slack and the man-mountain pitched forward moaning "Not agaaaiiiinnnnn..."

The woman reached down to the man and removed the syringe from his neck, pocketing it carefully. "Like I said, I've got gentler means of submission at my disposal." She looked at the unconscious form and mused "That dose really should've lasted longer. I'll have to talk to the lab boys about it."

She turned to Perkins and pulled a knife from her pocket and held it before his nose. The sweat poured down his forehead. "I assume you know what this is for, right? We'll talk again Gerkins." She reached back behind the chair and placed the knife in his hands. Perkins nearly dropped the knife in shock.

"Stay or go, it's your choice. But I estimate that Boob In Black will be out for about 15 minutes. Then again, as you've seen, my estimates are sometimes off. Don't dally Gerkins... Get out while you still can." With a wink, she disappeared through the door. Perkins could still see Clancy standing and staring out into space, oblivious to all that had just occurred.

"That's Perkins. My name is Perkins," he muttered, as he desperately sliced through the rope threads.
posted by Hobbes @ Monday, July 08, 2002

Dear Diary,

Oh, God, I'm not even sure I should be writing this down, but I'm shaking all over, and I have to do something. I got kidnapped today at school. It was during my lunch break. I was walking across the school grounds and some guy came up to me and told me my parents needed to see me right away, and that he was going to take me to them.

I told him "fuck you", like I was going to just walk off with some stranger and I was going to walk away but he grabbed my arm, and he put a gun into my back, or at least it felt like a gun, and he told me not to scream "if you know what's good for you", just like that, just like out of some bad movie.

He walked me off school grounds, trying to make it look for all the world like he was my dad, or something, just out for a walk, and then he told me to get into the back of a minivan, just a normal looking minivan and he handcuffed me and told me to keep quiet again. And then he sat down, took out his gun, pointed it at me, and just stared.

I tried to play it cool, like this kind of thing happens all the time, but I was so scared. I didn't know what he was going to do. And after an hour -- I mean, I think it was only an hour, but it felt like a week, let me tell you, he let me go, just like that. Someone called him on his cell phone and he let me go. He told me to forget all about him. But I can't. I just can't. And I don't know what to do.

I was late getting back for math class, so I faked like I was sick, and went to the principal's office and came home early. Well, I didn't really have to fake it. I was shaking so bad when I came back to school that I went to the bathroom to throw up. Twice. Then I started crying and I could stop. And now I'm home and I feel all weak, and my stomach is still doing flip-flops. Mom looked all concerned when I got home, and put me right to bed and brought me flat pop. She thinks I'm sick, and she's all stressed out about these stupid costumes that she has to do for tonight, so she's really distracted, and I can tell she's just thinking "oh-you-being-sick-I-just-don't-need-right-now". She might even be mad at me. I want to tell her what happened, but I can't. I'm too scared that guy's going to come back and kill me. I think he might anyway. He looked like the type of person that might kill someone for fun.

I'm still scared to death. I'm writing this down and it's making me feel a little better, but what if someone sees this? What if mom sees it, or dad sees it, and they call the police? I can't tell them what happened.

I know what I'm going to do, now. I'm going to finish writing this, and then I'm going to take it and burn it. I've got some candles in here. Mom and Dad will never know. But that guy, what if he comes back? What if he takes me and they don't know where I've gone? Maybe I should write down what he looks like and put it somewhere like they'll find it in case he comes back and kidnaps me, so the police will know who to look for. Maybe they can put me in the Witness Protection Program or something and I can testify against him and go have a new life. But I don't want to leave Sandra and Darcy, and Kayla, and all my friends. I don't know what to do.

I wish you could tell me what to do, but you're only a stupid journal. I have to think about this some more.
posted by Ceri @ Thursday, May 30, 2002

