Ed Waller hit the big five-oh last year. He tried to argue that the day he turned fifty would be nothing more than just another day. His wife Sarah, however, would have none of it.
“Now dear, you only turn fifty once. Let’s make it a day to remember.”
Sarah suggested he take a trip off from work and they get a hotel room for the occasion. Ed, always game for playing hooky from a trip on the train, agreed. So on Wednesday night they headed to Loda and checked into a room at the Dewdrop Inn.
Sarah had made a birthday cake for Ed, and put it in the trunk of the car along with their overnight bag. She also brought 50 birthday candles to put on the cake. She had considered getting candles shaped like the numbers “5” and “0” or simply arranging several candles to spell out 50, but that seem just a bit too clichéd.
After checking in, Sarah and Ed went out for dinner at Heavenly Helpings. While they had a nice time, they noted the place had gone downhill since the new owners took over. After dinner, they headed back to the hotel. Sarah wanted it to be a night to remember.
It was.
Sarah waited for Ed to go into the bathroom to change. When he did, she brought the cake out and hurriedly placed all fifty candles atop the cake. Realizing that she would need a whole lot of matches to light all those candles, she instead brought a butane grill lighter; the sort that can be adjusted to send several inches of flame out.
Sarah waited to time it just right. After Ed had been in the bathroom for several minutes, she decided to light the candles so they would be waiting when he emerged. She turned the little knob on the lighter up all the way and clicked the button, only to find herself holding a miniature blowtorch.
It only took a few seconds to light the candles, which covered the entire surface of the cake. She almost set fire to the drapes and the table in the process with her little flame thrower of a lighter. Disaster averted, she sat down and waited for Ed to emerge.
And waited. And waited.
After a few moments, Sarah heard the sound of Ed singing coming from behind the bathroom door. Then she heard the water start running.
“Of all times to take a shower!” she muttered and went to blow the candles out.
Sarah huffed, and puffed, and blew on the candles as hard as she could. She nearly got half of them, and drew in another deep breath. As she did, she paused in amazement as fire spread back across the surface of the cake as the candles reignited. It seems that with fifty candles spread across the cake, the candles were just close enough together for one candle to reignite the next all the way across the cake.
This was not good.
Sarah drew in an even deeper breath and let the cake have it. This time wax from the candles blew all over the cake and the table. Maybe twenty-five candles went out this time, only to spring back to life as flames popped up across the cake like a wildfire marching through the forest.
Ripples of heat surged upward from the cake. Wax ran off the candles and pooled onto the surface of the icing, hardening into a thin blue crust. Sarah tried again with similar results. She tried again. Same result.
By now the candles had burned down to little stubs protruding from the icing of the cake. The icing was starting to run from the heat of the candles growing ever nearer. In desperation, Sarah tried one last time as the candles retreated down into the cake, which began smoking.
From the bathroom, the running water had stopped. After a few moments, the door began to open as Ed appeared.
“Honey? Is something burning?”
Ed stepped into the room, which was rapidly filling with smoke from the smoldering cake. At just that moment, the sprinkler system activated. Ed, Sarah, the cake and the entire room was instantly soaked.
Sarah stood there, drenched to the skin with water running down her face. She smiled at Ed.
“Happy birthday, dear,” she said as the sound of sirens began to be heard in the distance.
Sarah and Ed Waller have been banned from the Dewdrop Inn for life, but at least Ed’s fiftieth was one to remember.
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Copyright 2008 - Mary Rae McPherson
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
The Haunted House
Every town has its ghosts. Be it a haunted house, ghosts in the forest at the edge of town or whatever. It’s almost obligatory; an unwritten rule: Thou shall have a haunted place.
Joshua Wayne moved to Doohickeyville with his parents when his father joined the town police department. Soon he, Austin Little and Brent Powers were inseparable. Austin and Brent were natives of the town, and knew all the good places to hang out. They knew the best places to fish, knew where the best swimming holes were, and knew all the town’s little quirks.
Late one afternoon Austin and Brent knocked on the door. Chief Wayne answered the door.
“Josh, you’re friends are here.”
“Thanks Dad.”
Josh came to the door.
“What’s up guys?”
“Hey dude. Think your Dad will, like, let you go camping?” asked Brent.
“Probably. DAD! Can I go camping?”
“Sure,” came a disembodied voice from the living room. “Just don’t do anything I’ll hear about.”
That was the problem when your father was the police chief. You couldn’t get away with much of anything.
