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~ Finding, formulating and solving life's frustrations.

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The Open Road

19 Tuesday Oct 2021

Posted by petersironwood in Uncategorized

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

fiction, guns, halloween, murder, mystery, story

“That ain’t showin’ respect. That’s just showin’ you don’t give a good God damn.” Greg turned and spat an impressively large wad of chewing tobacco all the way off the front porch onto the ill-kempt and scraggly lawn beyond. It was a kind of tic that Greg had, as though something of Sunday School had rubbed off on him after all; some teeny niggle of guilt dribbled through his nervous system when he said a curse word with the word “God” in it. If he happened to be chewing tobacco, which was most of his awake hours, it caused him to spew his chew. He frowned. He hated losing such a fresh wad of Stoker. Papa’s old hound dog heard the splat and ran over to investigate. One good whiff and the Bassett (named Ole’ Bassie) sneezed and turned away. Sometimes Papa remembered to feed him and that was good. But he wasn’t above eating garbage and anything he could catch. This however was too foul even for a semi-starving dog. 

Greg’s older brother Ron and he couldn’t seem to agree on much of anything these days except how much they hated God damned snowflakes, as they called them. The two of them revisited this particular argument about whether it was okay to let their dad drive into town every few weeks. Understand, it wasn’t as though they scheduled the argument. No, it wasn’t that. Neither brother paid much attention to clocks or calendars. But as though scheduled by a mindless office software package, every two weeks, Papa would end up demonstrating some new level of dementia that re-ignited the argument. It was as regular (and as useful) as the biweekly committee meeting. 

Ron pursed his lips in a perfect, though unconscious, imitation of the most small-hearted and sanctimonious church choir member in the Farmington Baptist Church. Ron shook his head disapprovingly as Greg pulled out his pouch of chaw and bit off another piece. Ron looked skyward as though repeating a small, silent prayer. “You know what happens to people that chew they’s tobacco like that there? Mouth cancer. Lips. Gums. Tongue. Whatever. You’re going to die like a dog, man. Keep it up and you might go before Papa even.” 

“Better’n dyin’ of the H, I and V like you might do. I got me a wife and that’s it. I’m tellin’ you, Ron, sneaking off with every skirt…”

Ron began to wag his head back and forth as vigorously as Ole’ Bassie did whenever he emerged from “Lake Woe.” “Lake Woe” is how Aunt Emily had dubbed the swamp that lay like a forgotten promise between the family house and US 250. The name was meant as a dig. For a few years, the entire family had listened to “Lake Wobegon” on the radio every week. According to Garrison Keillor, all the children in Lake Wobegon were above average. “Well,” Aunt Emily had said with a nod, “there ain’t none of you kids that’s above average. All you been is woe. We’ll call it Lake Woe. You git it? Named after you two.” 

Whenever his older brother Ron wagged his head like that, Greg thought of two things. First, he was every time amazed that he could move his head that fast. Greg was afraid he’d smash his brains against his skull if he tried that crap. After all, he though, don’t they get concussions and crap from fights and soccer and football? Must be the same with his head shaking.

The second thing that snapped into Greg’s mind was this. He recalled Aunt Emily’s naming ceremony at Thanksgiving Dinner. Greg had initially thought it was wonderful to have something as fun as the swamp named after him and his brother. Ron though, being older, and more knowledgeable about how things worked in the world, knew right away that it was a put-down, an insult. She was having “fun” at their expense. Ron explained all this to Greg right after dinner. But Greg had stubbornly refused to believe his older brother. Greg had just figured Ron was trying to be a “smarty pants” and spoil the moment for him.  

Ron said, “I’ll tell you what, you cud-chewin’ cow. I’ll outlive you, I’ll betcha’ right now!”

Photo by Johannes Plenio on Pexels.com

Greg was one of those folks who is easily triggered by every little one of those everyday annoyances that civilization gifts upon us. Of course, some folks were pretty adept at avoiding Greg’s “hot buttons” but there were so many, that even the cautionary ones would screw up on occasion and say something that Greg took as demeaning or terrifying. 