Hidden in the
Cellar of her
Panicking
Husband, in the
Cold, in the dark, and with an acute
Pain in the back of her
Head, she was first aware of a lethargic
Confusion, as though she were waking from deep,
Profound sleep. The next things she noticed were
Her inability to see, and how
Cramped the space was. But then,
Placing her
Hands firmly upon the
Ceiling, she was amazed to find herself actually
Pushing it up! (In his earlier
Haste, Martin had not locked the freezer, just
Closed it.) Emertia emerged.
Putting aside for the moment
Her questions about how she
Came to be among the chickens,
Pizzas, and other frozen items in
Her freezer, she tried to
Climb out, but instead
Pain and numbness made her tumble
Heavily over and onto the
Concrete floor. It was the
Perfect metaphor for the sudden cruelty of
Her realisation: She must have died. And
Come back. Just as Vince had
Promised, all those years ago, when
He showed her the rough sketch of his new
Chemical formula and asked her to be his
Personal assistant. She had taken the job despite
Having serious doubts - even if it
Could ever be
Perfected,
How
Could they
Prove it worked? Somebody would
Have to die. And then
Come back. But now, it seemed the ethical
Problem
Had been
Conquered... Martin. It had to have been that
Prideful
Husband of hers. She remembered
Coming home
Particularly late after work, Martin giving her a
Hard time once more, thinking that
Complaining about her hours could hide his
Prejudice against Vince. And suddenly… she'd
Heard it all before, but this time she just
Couldn't bear it. First she shrieked, then
Pounded the table, and finally let fly at her
Husband with a tirade of verbal abuse. It was
Catharsis; once she had started it wasn't
Possible to stop. Or maybe it
Had been possible, but she didn't want to. She
Called him every name in the book,
Plus a few she made up. She was merciless, and
He was shocked,
Completely devastated. When it ended, an eerie
Peace settled over the
House. Then Martin simply left the room. Emertia
Clomped upstairs, had a thought, and started
Preparing a bath. Martin must have been
Hidden by the water sounds, and he must have
Come in, and then… it was
Pretty evident what had happened then. He must
Have killed her. Nothing else
Could explain the mixture of numbness and
Pain she had felt since awakening in the freezer.
How ironic, that the fatal
Conflict had been about her job.
Perhaps if she
Had not been so secretive about it… This was the
Core of their marital woes. Even when
Pressed, she never gave more than the vaguest
Hint of what she was working on. And so the first
Cracks in their marriage had appeared. Martin
Pretended most of the time that
He didn't
Care, but every time his facade cracked he
Practically threatened to
Hit her. And still she
Concealed the details of the
Project from him. She had given
Her word to Vince, and having done so
Could not even break it for the sake of her
Partner in marriage. She knew Martin would be
Horrified if he ever found out. Even the scientific
Community must be kept ignorant of the
Particulars. The religious ramifications alone…
Hiding their work from the world, she and Vince had
Concealed their intentions behind a
Phony identity:
Horrap's
Collective
Project.
H
C
P.
Hell-
Conquering
Potion.




posted by anonymous @ Tuesday, April 30, 2002

Once upon a time, in a land not that far away called Grandville, there was big man with a naughty scar over his left eye. This man's name was Officer Balsam and he was searching for someone, several someones in fact. He searched high and he searched low. He asked many questions to some of the local people, but he received precious few answers.

One night, the big man with the naughty scar trotted his way over to another man's house. This man's name was Martin and Officer Balsam had a few questions for him that only Martin could answer. He hoped that Martin would be as helpful with his answers as the last few people he interviewed. He hoped he wouldn't have to kill this man too. Killing was always so naughty, but sometimes necessary.

Martin was home when Officer Balsam paid him a visit, and although he looked slightly nervous and alarmed at his arrival, Martin invited the officer in and sat him down in the living room.

"If you'll excuse me for just one minute," Martin stammered, "I need to just turn something off on the stove. I don't want an overflowing pot interrupting us. Be right back!" And he very calmly rushed from the room.

Balsam knew how to recognize a man with something to hide, but he decided he wouldn't pursue it just yet. Still... Keeping an eye on the kitchen door, which still swung silently on its well-oiled hinges, he quickly retreived a miniscule device from his inside coat pocket and carefully placed it underneath the coffee table in front of him. Tapping it twice, it whined softly and fell silent.

At that moment, Martin strolled back into the living room, looking more (but not perfectly) relaxed. "So what can I do for you Officer," he asked, wiping his wet hands on his jeans.

Balsam looked up slightly from his chair, smiling slightly. He was going to enjoying playing on this man's fears. It was one of the perks of the job, as far as he was concerned. He pulled the notepad from his pocket and purred, "So... Have you ever heard of Luiz Ayala?"

"I'm sorry... who?" Martin's blank stare was well rehearsed and sat on his face like an old relative. "I'm afraid I don't know that name."

"Luiz Ayala. The Fuscia Menace as he's know in other circles. Heard of him?" Balsam's pen sat at attention on the notepad, anxious to record what Balsam wanted to hear.

"Nope... Fuscia Menace? Is that a nickname?" Martin chuckled lightly. "I don't think I'd want other people to call me that, in any circle!"

"Very well," Balsam jotted a few notes down. "How about Andrea Robinson? Isn't she a friend of yours?"

"Andrea, yes. She's an old friend of mine from my school days. I just saw her today. Is she is some kind of trouble?" Martin fidgetted with his sleeves absentmindedly.

"No, no," Balsam smiled reassuringly. "We're just following up on a few leads for a case. I'm afraid I can't really talk about it to much right now, you understand." Martin nodded that he did.

"So... let me just check this for a second," Balsam flipped the back pages of his notebook. "What do you know about the Horrap's Collective Project."