“Thanks Dad!”
Josh quickly packed a change of clothes and some of his camping gear in his back pack. After a few minutes, he joined his friends out on the porch.
“Well, I’m ready.”
“Let’s go then,” said Austin and the three of them walked down the street.
“So, where are we camping?” inquired Josh. “Like out in Tucker’s Woods?”
“No man,” said Brent. “We ain’t really going camping.”
“We ain’t?”
“Naw,” said Austin. “Have you ever seen a ghost?”
“A ghost,” said Josh with a hint of sarcasm in his voice. “Get real.”
“No shit, man” said Brent. “There’s, like, this place they say is haunted just outside of town off the highway.”
“They, huh. Just who is ‘they‘?”
“You know,” said Brent, “just like, you know, people. They say there’s a ghost.”
“Well, does anyone live there?”
“No way, man,” said Austin.
“Yeah, the house has been empty for, like, years or something,” Brent added.
“Why?” said Austin with a sly grin spreading across his face. “You’re not scared, are you.”
“No, I ain’t scared,” said Josh. “It just sounds like, you know, bullshit.”
“Maybe it is, and maybe it ain’t,” said Austin.
“Like, maybe we’ll find out,” added Brent.
And off they went, down Main Street to the edge of town where it became highway 69. Several times police passed on their mopeds, waving with a “Hi Josh” as they rode by.
“Dude, it must suck with your Dad being the chief and all,” said Brent.
“Tell me about it.”
It was about a quarter mile outside of town when they got to a weed grown driveway heading off into the woods.
“This is it?” said Josh.
“Yep.” Austin pointed up the drive. “It’s back there about a hundred yards. It’s so grown up, you can’t even see it from the highway anymore.”
“Dude,” Brent said, “I haven’t been out here at night before. This should, like, be intense, man.”
“Yeah, whatever,” said Austin.
The fourteen year olds headed up the drive toward the house. The drive had a bit of a gooseneck in it, which explained why the house couldn’t be seen from the road. The boys rounded the kink in the drive.
There it was. An old two story farmhouse. Most of the windows were broken out and vines grew up the side all the way to the roof. There was hardly any grass left in the yard surrounding the house, the weeds and brush growing under the cover of the huge trees surrounding the place. It looked as though the house had mysteriously materialized in the middle of the woods.
“Damn!” Josh exclaimed. “How long has it been since anyone lived here?”
Austin thought for a moment.
“It’s been at least twenty years since anyone lived here. The house used to belong to the old man who built it. After he died a few other people moved in, but they say nobody stayed long. They say the old man haunts it.”
“The old man?”
“Yeah. The story goes that the bank took the house in the thirties, but he eventually bought it back. They say he swore nobody would ever take his house again.”
“So what? Was he murdered or something.”
“No way dude,” said Brent. “He, like, pulled an Elvis, man.”
“Yeah, he died on the shitter,” explained Austin.
“And it’s getting deeper by the minute,” said Josh.
“Like, whatever, man.”
“Get your flashlight out. Let’s check it out.”
The screen door was hanging on by one hinge as they climbed the steps onto the porch. Austin pulled the screen door aside and pushed the front door open. It opened with a groaning, creaking sound.
“Not too clichéd,” thought Josh.
The boys stepped inside. Nothing but a front room devoid of furniture but abundantly supplied with dirt, dust and cobwebs met the beams of their flashlights. Rocks and the resultant broken glass littered the floor.
“Damn,” said Austin.
Damn was right. The place was a wreck. The perfect home for any self respecting ghost to move into.
“This place is, like, totally fucked up, man,” said Brent.
Floorboards creaked under their feet as they made their way through the house. Occasionally their feet crunched on a piece of broken glass, or kicked at a rock.
“Hey! The stairs are over there.”
The beams of two flashlights swung around to join the one emanating from Josh’s hand. The three boys shone their lights up into the darkness.
“What do you think is up there?” asked Josh.
“Not much, I’ll bet.”
“You want to, like, find out?”
“You can if you want to,” said Austin.
“Okay, dude,” Brent said and promptly put his foot through the first step.
“Fuck you!” Brent said as Josh and Austin started laughing at him.
“Maybe you need to try the Slim Fast plan,” Austin said.
“Real fuckin’ funny!”
“Shhh…” Josh said. “Did you hear something?”
“Yeah. Brent falling through the floor.”
“Asshole.”