There was that Christmas dinner when Aunt Millie had not partaken of the canned New England Clam Chowder. 

She led with: “The health benefits of being vegetarian” — button pushed. In fact, he was half way there just from hearing the phrase: “The health benefits.” The other thing about the way Greg’s brain worked was that once he heard a triggering word or phrase, he stopped listening. What Greg had never heard was the rest of Aunt Millie’s comment: “The health benefits of being vegetarian are nothing compared with the taste of a good fresh steak or fried chicken or best of all, roast turkey. I’ll have some of those. Butcha’ know, I’m allergic to shellfish. Even a tiny bit & I break out in hives….” 

But never mind. We’ll stop that narrative right there because the contents don’t matter. What matters is that Greg never heard any of it. If you’d ask him, he’d tell you that Aunt Millie is a friggin’ vegetarian. 

While there were those folks who tried to tip-toe around Greg’s hot buttons, Ron was not one of those people. No. He delighted in upsetting his brother. To Ron, it was just a game. Ron hardly even faked being upset most of the time. On rare occasions, he would feign hurt or rage or fear or love or whatever it took to get Greg’s goat. And, the thing about Greg’s hot buttons, which Ron knew full well, was that pushing the button always caused the same reaction. He could turn his brother into his … puppet. That made Ron feel as though he had some power in this world after all. He had some standing. He was somebody. Maybe he couldn’t control everything but he certainly could control his brother. 

Photo by Min Thein on Pexels.com

Greg’s brain also had an interesting kind of “three strikes and you’re out!” rule. Perhaps he had picked it up from baseball or a questionable theory about criminality. In any case, if Greg got upset three times in one day, each reaction was a little more extreme. He didn’t back off. Oh, no. To Greg, it meant, three strikes and the monster comes out. Understand, Greg didn’t realize he had such a rule. Ron understood it, but it just made it more fun. He could not only make his puppet brother dance; he could make him dance at different intensities as well. 

Greg ground his teeth. “So how we know who wins the bet, smarty pants?! Hah?! Didn’t think of that, did you?” 

Ron smiled placidly. “Sure. No problem. Give me the money now. If you die first, I’ll keep it. If I die first … well, you’re my only heir. Well, almost. I did give a little to Audrey.” Ron tried — and failed — to keep a straight face as Greg began his final meltdown. 

“Audrey! Audrey! Are you kidding me? Whaddya’ think my wife’s gonna say about that! Why did Ron leave money to your old girlfriend? What’s going on? Are you still seeing her? I’ll friggin’ kill you!”

“That’s what would happen, you God-Damned” — well, that’s what did it right there. Ron miscounted. Greg was already beyond the boiling point when he spat out a perfectly virgin wad of chaw. It was his favorite brand too: Stokers. 

Photo by Anna Tarazevich on Pexels.com

Of course, we can only speculate what might have happened, had guns not been readily available and already loaded. As it was, the police pretty quickly chalked up the murder suicide to a family feud. It happens. They shrugged it off as just another one. Tragic. But — within normal bounds. The worst thing about the crime was how everyone seemed to have forgotten about Papa. Perhaps they unconsciously thought he was gone anyway. No-one looked for him. No-one seems to have noticed he was gone for weeks.

Since these two boys were Papa’s only offspring, in a way, the police were right. It really was a murder/suicide. 

The boys had agreed on one thing about Papa while they had still been living. They had put almost all their assents into a three-way checking account. 

Papa didn’t live much longer. 

But Fiji is beautiful. And, you can be sure Papa made the most of it. He really had a blast.  

