That magic little pill [...]]]> It’s been thirty minutes since we turned out the lights. Misty will be stone cold asleep in another fifteen. Dead to the world. She used to toss and turn all night long. Neither of us slept a wink. Then her doctor came to the rescue with his prescription pad.

That magic little pill knocks her out for eight full hours. Oh, the wonders of modern medicine. I could crank up a jackhammer right here in the bedroom and she’d sleep right through it. Seriously.

So you’d think I’m getting a full night’s sleep these days, right? Wrong. I found something much more interesting to do at night. It’s called cheating.

I’m sick of being married to Misty, but I won’t divorce her—not until the clock runs out on that stupid prenup she made me sign. Two more weeks and I’m free. I’ll walk away with half of her fortune.

It started with just one night a week. I’d meet a hooker at a downtown hotel, and then pop back here, sleep a couple of hours and get up for work. Not that I really work.

It’s Misty’s company, and she made me Vice President of Special Projects. So, what are my special projects? Whatever the hell I want them to be, which currently is throwing paper wads at my trash can.

After a while, the one-hooker-per-week thing got boring. So I stepped up to two nights a week, then three. These days I have a different lover for each night of the week. Is this the perfect life or what? And Misty doesn’t suspect a thing. Little twit.

But don’t I feel guilty for treating my wife this way? Hey, it’s not my fault that she was dumb enough to marry me. She should have known better. But then, how could she resist—I am a major hunk.

Of course, my seven girlfriends are even more stupid than Misty. Each one of them actually thinks I’m going to marry her. Why should I? Once I have all that money, I’ll be able to get any woman I want, any time I want. No need to settle for just one. Been there. Done that.

Misty’s been perfectly still for a few minutes. I’ll give her a couple more before I get up, change clothes, and drive to the hotel.

Room 523. Can’t wait. Libby is smoking hot. I usually give her five hundred—not that she asks for it. She’s no hooker. I give her money out of the goodness of my heart, as I do with all my girls.

Okay, time to go. Wait—the lights came on. Misty’s awake. How did this happen? She should be sound asleep. She’s using the phone. I’ll hold still and pretend I’m sleeping.

“Hey. I did it.”

Who is she talking to at this hour?

“Don’t worry—he can’t hear me.”

Yes, I can. I can hear everything you’re saying.

“I know. I can’t believe I did it either.”

Did what?

“But he was cheating on me.”

Uh-oh. She knows.

“And I hate being played for a fool.”

This is crazy. Does she really think I can’t hear her?

“Yeah, I’m about to call—in just a minute.”

What is going on?

“That was a brilliant idea—to spike his whiskey with some of my sleeping pills. I crushed them up like you said, and he didn’t notice a thing. All it took was three. Those little babies are extremely dangerous.” She giggled.

You bitch! The joke’s on you. It didn’t work. I’m alive, and I’m hearing everything you’re saying. This is attempted murder. You’re gonna rot in prison. Now I’ll get ALL of your money. Ha!

And now for the big surprise. I can’t wait to see the expression on her face…Why can’t I move?…I can’t even open my eyes…But if my eyes are closed, how am I seeing everything?

“I’m waiting a few extra minutes to make sure he’s really dead.”

I’m not dead.

“I sure wouldn’t want the paramedics to be able to shock him back to life.”

Huh?

“What if he’s having an out-of-body experience right now? Wouldn’t that be funny? Maybe he’s looking down, hearing how I killed him, seeing his dead body lying here beside me, wishing he could jump up and strangle me.” She looked up at the ceiling and shot it the finger.

No!

“That would be hilarious.”

You don’t want to do this, Misty. I love you, Honey. Please call 9-1-1 now. Please!

“But wait—I don’t need to call now. I don’t have to worry about time of death. How would I know he had died? I was asleep. In fact, I could wait until morning to call 9-1-1. Then I’d be absolutely sure he was really dead.”

No, please! I’m fading, Misty. I can barely see you now. Please call..before it’s..too late…

THE END

She walked back into the bank and took her place behind the counter.

A handsome young man came in.

Janet’s smile drew him to her station. “I need to make a withdrawal.”

They had chatted online for weeks and really seemed like a great match. Tonight’s date would [...]]]> Harley smiled as she sat in the dark with her laptop, looking at Jeremy’s profile picture. The handsome young man was perfect—even better than the last one. And he lived in a house, which was a big plus.

They had chatted online for weeks and really seemed like a great match. Tonight’s date would be the moment of truth. Online chemistry is one thing. Face to face can be something entirely different. Harley knew it all too well.

Jeremy had suggested dinner at a fine restaurant.

Harley told him she would prefer a more intimate setting.

He liked the sound of that, and said he would be happy to prepare spaghetti, salad, and garlic bread. He admitted it was one of the few meals he knew how to cook.

Harley arrived at his door wearing her best blond wig. It always made a better first impression than the short, brunette hair hiding beneath it. Besides, that was what he would be expecting, since she was wearing it in her profile picture. And as they say, blondes have more fun.