“No, not that. I thought I heard something from that direction. It sounded like it could have come from behind the house or something.”
“Maybe it was a deer,” Austin opined.
“Or maybe it’s, like, the ghost of the old man come to, like, run us out of his house.”
“Yeah,” Josh smirked. “I wouldn’t want anyone to see if I lived in a dump like this.”
Bang!
“Dude, I heard that.”
“Yeah, me too.”
“Told you I heard something.”
“It did come from out behind the house,” said Austin.
“See? I’m not nuts.”
“Dude, like I wouldn’t go that far.”
Josh flipped Brent a rude gesture, the effect of which was wasted in the darkness.
“Come on,” said Austin and began making his way to the back door. The other boys followed.
They emerged from the house into a back yard as overgrown as the front. Nothing stirred as they emerged. They shone their flashlights around, until the beams caught what looked like a long wooden box standing on end.
“Dude! It’s, like, the shitter where the old man croaked.”
Bang!
The sound seemed to come from the direction of the old outhouse. The three boys ran to the outhouse and flung the door open, shining their lights inside. Nothing.
“That’s, like, freaky, man.”
They stood there silently for a moment.
“I heard that,” Josh said.
“What?” asked Austin.
“One of you farted.”
“Wasn’t me,” the other two said simultaneously.
“Well, it wasn’t me.”
“Like, dude. Whoever denied it supplied it.”
“It was probably you.”
“Not even,” said Austin.
Pbbbt!
It came from inside the outhouse.
“Shit!” Austin, whispered. “It came from in there.”
“I, like, told you it wasn’t me.”
“Shut up!” Brent whispered.
His hand moved toward the handle on the door.
“C’mon. On three. One… Two… Three…”
He threw open the door and all three shined their lights inside.
“SHIT!”
There it was, the ghost of the old man. He was sitting on the stool, visible but slightly transparent. They could just make out the back wall through his body. He was looking down, as though reading a magazine. The ghost looked up at the intruders.
“Do you mind?”
Suddenly the ghostly body morphed into a silvery cloud that drifted past the boys and out into the night, where it dissipated like steam on a warm day.
“Augh!” the three boys screamed and took off running. They scampered around the house, down the drive and out to the highway. They barely slowed down until they got back to town.
Chief Wayne was sitting in the living room reading when Josh stumbled through the door. He looked at the clock. Only a quarter to ten.
“I thought you guys were going camping?”
He stared at the look on his son’s face for a moment.
“What’s wrong with you? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“You don’t know the half of it, Dad,” Josh gasped.
----------
Copyright 2008 - Mary Rae McPherson
Joshua Wayne moved to Doohickeyville with his parents when his father joined the town police department. Soon he, Austin Little and Brent Powers were inseparable. Austin and Brent were natives of the town, and knew all the good places to hang out. They knew the best places to fish, knew where the best swimming holes were, and knew all the town’s little quirks.
Late one afternoon Austin and Brent knocked on the door. Chief Wayne answered the door.
“Josh, you’re friends are here.”
“Thanks Dad.”
Josh came to the door.
“What’s up guys?”
“Hey dude. Think your Dad will, like, let you go camping?” asked Brent.
“Probably. DAD! Can I go camping?”
“Sure,” came a disembodied voice from the living room. “Just don’t do anything I’ll hear about.”
That was the problem when your father was the police chief. You couldn’t get away with much of anything.
“Thanks Dad!”
Josh quickly packed a change of clothes and some of his camping gear in his back pack. After a few minutes, he joined his friends out on the porch.
“Well, I’m ready.”
“Let’s go then,” said Austin and the three of them walked down the street.
“So, where are we camping?” inquired Josh. “Like out in Tucker’s Woods?”
“No man,” said Brent. “We ain’t really going camping.”
“We ain’t?”
“Naw,” said Austin. “Have you ever seen a ghost?”
“A ghost,” said Josh with a hint of sarcasm in his voice. “Get real.”
“No shit, man” said Brent. “There’s, like, this place they say is haunted just outside of town off the highway.”
“They, huh. Just who is ‘they‘?”
“You know,” said Brent, “just like, you know, people. They say there’s a ghost.”
“Well, does anyone live there?”
“No way, man,” said Austin.
“Yeah, the house has been empty for, like, years or something,” Brent added.
“Why?” said Austin with a sly grin spreading across his face. “You’re not scared, are you.”
“No, I ain’t scared,” said Josh. “It just sounds like, you know, bullshit.”