Photo by Dana Tentis on Pexels.com

————————————-

If Only…

Karma: A Horror Story 

I Can’t be Bothered

Tit for Tat

It couldn’t happen to a nicer guy

As Gold as it Gets

Do Unto Others

Last Call 

True Believer 

That Cold Walk Home

Author Page on Amazon

What Could Be Better: A Horror Story

25 Friday Oct 2019

Posted by petersironwood in America, politics, psychology, story, Uncategorized

≈ 8 Comments

Tags

fable, greed, halloween, horror, karma, story

In anticipation of Halloween, here is a kind of horror story. I might not recommend it for kids under 12 although I remember being fascinated by this stuff. I saw the movie THEM! about giant ants when I was about nine. Wow! But anyway, a few stories to tingle the spine. 

photo of man walking surrounded with pumpkins

Photo by Connor Danylenko on Pexels.com

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What Could Be Better?! A Horror Story

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Karmic Decisions, Gamma Section, Milky Way Division, Department 78776-G-164c, Species – Human; Sub-species Greedypigs. 

“I’m here to do what?” screamed Joe. “This can’t be real.” 

“What? What do you mean ‘what?’ You never heard of Karma while you were a —- let me see — oh, yes, here it is — ‘an earthling’, is the expression you use. So, when you were an earthling…excuse me, I don’t mean to laugh, but in our language it’s a commonly used synonym for ‘Greed-Meister.’ And, here you are waiting for an assignment based primarily on your being of the subspecies, Greedypigs. You get it? No, you don’t get it. You’re greedy.” 

money cash euro pay

Photo by Skitterphoto on Pexels.com

“Well, that doesn’t sound so bad to me,” piped up Joe. “No Siree. Many of us on earth, most of us, I suppose, are downright greedy. Nothing wrong with that! That’s what put a man on the moon. And what cured polio and all sorts of good stuff.” 

The giant Worblastic Filtermeister tilted one of his heads to the left and one to the right. He regarded the earthling, also known as Joe, with a quizzical dozen eyes. “I’m no expert on earth species and culture and so on. So many galaxies; so many planets. But how many billions do you think Jonas Salk made on the polio vaccine?”

“I don’t know. I’m not much good at trivia. Can we get on to my assignment? Time is money, they say. And, I did make a lot of money on earth. I’m already at the top of the pyramid of earth species so … what’s next?” Joe, the earthling, shrugged his dual shoulders and scanned the eyes before him. It was weird trying to make eye-contact with a twelve-eyed being. “Do I get to be CEO of a major multinational? Or are we going all the way to a God or something?” 

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“You think earthlings are the top species? Oh, Lord, there are so many misconceptions in that. Oh, my. My oh my,” said the Filtermeister. “I thought we could chat a bit, but you are in a hurry.” 

When you watch another earthling roll their eyes, it can be mildly disorientating. But when the eyes rolling in front of you are each as large as a basketball and there are twelve of them going in various directions — ! For Joe, it was nauseating. He could not watch. He just had to look down at his feet. His shoes looked despicably dirty. Where had he been? Wait. It isn’t just the shoes. What the hell is going on here, he thought. He felt as though he were shrinking. He yelled out, “Where am I going? Am I a god now? I’d be good at that! I tell people what to do all the time. Isn’t that the essence of a god? To be the boss?” As Joe spoke, he tried to yell louder and louder, but his voice continued to weaken and whine up to a higher pitch. At last, he couldn’t even recognize his own voice. It sounded teeny and … metallic. 

Joe had a sudden urge to dig a hole. He had no idea why, but he did; the urge was powerful. He began to look around for a shovel but saw only a forest of giant grasses all about him. He was surrounded by smells he barely recognized. Grass. Yes, but what was that one? Snail? And ant trail? And, oh, Joe thought that swallowtail caterpillar smells delicious! From far above, there was thunder. Or, no, it was a voice. The Filtermeister! For a moment Joe recalled, he had been an earthling talking with a Filtermeister, a Filtermeister who would decide his next ‘gig’ as he put it. What was he saying?

“Nothing! No billions at all,” thundered the Worblastic Filtermeister. “Do you really think everyone who worked on the Space Program worked as hard and as long as they did just to make money?” 