They also say that blondes are dumb. That gave her an advantage. Harley was anything but dumb.

“Wow,” said Jeremy, “you’re even more beautiful than your picture.”

Harley heard him say beautiful, but knew he was thinking sex. The man was practically drooling.

“Thank you,” she said, smiling.

“Come in.”

As she walked in past him, she could feel the heat of his eyes trained on her tight butt. It was so easy for Harley to get men excited. Like flipping a switch.

“You lied in your profile,” said Jeremy.

“What do you mean?”

“There’s no way you’re 5-foot-10. I’m six foot, and you’re definitely taller than me.”

“Oh, it’s the heels. Sorry. I’ll just slip them off, if you don’t mind.”

“Sure, make yourself at home.”

Now he was staring at her feet—a little too long. Foot fetish?

“That’s more like it,” he said. “Sorry I called you a liar. Guess that’s no way to start a date.” He smiled and winked.

“No problem.” She smiled. Some guys were so insecure. Would he really be devastated if she was two inches taller than him?

“You know, you remind me of somebody.”

“Really? Who?”

“I don’t know. But it’s driving me crazy. I’ll figure it out.”

“Well, you know what they say.”

“Everyone has a double?”

“Right.”

“I hope that’s not true. There’s this old man at work—he’s so ugly I can hardly stand to look at him. Surely there can’t be two of him. I don’t know—maybe in some foreign country, where they have mostly ugly people.” He laughed.

“I guess.” This guy might not deserve a woman, thought Harley.

“Okay,” he said, “just make yourself at comfortable. I need to go pop the dinner rolls into the oven.”

“Mm, great. I love rolls.”

He grinned at her, and walked into the kitchen.

What? Did he think she was throwing him a double entendre? I love to eat rolls and I love rolls in the hay. That’s exactly what she was doing.

Harley saw a framed picture on an end table and went over to check them out. It was Jeremy, standing arm in arm with an attractive woman. When she held the picture up close, she saw her own reflection, ghost-like, hovering over the couple in the photo.

The woman in the picture looked almost identical to Harley. Was Jeremy a complete idiot, a compulsive liar, or a weirdo?

He walked into the room, and seemed startled when he saw her holding the picture.

“So you couldn’t think who I reminded you of? What kind of game are you playing?”

“It’s not a game. I forgot that picture was out.”

“So you meant to hide it from me?”

“I just didn’t want you to freak out.”

“Why would I freak out? Because you only date women who look exactly the same?”

“I wasn’t dating her.”

“Oh, really? You two look pretty chummy to me.”

“It’s my sister. Two years ago, she married this rich guy from Ireland and moved back there with him. I haven’t seen her since.”

“Well, that’s even worse. You’re drawn to women who look like your sister?”

“No. Not exactly.”

“You were hoping to have sex with me tonight, weren’t you?”

“No. I mean…yeah, I guess.”

“At least now you’re being honest about something. Apparently, you and your sister had a very sick relationship.”

“No, no. Nothing like that.” He stepped in close to her and gently took the picture out of her hands and dropped it on the couch. “I really like you. Yes, you do look like my sister, but that doesn’t matter.”

“So if I kissed you right now, you wouldn’t be thinking of her?”

“No, of course not.”

Harley grabbed the back of his head with both hands and pulled his lips to hers. She didn’t know whether he was thinking about his sister, but he was definitely enjoying it—especially after she slipped her tongue into his mouth.

But his enjoyment faded quickly after her razor blade sliced his neck and the blood began to spurt.

He jumped back, holding his neck with his hand, staring at Harley in disbelief. “Why?” He collapsed to the floor. “Please, call 9-1-1.”

Harley pulled off her wig. She took a moist towelette from her purse and wiped the makeup off her face, and would have stripped naked. But there wasn’t time. Besides, she was sure Jeremy could now see that she was not a woman.

Harley crouched over Jeremy and saw the confusion in his eyes—when looking at someone else is the same as looking in the mirror. He and Harley could have been twins.

“Goodbye, Jeremy. And thanks for the new life you’ve given me.”

Jeremy looked confused. “Please, help me.”

“Yeah, they say everyone has a twin. But you know what I’ve found, Jeremy?”

Jeremy said something unintelligible.

“I’ve discovered that we all have multiple lookalikes. We’re quintuplets—and we don’t even know it.”

Harley stood up and looked around. “So this is my new house. Thanks. And my new name is Jeremy. I like it. That’s a good name.”

Jeremy tried to speak.

“I’ll forgive you for getting blood on my carpet. Fortunately, I have experience with this type of cleanup. I’ve done it many times. But I know what you’re thinking. DNA evidence and all that. I’ll never get away with it, right?”

Jeremy struggled to breathe.

“But you see, the police will have no reason to suspect anything. I’ll buy a big freezer to store your body. And I’ll just start living your life. Nobody will suspect a thing. I’m very good at faking it. You might even say it’s my life’s work.”