“Maybe it is, and maybe it ain’t,” said Austin.
“Like, maybe we’ll find out,” added Brent.
And off they went, down Main Street to the edge of town where it became highway 69. Several times police passed on their mopeds, waving with a “Hi Josh” as they rode by.
“Dude, it must suck with your Dad being the chief and all,” said Brent.
“Tell me about it.”
It was about a quarter mile outside of town when they got to a weed grown driveway heading off into the woods.
“This is it?” said Josh.
“Yep.” Austin pointed up the drive. “It’s back there about a hundred yards. It’s so grown up, you can’t even see it from the highway anymore.”
“Dude,” Brent said, “I haven’t been out here at night before. This should, like, be intense, man.”
“Yeah, whatever,” said Austin.
The fourteen year olds headed up the drive toward the house. The drive had a bit of a gooseneck in it, which explained why the house couldn’t be seen from the road. The boys rounded the kink in the drive.
There it was. An old two story farmhouse. Most of the windows were broken out and vines grew up the side all the way to the roof. There was hardly any grass left in the yard surrounding the house, the weeds and brush growing under the cover of the huge trees surrounding the place. It looked as though the house had mysteriously materialized in the middle of the woods.
“Damn!” Josh exclaimed. “How long has it been since anyone lived here?”
Austin thought for a moment.
“It’s been at least twenty years since anyone lived here. The house used to belong to the old man who built it. After he died a few other people moved in, but they say nobody stayed long. They say the old man haunts it.”
“The old man?”
“Yeah. The story goes that the bank took the house in the thirties, but he eventually bought it back. They say he swore nobody would ever take his house again.”
“So what? Was he murdered or something.”
“No way dude,” said Brent. “He, like, pulled an Elvis, man.”
“Yeah, he died on the shitter,” explained Austin.
“And it’s getting deeper by the minute,” said Josh.
“Like, whatever, man.”
“Get your flashlight out. Let’s check it out.”
The screen door was hanging on by one hinge as they climbed the steps onto the porch. Austin pulled the screen door aside and pushed the front door open. It opened with a groaning, creaking sound.
“Not too clichéd,” thought Josh.
The boys stepped inside. Nothing but a front room devoid of furniture but abundantly supplied with dirt, dust and cobwebs met the beams of their flashlights. Rocks and the resultant broken glass littered the floor.
“Damn,” said Austin.
Damn was right. The place was a wreck. The perfect home for any self respecting ghost to move into.
“This place is, like, totally fucked up, man,” said Brent.
Floorboards creaked under their feet as they made their way through the house. Occasionally their feet crunched on a piece of broken glass, or kicked at a rock.
“Hey! The stairs are over there.”
The beams of two flashlights swung around to join the one emanating from Josh’s hand. The three boys shone their lights up into the darkness.
“What do you think is up there?” asked Josh.
“Not much, I’ll bet.”
“You want to, like, find out?”
“You can if you want to,” said Austin.
“Okay, dude,” Brent said and promptly put his foot through the first step.
“Fuck you!” Brent said as Josh and Austin started laughing at him.
“Maybe you need to try the Slim Fast plan,” Austin said.
“Real fuckin’ funny!”
“Shhh…” Josh said. “Did you hear something?”
“Yeah. Brent falling through the floor.”
“Asshole.”
“No, not that. I thought I heard something from that direction. It sounded like it could have come from behind the house or something.”
“Maybe it was a deer,” Austin opined.
“Or maybe it’s, like, the ghost of the old man come to, like, run us out of his house.”
“Yeah,” Josh smirked. “I wouldn’t want anyone to see if I lived in a dump like this.”
Bang!
“Dude, I heard that.”
“Yeah, me too.”
“Told you I heard something.”
“It did come from out behind the house,” said Austin.
“See? I’m not nuts.”
“Dude, like I wouldn’t go that far.”
Josh flipped Brent a rude gesture, the effect of which was wasted in the darkness.
“Come on,” said Austin and began making his way to the back door. The other boys followed.
They emerged from the house into a back yard as overgrown as the front. Nothing stirred as they emerged. They shone their flashlights around, until the beams caught what looked like a long wooden box standing on end.
“Dude! It’s, like, the shitter where the old man croaked.”
Bang!
The sound seemed to come from the direction of the old outhouse. The three boys ran to the outhouse and flung the door open, shining their lights inside. Nothing.
“That’s, like, freaky, man.”