Joe heard these sounds and each of the sounds echoed to a meaning. But these meanings were far away. Far, far away like church bells two towns over which required a cold and favorable wind and even then you weren’t sure you really heard them. And what did they have to do with the business at hand, which was to dig a hole and pronto. And I have no shovel! But wait! What’s a shovel? Joe glanced toward his feet and saw that all of them had built-in shovels. How cool! I am amazing! And, though I may be tiny, I am strong as steel! OMG! In a flash it seemed, a nice cool dark cavity had appeared, carved out by the — by me! My ancestors. They gave me these legs. Cool! Nice work. But, I need a door! 

nature outside insect macro

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Soon, Joe lay still at the bottom of his small hidie-hole and waited. Good God, have I ever been this hungry before? For a moment, Joe remembered again the Filtermeister. Oh, yes, he had been given this wonderful life because he had been such a good human. Good karma. I told him I was greedy and so I am. It feels quite natural for me. I will eat that entire caterpillar! I deserve this life of luxury! Wait! Wait! I hear it coming! He tore open the shutters and threw up the sash, as it were. In a split second he had sunk his giant fangs into the side of the caterpillar. Oh, my GOD this is delicious. Somehow, it’s even more fun because of all the squirming! What is that? Some ebony-winged beast is trying to steal my caterpillar. “Leave it alone! It’s mine! I got here first! I don’t need to share my kill with anyone!” 

Too late, Joe realized that the beasts goal was not to steal the caterpillar but to hurt him. That’s not much of a sting, he thought. Wait till I get my mandibles on her. Joe slung his body forward like a catapult  — except  — nothing happened! He tried to wave his frontmost arms. Nothing! What strange magic was this? It seemed like such a minor wound. Joe tried every muscle in his body but couldn’t move a thing. 

She took a strong stance, put two legs shamelessly on his side and flipped him over on his back. Now, the bastard was getting ready to sting me again, thought Joe. He steeled himself. OW! That hurt worse than the first one. Another! Oh, god. This went on for some time. At last, that sorry chapter in his life was over. She stopped stinging. She looked quizzically at him, compound eyes to compound eyes. She ran her forelegs over her mandibles and licked them suggestively. She began buzzing her wings. She arose like an angel of death. 

Hopefully, the poison will wear off soon, Joe thought, and I’ll go back to eating those luscious caterpillars. Out of nowhere, this ran through Joe’s mind: “I survived the crash of 2008 and I’ll survive this.” What on earth does that even mean, he thought, but it made him feel better for a few days. He kept telling himself that the paralysis would wear off. Every few minutes, he would find himself thinking that this would be the minute when he recovered. But it wasn’t. And each moment, he forgot that he had had his hopes up the previous moment. For a solid week, he convinced himself that he’d look back to those painful stings as the worst part of a very long and happy life.

Then — they hatched. All of them. Within minutes of each other. They were greedy. Oh, yes, they were greedy.

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Sadly, the stinging definitely wasn’t the worst part of Joe’s life. Not by quite a bit, in fact. The mysterious flying lady with the whirring wings had not meant to hurt him with her stings. She was merely depositing her eggs inside his body. When they hatched, they began to devour him from the inside out, carefully avoiding the truly vital organs that would end his life. For it was fresh, living flesh that they greedily desired. Every pain fiber in his body screamed nonstop. The poison kept his limbs completely still. But the poison did nothing to mute the constant scream of his pain. Joe could only scream the one word: GREED! Endlessly.

Joe looked back on those painful stings as the best part of a very long and excruciating life. He tried to call back the winged terror. “Please, he wanted to say. Sting me again. Anything’s better than this.” But Joe couldn’t talk. He couldn’t move at all. And the wasp wouldn’t have been interested.

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Author Page on Amazon 

The link below is to a work of “pure fiction” however — the protagonists and their “back stories” are true. This is a story that takes place in a nearby but parallel universe.

https://petersironwood.wordpress.com/2017/07/28/if-only/

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