Jeremy’s eyes began to close.

“Sooner or later my luck will run out here, and I’ll have to move on. But no problem. I’ve already located the next me. His name is Benjamin, and he lives in London. I’m working on my British accent. I’ll have it perfected by then.”

Jeremy was barely hanging on.

Harley bent down. “It was so good to finally meet you, Jeremy—face to face.”

THE END

“No.” Jessie had never spent much time in dark alleys either.

“So do you have a job for me or what?”

The guy certainly didn’t look like [...]]]> Neil stepped in close. “Do I make you nervous?” he said, puffing rancid cigarette smoke into Jessie’s face. “You’ve never spent much time around ex-cons have you?”

“No.” Jessie had never spent much time in dark alleys either.

“So do you have a job for me or what?”

The guy certainly didn’t look like a cop. But Jessie would be careful, just in case. “Yes. Friday night at my business partner’s house. His wife is throwing him a big surprise birthday party. I want to give him a little surprise of my own—right in front of all his friends and family.”

“Some special…entertainment?”

“Yeah.”

“Sounds like fun.” He lit up another cigarette. “I’ll need ten thousand in small bills.”

“That’s a lot of money.”

Neil offered a sly grin. “Hey, if you’d rather hire somebody else, be my guest. But it could really spoil the party if they don’t know what they’re doing. Things could get…messy.”

He thought for a moment. “No—I can’t take that chance. It’s got to be done right.”

“Smart man.”

Jessie reached into his suit coat pocket and took out a folded piece of paper. “Here’s the address. Come at around eight. I’ll be there, of course. Nobody will ever suspect that I’m the one who hired you.”

“Right.”

“But he’s got two young kids, so be careful. Actually, they’re my kids…and my wife.”

“The son of bitch stole your family?”

“Yeah. And now he’s trying to force me out of the company. We built that business together. Screw him!”

“Sounds like you’ve got anger issues, Man.”

“You think?”

“Maybe you should surprise him yourself.”

“I’m not really a hands-on kind of guy.”

“Good. I need the work.”

“I can see that—which is why I think you’ll be happy to lower your price to five thousand.”

Neil raised his right hand.

Even in the dim lighting of the alley Jessie could see the shiny six-inch blade. Before he could react, Neil pinned him to the wall with his left arm.

“You whiny little bitch. No wonder your wife left you. How about I cut your giblets out and feed them to the rats?”

Jessie couldn’t speak. He couldn’t feel anything—except the warm urine gushing down his leg.

“You’ve hired me to do a job, and the job’s gonna get done. There’s no turning back now. No price reductions. So shut the hell up.”

Jessie gulped.

“Tomorrow night at 10:00, you’re gonna come back here with the money. And Friday night, your partner is gonna get an amazing surprise.”

Neil punched Jessie in the stomach and walked away.

**********

Jessie sipped his punch. “This is a great party, Cathy.”

“Only the best for my Jack.”

His smile nearly cracked. If he was half a man, he would tell her off. “I don’t think he suspected a thing.”

“Yeah, it’s amazing that nobody let it slip.”

“Hey, was that the doorbell?”

Cathy went to the front door.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said, walking into the house. “Now, where’s our birthday boy?”

Cathy followed him. “Sir, I think you’ve got the wrong house. I didn’t hire a clown.”

Ignoring Cathy, he addressed the crowded room of adults, who were standing around chatting, drinking punch, and eating cake. “Okay now kiddies, where’s Jack?”

One of the men laughed and said, “Can’t you tell? He’s the one over there, wearing the purple party hat.”

The clown reached into one of his huge pockets as he walked toward Jack.

Jessie moved in for a better view.

The clown whipped out something—a red balloon. He blew it up and twisted it in just the right places to form a hat. With the second balloon, a yellow one, he added a gold band. “A crown for the king—I mean the birthday boy,” he said, placing it on Jack’s head.

Everyone laughed.

Cathy surveyed the room of guests, and seemed to wondering who had hired him.

The clown leaned in to Jack, thrusting out his chest, positioning the fake flower on his lapel directly in front of Jack’s face.

Then Jessie realized it was Neil—the ex-con he’d hired for ten-thousand dollars.

The clown squeezed the little red ball in his hand, and water sprayed out of the fake flower into Jack’s face.

The crowd roared with laughter.

After creating balloon toys for the two children and various hats and necklaces for the adults, the clown made a grand exit, waving goodbye with all the gusto of St. Nick. Jessie almost expected to hear: Merry Christmas to all, and to all a goodnight.

Then he was gone—even more quickly than he had appeared.

Jessie kept his eye on Jack. Perhaps Neil had spiked the flower water with acid or some other deadly liquid. Soon it would begin to take its toll on poor old Jack.

Five minutes passed. Ten minutes. Jack appeared to be just fine. He had another piece of cake and a cup of coffee.