They stood there silently for a moment.
“I heard that,” Josh said.
“What?” asked Austin.
“One of you farted.”
“Wasn’t me,” the other two said simultaneously.
“Well, it wasn’t me.”
“Like, dude. Whoever denied it supplied it.”
“It was probably you.”
“Not even,” said Austin.
Pbbbt!
It came from inside the outhouse.
“Shit!” Austin, whispered. “It came from in there.”
“I, like, told you it wasn’t me.”
“Shut up!” Brent whispered.
His hand moved toward the handle on the door.
“C’mon. On three. One… Two… Three…”
He threw open the door and all three shined their lights inside.
“SHIT!”
There it was, the ghost of the old man. He was sitting on the stool, visible but slightly transparent. They could just make out the back wall through his body. He was looking down, as though reading a magazine. The ghost looked up at the intruders.
“Do you mind?”
Suddenly the ghostly body morphed into a silvery cloud that drifted past the boys and out into the night, where it dissipated like steam on a warm day.
“Augh!” the three boys screamed and took off running. They scampered around the house, down the drive and out to the highway. They barely slowed down until they got back to town.
Chief Wayne was sitting in the living room reading when Josh stumbled through the door. He looked at the clock. Only a quarter to ten.
“I thought you guys were going camping?”
He stared at the look on his son’s face for a moment.
“What’s wrong with you? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“You don’t know the half of it, Dad,” Josh gasped.
----------
Copyright 2008 - Mary Rae McPherson
Saturday, May 30, 2009
The Tale Of Arnie Ledbetter
Few people grow up with the intention of being the town drunk. Arnie Ledbetter may have been one of the few exceptions. As a child he idolized Mayberry’s Otis and Barney from The Simpsons. It’s not that Arnie wasn’t intelligent; far from it. He did just fine in high school. It was just that he got it in his head that drinking beer was his life’s main ambition. After high school, Arnie stayed in Doohickeyville to go to school. He got his degree at “Drunken State University” in Physical Education, with an unofficial minor in excessive inebriation.
If, as many thought, it was Arnie’s life’s ambition to become the town drunk he certainly succeeded after graduation. Soon he had two vehicles to drive; one a beat up ‘73 Nova for when he had a driver’s license, the other a rusty Craftsman lawnmower of indeterminate age for when the state borrowed his license. The latter occurrence was fairly common.
One evening when the state was again borrowing his license, Arnie was borrowing a friend’s sedan for a night of merriment. After hitting the bars in Loda, Arnie was driving back to Doohickeyville when he came upon the railroad crossing on highway 69. The gates were down, but Arnie figured it wasn’t his car so what the hell. The train crew saw him coming and put the train in emergency but as one engineer has been heard to say, it isn’t like stopping a wheel barrow.
Many people have said that Arnie must have nine lives, and he surely used one on that night. He made it just far enough before the train caught the rear of the car. Simply put, that grain train turned the sedan into a hatchback. The trunk was ripped off the car, coming to a rest alongside the highway. The rest of the car did a 180, coming to rest facing the direction from which it had come.
Barney Wayne was the first cop on the scene. He hopped off his moped and ran over to the car expecting the worst, only to find Arnie sitting in the driver’s seat staring straight ahead with a death grip on the steering wheel. He didn’t have a scratch on him, but his underwear was a total loss.
It was a couple of weeks before Arnie was out of the county lockup.
“It took me until the sixth to get over the fifth I drank the fourth,” he told a friend.
After his brush with death, Arnie underwent something of a religious conversion. He became a regular churchgoer. In fact he was so committed he began coming back for seconds at communion. His making it a double from the wine chalice didn’t go unnoticed by the rest of the congregation, who agreed in Arnie’s absence that it would probably be best to switch from wine to grape juice.
That Sunday, as usual, Arnie took his second turn through the communion line. Afterward he was heard to comment, “You know, it just didn’t have it’s usual kick this week.”
Not long after the church gave up on wine, Arnie gave up on the church.
----------
Copyright 2008 - Mary Rae McPherson
If, as many thought, it was Arnie’s life’s ambition to become the town drunk he certainly succeeded after graduation. Soon he had two vehicles to drive; one a beat up ‘73 Nova for when he had a driver’s license, the other a rusty Craftsman lawnmower of indeterminate age for when the state borrowed his license. The latter occurrence was fairly common.