At these words, a strange transformation overtook Martin. It looked like he was having a battle with himself. Although he tried to look calm, yet slightly confused, his body went rigid for a moment. A flash of panic crossed his eyes, but he said nothing.

Right then, Balsam knew he had him. He knew he had found his connection. Now... how would he best exploit it?
posted by Hobbes @ Monday, March 25, 2002

INTERROGATIVES
being an essay-in-progress on various types of interview

1. UNBURDENED
Margie was so busy sewing when the doorbell rang that although she heard it clearly it took several moments for her to realise that it meant something was required of her. She hastily, therefore awkwardly, untangled herself from a hemline and ran down the hallway to the front door, expecting all the while to hear the doorbell ring again. Since it did not, she expected the caller to have left.
Which he had not. "Good afternoon. Mrs. Flaherty? My name is Detective Balsam; I'm with the Grandville Police Department, and I'd like to ask you a couple of questions. May I come in?"
Margie sized the man up quickly. Just over six feet tall, broad shoulders, the hint of a scar over one eyebrow, and a very open smile. "Sure, come in."
"Thank you."
She led him into the living room, unsure whether he counted as a guest or not. "Um, can I offer you some coffee?"
"No, thank you. I'm fine." He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a photograph. "Do you by any chance recognise this woman?"
Margie had never met the person in the photograph, had never spoken to her, had no idea who she was. But she recognised her immediately. It was the woman who had taken the envelope that morning.
There was no point in lying to this man. The background of the photograph showed it had been taken at the same bench, and the woman was wearing the same clothes. So the photograph had been taken this morning. Which meant that whoever had taken it had seen her, too.
"Who are you? What do you want?"
The man's smile went from friendly to neutral. "I'm looking for the woman in this photograph."
Margie took a deep breath. She was in trouble. Very big trouble. Why did she feel relieved? "If I tell you everything I know, what will happen to me?"
The man was smiling again. Had he looked surprised for a moment? "If you tell me everything I need to know, I can leave here and you'll never have to see me again."
"Good. That's what I want." And she told him everything. Without being asked. She didn't know the woman in the photograph. Ayala had made her learn to recognise her. Last year she had needed money, quickly, and Ayala had bailed her out. A couple of weeks ago he started pestering her about it, though he knew she didn't have the money to pay him. He threatened to tell her husband. She begged him not to. He told her she would have to run a few errands for him, to work the debt off. This was the first one: Take the envelope, bring it to the bench, and leave it to the woman in a picture Ayala showed her. Margie had never looked inside the envelope; it was sealed and she didn't want to have anything to do with it anyway. Was there anything else "Detective Balsam" would like to know?
"When did he give you the envelope?"
"He dropped it off Friday, after lunch. That's when he showed me the photo."
"So you don't know this woman, but Ayala does?"
"That's right."
"One last thing, Mrs. Flaherty. If some unfortunate accident were to befall Luiz Ayala, would you be tempted to remember this conversation?"
Margie considered this for exactly six seconds. "Now why would I want to do a stupid thing like that?"

2. ABORTED
The man in the dark glasses reached into his jacket and turned on his cell phone. "Yeah.
"Yeah?
"Really?
"Yeah, she's here.
"Sure. You got it." He hung off and turned to her.
"Well, looks like today's your lucky day."
Jodi Flaherty, her hands handcuffed behind her in the back of the van, was understandably sceptical. "Oh, yeah? How's that?"
"The guy on the phone just told me I can let you go."
"Really? Great. I don't suppose you'd mind telling me why you kidnapped me in the first place, would you?"
"Try being a little thankful, here. The less you know, the better." He stepped behind her and unlocked the cuffs. "By the way, it would be best if you forgot this ever happened. Do anything stupid, like telling your parents or friends about it, and I might have to come back for you."
"Don't worry. The last thing I want to do is remember YOU. As far as I'm concerned you don't exist."
"Good," said the man in the dark glasses, pulling the door open and shoving her out.

3. WRATHFUL
For the man with the scar over his eyebrow, this was turning out to be a very good day. First, he had had the incredible luck to stumble across possibly the most amateurish drop he'd ever witnessed in his life, featuring a package he recognised - ! - as having been stolen from him that Friday morning. Second, he had conducted an interrogation with someone who was as un-reticent as he could imagine, who perhaps hated Ayala even more than he did. Third, he had experienced the joy of breaking into Luiz Ayala's home, hooking electrodes up to his testicles, and asking him questions Ayala didn't want to answer. Fourth, and best of all, he had dropped a radio into a full bathtub and witnessed the sublime beauty of Luiz Ayala twitching spastically to a very painful conclusion.
"Do you think," asked his friend with the dark glasses, "that anyone is going to believe this was accidental?"
"We can make it look self-inflicted. Homoerotic, maybe, taken too far?"
"No time. Perkins missed his last check-in, plus the backup."
"You think the chick – whatsername – "
"Andrea Robinson."
"Yeah. You think she may have caught on to him?"
"Maybe. Ayala wanted to get the package to her, so he trusted her. Maybe she's more competent than we thought."
"Tell you what: You look for her and Perkins; I'll check out the other guy."
"Sounds good."