Jessie excused himself and left the party.

**********

Jessie threw back another shot of whiskey. “Keep them coming,” he said to the bartender.

A familiar voice from behind him said, “Don’t you think you’ve had enough?”

Jessie spun around and nearly fell off his stool. “You bastard,” he slurred.

Neil sat down beside him. “What’s your problem?”

“I paid you a lot of money to do that job.”

“And I did it well, don’t you think? They loved me.”

“Sure. You were a great clown. The balloon art was amazing. Just fabulous, you son of a bitch.”

“What are you so upset about? You paid a premium price for a premium job. You could not have found a better party clown. Admit it.”

Jessie stood up, dizzy from the alcohol. “I didn’t pay you to be a frigging party clown.”

“You didn’t?”

“You know damn well I didn’t.”

“Then exactly what did you expect me to do for that money?”

“You know.”

“Obviously I don’t.”

“Don’t give me that. I hired you to give Jack a big surprise. We both knew what we were really talking about. I mean, come on—you’re an ex-con.”

“So, instead of my clown act, you were expecting me to…”

“Yes. I was expecting you to kill him. I wanted to see you blow that bastard away—right in front of everybody.”

“So the money you paid me was not for entertainment. You were hiring me to kill your business partner.”

“How could you be so stupid. Of course that’s what I was doing. Idiot.”

Neil got off of his stool. “Jessie, you have the right to remain silent. If you give up that right—”

“—wait. What’s happening?”

Neil took out his cuffs.

“You’re a cop?”

“Anything you say can, and will, be used against you in a—”

“—son of a bitch!”

“Now who’s the clown?”

THE END

Madam Nowall – Psychic Therapy. The sign was big enough to be seen from outer space. And why [...]]]> He passed the place every day on his way to work. But he never thought he would actually stop there. It was for the strange, hippie people. Not for a normal, thirty-six year-old executive like Jeremy.

Madam Nowall – Psychic Therapy. The sign was big enough to be seen from outer space. And why not? Aliens probably needed psychics too.

Stepping out of his car, Jeremy felt like an alien. Strangers passing by were, no doubt, judging him as weird, if not crazy. Friends and family would be even less sympathetic.

He checked his watch: 12:15 p.m. He would have preferred coming at night, but oddly, Madam Nowall closed at 2:00 p.m. Hopefully, this would not take longer than his lunch hour.

Judy, one of the secretaries, had noticed that Jeremy seemed troubled, and offered him Madam Nowall’s card. Yoga Judy. Incense Judy. Strange Judy.

Still, if doing this psychic thing could help his sleep problems, it would be well worth the ridicule of his co-workers.

Jeremy wasn’t sure whether to knock or just open the door. Before he could decide, the door opened.

“Please come in, Sir.”

The woman was not at all what he had expected. She was a very young, petite Chinese woman. In a lovely blue silk dress, embroidered with pink flowers. Her shiny black hair hung just above her shoulders. Her porcelain white face was flawless. By impulse, Jeremy’s eyes went to her ring finger. No wedding ring.

Her English was broken, with a strong accent. But he had no trouble understanding her.

“Please have seat.” She showed him to a comfy-looking leather chair. She sat down in a matching chair, directly in front of him. “I have made tea for you.”

He saw the cup sitting on the small table next to his chair. “Thank you.” Jeremy picked up the cup. “But how did you…”

“How I know you come?”

“Yeah.”

She smiled warmly. “I know many thing.”

He took a sip of his tea. “Delicious. What is it? Oolong?”

“No. It my own special blend. I call Magic Tea.”

“Really?” He almost snickered. But her intense eyes made him take her seriously.

“You here because cannot sleep.”

“How did you…never mind.” He figured Judy had given her a heads up. “That’s right. For a couple of months now I’ve had the problem. I toss and turn all night. And the over-the-counter sleep medicines I’ve tried didn’t help at all. I was about to go to a sleep specialist—”

“—but you come to me instead. Very wise.”

“Thank you.” He drank more of his tea. It tasted better with each sip.

“How you feel?”

“Better than I’ve felt all day. Relaxed. Kinda sleepy.”

“That good.”

“But I want to sleep tonight—in my bed. I don’t want to fall asleep here.” He finished off his tea.

“Just relax. Everything be okay.”

Those were the last words Jeremy heard before he drifted off.

When he woke up, he checked his watch. It was nearly 6 p.m. More than five hours had passed! “Madam Nowall?”

She walked out from the back. “Good. You awake now.”

“I can’t believe I slept for so long. I’m embarrassed. Did I snore?” He checked the corners of his mouth for drool.

“No. You very quiet. I think you sleep well.”

“That’s amazing. I can’t remember when I’ve slept that well.” He stood up. “How much do I owe you?” He pulled out his wallet.

“Two hundred dollar.”

He had come with cash, per Judy’s advice. “And how much for some of that Magic Tea?”

“Ten dollar a bag.”