One evening when the state was again borrowing his license, Arnie was borrowing a friend’s sedan for a night of merriment. After hitting the bars in Loda, Arnie was driving back to Doohickeyville when he came upon the railroad crossing on highway 69. The gates were down, but Arnie figured it wasn’t his car so what the hell. The train crew saw him coming and put the train in emergency but as one engineer has been heard to say, it isn’t like stopping a wheel barrow.
Many people have said that Arnie must have nine lives, and he surely used one on that night. He made it just far enough before the train caught the rear of the car. Simply put, that grain train turned the sedan into a hatchback. The trunk was ripped off the car, coming to a rest alongside the highway. The rest of the car did a 180, coming to rest facing the direction from which it had come.
Barney Wayne was the first cop on the scene. He hopped off his moped and ran over to the car expecting the worst, only to find Arnie sitting in the driver’s seat staring straight ahead with a death grip on the steering wheel. He didn’t have a scratch on him, but his underwear was a total loss.
It was a couple of weeks before Arnie was out of the county lockup.
“It took me until the sixth to get over the fifth I drank the fourth,” he told a friend.
After his brush with death, Arnie underwent something of a religious conversion. He became a regular churchgoer. In fact he was so committed he began coming back for seconds at communion. His making it a double from the wine chalice didn’t go unnoticed by the rest of the congregation, who agreed in Arnie’s absence that it would probably be best to switch from wine to grape juice.
That Sunday, as usual, Arnie took his second turn through the communion line. Afterward he was heard to comment, “You know, it just didn’t have it’s usual kick this week.”
Not long after the church gave up on wine, Arnie gave up on the church.
----------
Copyright 2008 - Mary Rae McPherson
Friday, May 29, 2009
Tee Peed
Sheriff Argersen was alone in the office as the phone rang. Thought it was only ten in the morning, it had been a quiet day, and he was really hoping it would stay that way. He sighed and picked up the receiver.
“Onion County sheriff.”
“Uh, hello,” a woman’s voice said. “Is this the police?”
“This is the Onion County sheriff’s office.”
“Good. I want to report a crime.”
Sheriff Argersen picked up a pencil and a pad of paper.
“Is this an emergency?”
“I don’t know about that,” the woman answered. “But someone plastered my house with toilet paper.”
Sheriff Argersen had almost forgotten that Halloween was fast approaching. It looked like the kids were getting off to an early start this year.
“Yes ma’am, that happens a lot this time of year.”
“I’ve been toilet papered before, and I’ll even admit to doing it myself when I was young, but this was totally uncalled for.”
“Why is that ma’am?”
“The little bastards used it first.”
Sheriff Argersen sighed again. It was going to be one of those days.
----------
Copyright 2008 - Mary Rae McPherson
“Onion County sheriff.”
“Uh, hello,” a woman’s voice said. “Is this the police?”
“This is the Onion County sheriff’s office.”
“Good. I want to report a crime.”
Sheriff Argersen picked up a pencil and a pad of paper.
“Is this an emergency?”
“I don’t know about that,” the woman answered. “But someone plastered my house with toilet paper.”
Sheriff Argersen had almost forgotten that Halloween was fast approaching. It looked like the kids were getting off to an early start this year.
“Yes ma’am, that happens a lot this time of year.”
“I’ve been toilet papered before, and I’ll even admit to doing it myself when I was young, but this was totally uncalled for.”
“Why is that ma’am?”
“The little bastards used it first.”
Sheriff Argersen sighed again. It was going to be one of those days.
----------
Copyright 2008 - Mary Rae McPherson
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Wallet Drain
A couple of middle aged men sat at the counter of Fred’s Bar-B-Q And Taxidermy one afternoon. Bill Nelson had bought a house on the cheap six months before. His buddy David Ledbetter had seen the shape it was in when Bill bought it.
“How’s it going with the house?”
“It’s just one goddamned thing after another with it. That house sucks up the money as fast as I can make it.”
David nodded in sympathy.
“Sounds like my wife.”
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Copyright 2008 - Mary Rae McPherson
“How’s it going with the house?”
“It’s just one goddamned thing after another with it. That house sucks up the money as fast as I can make it.”
David nodded in sympathy.
“Sounds like my wife.”
----------
Copyright 2008 - Mary Rae McPherson
Of Lamps And Men
Annabelle Harris and Fannie May Smith were sitting at the lunch counter at Fred’s Bar-B-Q and Taxidermy one afternoon. Fannie May had been out and about that morning visiting the junk stores around Onion County, and she had found a lamp that caught her attention.