4. LONG-DISTANCE
For the fourth time in fifteen minutes, Clancy checked the time. Still more than two hours to go. And then he was free for another fourteen hours, free to live his own life instead of being the graveyard shift vegetable. Two hours, then home. But first, a quick stop at the SoapBox Derby. Yeah… a beer would be so great right now…
"Clancy."
"Yes?"
"Are you coming to the SoapBox Derby tonight?"
"Oh, yesss… "
"Do you like drinking our beer, Clancy?"
"Yes."
"Very much?"
"Yes."
"Would you be willing to do things for the Soapbox Derby, Clancy?"
"Sure."
"What things, Clancy?"
"Anything… anything."
"Good. Very good. Do you remember what we need you to do, Clancy?"
"Yes. Let a man in."
"Which man?"
"He'll give me the password… Soapbox Derby."
"And then what will you do?"
"Disable the cameras like you told me. Take him to room SB27. Wait for him. Let him out. Turn the cameras back on."
"And then? What is the last thing you will do, Clancy?"
"Forget."
"Yes, that is correct. FORGET."
"Whoah!" Clancy lifted his chin off his chest with a start.
"Musta dozed off… " He checked the time again, was disappointed.
Still over two hours to that beer.

5. IMPROVISED
Perkins had a headache. He didn't know where he was. He remembered…
The alley.
Crap.
The chick had finally parted company with her date. Not her date; they didn't kiss. Even though she looked like she was having more fun than he was. So they split up, and Perkins followed her as she drove into a rough area of town. After a while she slowed down a bit, and he could see her look over her right shoulder every few seconds. Finally she pulled over, and Perkins had to pass her, but in his rearview mirror he saw her get out and quickly look around, then disappear down an alleyway. Perkins stopped his own car, got out, and ran as quietly as he could back down the street, slowing as he turned into the alleyway, where the last thing he saw was his target swinging a broken piece of wood at him.
Which explained the headache.
But why couldn't he see?
"Good. You're awake." Female voice. "You and I are going to have a talk."

6. COINCIDENTAL
Martin was in a good mood. He locked the door behind him, kicked off his shoes, and grabbed a beer from the fridge.
Then he decided to wish Emertia a good night.
Standing over her, holding his beer, the strangest feeling came over him.
He resisted it.
Then his doorbell rang.
He ran up the stairs from his basement.
Who could that be at this time of night?
He checked through the door's window.
A big guy, scar over one eyebrow, was looking back.
"Mister O'Connor? My name is Detective Balsam. Sorry for the late hour. I'd like to ask you a couple of questions. May I come in?"
Marty tried to remember.
Had he closed the freezer?

…

posted by anonymous @ Monday, February 25, 2002

"What the hell are we doing in here?"
"Didn't you see her?"
"See who?"
"The woman I saw this morning. The one with the envelope!"
"Are you still on about that? Give it up. It's nothing."
"You didn't even see it!"
"And I know well enough to mind my own business and not follow around some chick with an envelope just because I think she's acting weird....Um...Gord? What did you say we were doing here agin?"
"She came in here."
"Really? Where is she then?"
"She left."
"She left? Then what the hell are we doing here?"
"I want to know what she did with that envelope. I bet she gave it to someone in here. Why else would such a good-looking woman come into a dive like this?"
"Oh, man, you are definitely taking this too far. I'm leaving."

"Can I help you gentlemen?"
"Nah, my friend and I here were just leaving."
"Shut up. Actually maybe you can help me. I was looking for someone. A woman. She just came in here. Did you see her?"
"As you can probably see, there are several women here. Were you looking for any one in particular, or are you just browsing?"
"No, no, there was a woman who just came in here a few minutes ago. She's tall, red hair. Did you see her?"
"Yeah, I saw her. She left. Why? You know her?"
"No. I mean, not really. I just wanted to ask her something."
"Oh?"
"It's kind of an odd story, actually...but you probably don't want to hear it."
"An odd story? About Andrea? I'd love to hear it."
"You know her?"
"From years ago, yeah."
"Oh."
"Come on, have a pint of the house brew and tell me. I'd like to hear what you know about her."
"Uh...okay."
"The name's Stu, by the way."
"Gordon. I'm Gordon. This is Bill."
"So Gordon, what's your story? Why are you looking for Andrea?"
"Well, it's just one of those things. You see, there was this woman with an envelope..."

To be Continued
posted by Ceri @ Thursday, February 21, 2002