Jeremy was puzzled. “You mean ten dollars a box.”

She smiled politely. “No. Ten dollar a bag. Only need one bag each night.”

“I’m sorry, but that’s outrageous.” He took two one-hundred dollar bills out of his wallet and handed them to her. “Thanks for your help. But I think I’m fine now. I don’t need any high-priced tea.”

“Very well.” She bowed.

**********

Jeremy got under the covers and turned off the lamp. To his surprise, he was sleepy—even after the long nap in Madam Nowall’s office. He was right. He didn’t need the tea. It was Friday night. He would sleep in tomorrow morning.

Before long, Jeremy began to dream…

The man slipped into the bank wearing a disguise and walked up to a teller. He place a money bag on the counter. “Empty your drawer. And don’t make any stupid moves.” He showed her the pistol under his jacket.

As the teller carried out his orders, a sweat broke out on her forehead. “That’s everything.”

“Thanks.” He picked up the bag and casually walked toward the front door.

A guard spotted him. “Sir?”

He whipped out his pistol and fired.

The guard went down.

He walked out of the bank, and down the sidewalk to his car. Pulling off his mask, he caught a glimpse of himself in the rearview mirror.

Jeremy woke up screaming. “No, that wasn’t me! I didn’t do that!” What a horrible dream. His sheets were moist with sweat.

He wondered if Madam Nowall was open on Saturday.

**********

“Come in, Jeremy.”

“I’ve got a problem.”

“Nightmares.”

“Yes.”

“You need Magic Tea.”

Jeremy had not dreamed anything while sleeping in Madam Nowall’s office. “How does the tea help with nightmares? How does it work?”

“Magic Tea make you forget.”

“Forget what?”

She hesitated. “You steal money. You kill man.”

“No. That was a dream.” Jeremy gulped. “How did you know about my dream?”

“No dream. You really do it. I go to back room while you sleep. I come out, you gone—in car.”

“You’re telling me that I sleep-walked a bank robbery?”

“Yes.”

“Then where’s the gun…and the money? I don’t even own a gun.”

“I take care of money and gun. No evidence. I protect you.”

Jeremy was speechless.

“Nobody ever know. You wear mask.”

“This is nuts. I should go to the police.”

“Okay. But you go to jail—for long, long time.”

Jeremy pondered the seriousness of the situation. “But I’ll never sleep again.”

“Yes, you will. I lie. You not rob bank.” She smiled.

“Why did you tell me I did it? You scared me half to death.”

She did not respond.

“But…if it was just a dream, how did you know what I dreamt?”

“Yesterday, while you sleep, I have radio on. Listen to news. Reporter say about bank robbery. You hear while sleeping.”

Jeremy breathed a sigh of relief. “So, I’m okay. It was just a nightmare—because of hearing the radio while I was sleeping. I don’t need the tea.”

“Yes, you do. To help you forget bad thing you do.”

“What bad thing?”

She hesitated.

“Tell me. What bad thing?”

“You hit man with car. You don’t stop to help.”

Jeremy’s face turned pale. “How did you know about that? It was on a country road. Nobody saw. I didn’t tell anybody. And anyway, he was okay. He didn’t die.”

“He not die. But he in wheelchair. He never walk again—because you not go back, call for help. Someone find him much later. Too late for doctor to save leg.”

Jeremy’s eyes began to well up. “I know. I should have stopped.”

“Now you live with it. That why you can’t sleep.”

Jeremy hung his head.

“That why you need Magic Tea. It help you forget.”

He bought ten bags.

**********

Madam Nowall became like a drug dealer to Jeremy. Occasionally, he would try to stop using the tea. But the nightmares always returned. Either the one where he ran over a man, or the one where he robbed a bank and killed the guard.

The authorities had never been able to track down that bank robber. Although, the lead detective was reportedly getting close.

But Jeremy now leads a normal, happy life. And will continue to do so as long as he has his MAGIC TEA.

THE END

“Well, most of the credit goes to Alfred, of course. But I helped.” She smiled and held up her wine glass. “In celebration of another year well spent in your company, my sweet husband.”

“How do you like the [...]]]> Reginald held up his wine glass. “To the lovely dinner you’ve prepared, my dear Kimberly.”

“Well, most of the credit goes to Alfred, of course. But I helped.” She smiled and held up her wine glass. “In celebration of another year well spent in your company, my sweet husband.”

“How do you like the wine,” he said.

“An excellent choice.”

He set down his glass and began to cut his roast beef. “Thanks for agreeing to this quiet dinner at home.”

“It was a great idea, Honey. This is such a nice change from the hustle and bustle of the typical New Year’s Eve parties we attend.”

“Yes, it is.” Reginald swallowed. “This roast beef is simply magnificent.”

“Thank you.”

“And I would like to start a new tradition: each of us shall announce our resolutions on New Year’s Eve.”

“But, Dear, isn’t that considered bad luck?”

“That’s what they say. But I say they’re wrong. Now, would you like to go first?”