“I think it has potential. It’s a bit dirty, but I can clean it right up.”
“So what does it look like?” Annabelle asked.
“It’s one of those lamps with the painted glass shade on it. All you have to do is touch it and it turns on.”
“Kind of like my husband,” Annabelle said.
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Copyright 2008 - Mary Rae McPherson
“I think it has potential. It’s a bit dirty, but I can clean it right up.”
“So what does it look like?” Annabelle asked.
“It’s one of those lamps with the painted glass shade on it. All you have to do is touch it and it turns on.”
“Kind of like my husband,” Annabelle said.
----------
Copyright 2008 - Mary Rae McPherson
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Fred Milner
Fred Milner was a pretty nice guy. Most people agreed on that. Some people also thought it likely that he had hit his head a few too many times. That was certainly possible, as the man was six foot ten.
Fred had attempted to make use of his height in his younger days. For a time his dream had been to play basketball in the N.B.A., but the fact that he sucked is likely what put an end to that. Even though he was never much of a ball player, his sheer height had been enough to get him through college on a basketball scholarship at a tiny school, where he had majored in business and restaurant management.
After college Fred returned to Doohickeyville where he decided to put his love of hunting together with his restaurant training, opening what would become the most popular greasy spoon in town: Fred’s Bar-B-Q And Taxidermy. Frequently Fred took a turn working the grill in the back, where he had a tendency to forget about the low hanging vent cover. The frequent bangs coming from the kitchen followed by the pained cry of “Goddammit!” may have been the genesis of the brain damage speculation.
Fred was a usual sight around town, driving his extra large extended cab Dodge pickup with orange flames painted on its black body. Some wise guy had painted a steak above the flames on one side, and Fred hadn’t bothered to do anything about it. Eventually the paint started to wear off taking the factory paint with it, and leaving a rust spot broiling over the flames.
After driving around with his flame-broiled-rust-spot for nearly a year, Fred decided to have the truck repainted. Unfortunately for him, while the truck was in the shop he had to drive out of town unexpectedly. Doohickeyville has no car rental agency, and the only car he could borrow was his wife Ginger’s Chevy Cavalier. To say that Fred’s six-ten frame was a tight fit would be putting it mildly.
“Oh my God, it was terrible,” Fred was telling his friend Jerry in the restaurant the next day. “I’ll never drive that thing again. I had one leg sticking out the driver’s window and the other leg in the passenger’s seat.”
“Well what did you hit the gas and brakes with?” asked Jerry.
Fred just shook his head.
“You don’t want to know.”
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Copyright 2008 - Mary Rae McPherson
Fred had attempted to make use of his height in his younger days. For a time his dream had been to play basketball in the N.B.A., but the fact that he sucked is likely what put an end to that. Even though he was never much of a ball player, his sheer height had been enough to get him through college on a basketball scholarship at a tiny school, where he had majored in business and restaurant management.
After college Fred returned to Doohickeyville where he decided to put his love of hunting together with his restaurant training, opening what would become the most popular greasy spoon in town: Fred’s Bar-B-Q And Taxidermy. Frequently Fred took a turn working the grill in the back, where he had a tendency to forget about the low hanging vent cover. The frequent bangs coming from the kitchen followed by the pained cry of “Goddammit!” may have been the genesis of the brain damage speculation.
Fred was a usual sight around town, driving his extra large extended cab Dodge pickup with orange flames painted on its black body. Some wise guy had painted a steak above the flames on one side, and Fred hadn’t bothered to do anything about it. Eventually the paint started to wear off taking the factory paint with it, and leaving a rust spot broiling over the flames.
After driving around with his flame-broiled-rust-spot for nearly a year, Fred decided to have the truck repainted. Unfortunately for him, while the truck was in the shop he had to drive out of town unexpectedly. Doohickeyville has no car rental agency, and the only car he could borrow was his wife Ginger’s Chevy Cavalier. To say that Fred’s six-ten frame was a tight fit would be putting it mildly.
“Oh my God, it was terrible,” Fred was telling his friend Jerry in the restaurant the next day. “I’ll never drive that thing again. I had one leg sticking out the driver’s window and the other leg in the passenger’s seat.”
“Well what did you hit the gas and brakes with?” asked Jerry.
Fred just shook his head.
“You don’t want to know.”
----------
Copyright 2008 - Mary Rae McPherson
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