“Well, since it is your idea, I think you should go first.”

“Very well. My resolution for the new year is…to KILL YOU.”

Kimberly’s smile morphed into an evil grin. “Really? Well, my resolution is to KILL YOU.”

“And how to you propose to commit this heinous act? Do you have a gun? Or perhaps you think you can strangle me with your bare hands. Come now, My Dear, you don’t have it in you.”

“But you do.”

“What are you talking about?”

“It was in the roast beef. The poison.”

“You poisoned me?” He began to laugh.

“You think this is funny? You’re going to be dead in ten minutes. Then we’ll see how funny it is.”

“Where did you get the poison? From Alfred?”

Kimberly’s chin dropped. “You poisoned me too?”

“It was in the wine.”

“God, no!”

“But he gave me the antidote—in case I accidently drank from the wrong glass.” He rushed to the china cabinet and opened a drawer. ” Where is it? You took it.” He turned to glare at Kimberly, who was no longer at the table.

She was rummaging through the hutch, on the opposite wall. “Mine’s gone too. Shit! Now what am I going to do?”

Reginald checked his watch. “We’ve got eight minutes.”

Kimberly grabbed her stomach. “I’m already…feeling…sick.” She collapsed to the hardwood floor.

“That bastard. Why did we trust him?”

“Why did you put him in our will? Idiot!”

“He’s been with us for fifteen years. He’s like family.”

“Yeah. Family that wants to kill you.”

“Damnit.” Reginald’s knees gave way and he fell to the floor.

The dining room door swung open and Alfred walked in, sipping tea from one of Kimberly’s heirloom China cups. As their butler, he knew those cups were never to be used. “Oh, my. What’s the matter with you two?”

Reginald screamed at him with a hoarse voice. “We’re dying, you son of a bitch!”

“But this is what you wanted—to kill each other. I just helped you do it.”

Kimberly said, “I told you he couldn’t be trusted.”

“Oh, how the mighty have fallen.” Alfred walked in closer. “Now I’ll never have to hear your petty complaints again. I’ll never have to drive you to your pedicures or spas or dinner parties. I’ll never again be forced to—” Alfred’s cup slipped off his finger and fell to the floor, shattering.

Reginald looked up. “What’s the matter, Alfred? Feeling weak?”

“My stomach…is cramping.” His legs gave way, and his knees hit the floor, the bone crunching against the hardwood.

“Well,” said Reginald, “I’m sorry to hear that.” His voice sounded stronger.

“Yes,” said Kimberly, “that’s a shame.” She stood up.

Alfred watched her in disbelief.

Reginald stood up and brushed off his slacks. “This floor is dusty, Alfred. I’m very disappointed in your work.”

Alfred rolled onto the floor and looked up at them. “But…how?”

“Well, you see,” said Reginald, “I wanted to add you to our will. But Kimberly was concerned.”

“That’s right,” said Kimberly. “I didn’t trust you, Alfred. We know all about your gambling problem.”

“So,” said Reginald, “we decided to test your loyalty. We began to argue regularly. And the fights became more bitter each day. We wanted to convince you that we hated each other.”

“Then,” said Kimberly, “I asked for your help. And when I told you I wanted to kill Reginald, you were quick to tell me you could obtain an undetectable poison for the job. You also promised me an antidote—just in case I accidentally took some of the poison.”

“And you were more than happy to offer the same help to me,” said Reginald. “You suggested that I poison Kimberly’s wine. And you told Kimberly she should poison my roast beef. You knew that we had hidden our bottles of antidote in the dining room.”

“So, said Kimberly, “you stole the antidote, thinking we would both die, leaving you our entire estate.”

Alfred struggled to speak. “You didn’t poison each other? It was all an act?”

“Pretty good acting, huh?”

“I think we’re ready for Hollywood,” said Kimberly.

“We knew you would celebrate our demise with a cup of your special tea. And just in case you decided to poison us yourself…” He reached into his pocket and took out a small bottle. “The bottles you stole from our hiding places had water in them.”

Alfred’s shaky finger pointed to the bottle in Reginald’s hand. “Please…give me the antidote. Please, I beg you. I’ll do anything.”

“Gee, I don’t know, Alfred. What do you think, Honey?”

Kimberly shook her head.

“Actually,” said Reginald, “I’m surprised you didn’t notice that your beloved tea leaves were a bit moist tonight.”

Alfred tried to speak.

Reginald bent over and cupped his ear. “What’s that, Old Man?”

Alfred coughed and forced himself to speak. “You’ll go to prison for this.”

Reginald and Kimberly laughed.

Kimberly said, “No, we won’t. You’re the one who bought the poison.”

“And your suicide won’t be a surprise, really,” said Reginald. “I’ve been telling my poker buddies for weeks that you’ve been depressed lately.”

The dining room door burst open and two large men stepped in. “Is this the home of Alfred Smith—the butler?”

“How dare you break into my house,” said Reginald.

One of the men saw Alfred lying on the floor, and pulled a pistol. “Is that him?”

Reginald and Kimberly stepped back.

“Yes,” said Reginald, “that’s him.”

The two men walked over to Alfred.

The man with the gun said, “Alfred Smith, this is for non-payment of debt—$250,000 to be exact.” He aimed the gun at his head.

“No, please,” said Alfred, holding up his trembling hand.

Reginald and Kimberly leaned back against the wall, frozen in fear.

The man fired a single shot into Alfred’s forehead. Then he quickly turned and nailed Reginald with two rapid-fire rounds to the heart, followed by two for Kimberly.

As the men walked out, one of them said, “So, have you got any New Year’s resolutions?”

“Nah. I’m good.”

“Yeah, me too.”

THE END

The following is a paper I recently wrote for my fifth grade English class. Mrs. Hilburn gave me an ‘A,’ undoubtedly for my excellent use of the language.

Three long years ago, when I was seven, I had a lot [...]]]> (Read it here or read the illustrated version of Santa Closet by Jane Cooper.)

The following is a paper I recently wrote for my fifth grade English class. Mrs. Hilburn gave me an ‘A,’ undoubtedly for my excellent use of the language.

Three long years ago, when I was seven, I had a lot on my mind. My family had moved into a new house right before Christmas. A house with no chimney.

And, like any discerning youngster, I immediately saw the handwriting on the wall.

No chimney, no Santa Claus. Period. The end.

I queried my parents concerning the dilemma.

“Don’t worry, Johnny,” they said, “Santa will find a way to deliver your presents.”

I was appalled by their laissez-faire attitude. This was a critical issue. I demanded a definitive answer.

They giggled, and told me I was cute.

But I didn’t want to be cute. I wanted my presents.

I found myself in a constant state of panic. My five-year-old brother, Billy, lived in his own little world. He was too young and immature to understand the ramifications of the situation.

Surrendering to the inevitable doom, I began to count down the dreary days.

On the first day of Christmas, Dear Santa gave to me: a woodpecker in a dead tree.

It was going to be the worst Christmas imaginable. And I was powerless to do anything about it.

On Christmas Eve our house was filled with merriment. My dad read “The Night Before Christmas” in dramatic fashion. Mom led us in the singing of familiar, peppy Christmas carols.

I played along—just to make my parents happy.

Billy laughed and sang his heart out—completely oblivious to the impending disaster.

When it was time for bed, my parents gave their usual spiel: “You boys try to fall asleep fast, because Santa won’t come until you’re asleep.”

I wondered how they could be so naive. Did they really think Santa could somehow get into a house without a chimney? What was he supposed to do—come in through the plumbing? Pop his head out of the toilet, and exclaim, ‘Merry Christmas?’ It was ludicrous.

So, for once in my life, I had very little trouble going to sleep on Christmas Eve. I had to tell Billy to shut up a couple of times. But after that, we were both out cold.

There would be no gifts in the morning—except the shirts I watched my mom buy for me at the mall. She had wrapped them up beautifully. And I would try to look thrilled when I opened the packages. But, come on—shirts are not even in the same league as bicycles and game consoles.

At 2:13 a.m., Billy punched me in the back. I rolled over, and was about to land a fist in his stomach when he whispered, “Listen.”

I don’t hear anything,” I said. “Go back to sleep and leave me alone.”

I rolled back over. Then I felt Billy get out of the bed. The nightlight projected a ten-foot shadow of my little brother on the wall as he approached the door.

“Come back here and get in bed,” I said. It was my responsibility to keep the little guy in our room. My parents did not appreciate night visitors to their bedroom. So, you’d better have a very good reason for waking them up in the middle of the night.

He ignored me, turning the doorknob very slowly. He opened the door just a crack and peeked out. Then he looked back at me and began to wave wildly for me to join him.

I jumped out of bed and rushed over to Billy. I was sure he was getting excited about nothing. The boy has little understanding of the things of this world. But I couldn’t let him wander into my parent’s room.

As soon as I stuck my head out the door, my heart began to race. There he was. All dressed up in red and white, just as you’d expect. He had a long, white beard and wore a red cap. I never dreamed I would ever see him in person.

He was standing in the closet at the end of the hallway, loading his arms with bright-colored packages. Then I saw the bicycle. The one I had asked Santa to bring me.

My parents were right! Santa had found a way.

I decided there must be a hidden door at the back of the closet. A door that only Santa could open. That’s how he got into the house.

I felt a chill down my spine. Billy and I were on the precipice. We had already seen too much. I carefully closed the door, and we held our breath as we slipped back into bed. I prayed we hadn’t ruined everything. I pictured our Christmas hopes plummeting into some black hole reserved for the lost dreams of the naughty, nosey children of the world.

But my fears were for naught. Christmas morning turned about to be the best ever. It was then that I realized my parents were perhaps somewhat wiser than I had always imagined.

Billy and I loved all our presents—especially the ones from Santa. But it wasn’t just about the gifts. It was about the magic.

And now I know the truth. You don’t need a chimney. Santa will find a way.

As you might imagine, I’ve searched for that hidden door at the back of the closet. But I’ve never found it. I figure it’s just part of the magic of Christmas. That closet is like any other closet—until Christmas, when it becomes…

The Santa Closet.

THE END

Mark grinned. “Definitely. My sixty days are up and I am ready to go again.”

“You don’t think this place is a little creepy?”

“Not at all,” said Mark. “It’s a great way to get people to donate blood. [...]]]> I drove into the parking lot of DonorLotto, Inc. “Are you sure about this, Man?”

Mark grinned. “Definitely. My sixty days are up and I am ready to go again.”

“You don’t think this place is a little creepy?”

“Not at all,” said Mark. “It’s a great way to get people to donate blood. And that’s a good thing, right? Encouraging us to help our fellow man.”

“While hoping to win a thousand dollars,” I said. “Why can’t people give blood for free, like they used to—with no strings attached?”

“They can. But most people don’t. That’s why they passed that new law,” said Mark. “When is the last time you gave blood?”

“It’s been…a while. But, you know, I’ve been busy.”

“Well then, Dude, you ought to play too. Give some blood. Win some money. The odds are 50 to 1. That’s way better than the regular lottery.”

“But how do they do that? Think about it. With those odds, it’s costing them twenty dollars for each person who plays the game.”

“Hey, I don’t know how they do, and I don’t care. All I know is that last time I walked out of here with one-thousand bucks in my pocket. Cash money.”

“That’s crazy.”

**********

Mark frowned at the young woman behind the desk. “You mean I have to answer all those same questions again?”

“No, Sir. Not at all. You’re in our system now.”

Mark winked at me.

“Sir, I’m required to ask you this: Did you read the contract completely and carefully, and do you understand what you are agreeing to?”

“Yeah. Sure,” said Mark.”

“Then I just need your signature.”

Mark picked up the stylus, and scribbled his signature on the computer pad.

The woman signed as a witness. “Okay, Tony, he’s ready to go.”

“Right this way, Gentlemen.” Tony led us into a 10-by-10 foot room.

I was surprised at the thickness of the door, and wondered if it was soundproof.

Mark took a seat in the leather recliner.

I sat beside him in a straight chair.

Tony swung the game console around, positioning it right in front of Mark.

Mark immediately pushed the Go button, but nothing happened. “It’s not working.”

“Just a moment,” said Tony. “We need to get you all hooked up first.”

“Oh, right.”

I looked away while Tony inserted a needle into Mark’s arm and taped it in place.

Tony pressed a few buttons on a large, heavy-looking piece of equipment labeled, Blood Limited Extraction Electronic Device (B.L.E.E.D.). “Okay, Mark. You’re all set. With each press of the Go button, you’ll get one chance to win, while donating one ounce of blood.”

“I understand,” said Mark. “Thanks.” He pressed Go, and the three reels on the game console screen lit up and began to spin. “Come on, Baby. One thousand smackers. Give it to me.”

The first reel stopped on a picture of a cat. The second reel also stopped on a cat.

“This is it, Man,” said Mark. “Here it comes!”

The third reel stopped on dog.

“Damn,” said Mark. “I was so close.”

The B.L.E.E.D. machine buzzed. According to the readout, one ounce of blood had just been extracted via Mark’s arm.

“That’s okay,” said Mark. “This time I really feel lucky.” He pressed Go.

Two dogs and a cat.

Once I got used to the idea, it was sort of fun watching him play. After all, it was for a good cause. And Mark had a great shot at winning the money.

**********

I stood up. “Okay, Mark, it’s time to stop.”

“Not yet, Buddy. I’m so, so close. I can feel it in my veins.”

“That’s the blood—leaving your veins. Look, Mark.” I pointed to the readout on the B.L.E.E.D. “You’re at 50 ounces, Man.”

“But I’m feeling fine.”

“Well, you’re not looking fine.”

“I’m almost there. Just a couple more tries.”

“I don’t know, Mark. I think you’re at your limit.”

He pressed Go, and shouted, “Do it!”

I kept trying to convince him to quit, but nothing worked.

Then Mark went silent. I glanced at the readout: 68 ounces. Over four units of blood!

“Mark?”

He didn’t move.

“Mark, wake up!”

Still nothing.

I ran to the door. It was locked. I started banging. “Help! I need help in here!”

Soon, Tony walked in.

“Why did you lock the door?”

He ignored me, checking Mark’s vitals.

“Is he going to be okay?”

“He’s alive.” Tony pressed a button on the wall. “I need a stretcher in Room 12.”

A man’s voice responded over the speaker. “It’s on the way.”

I got in Tony’s face. “Where are you taking him?”

“Please step back, Sir. We are simply following the terms of the contract.”

“Terms of the contract? What terms?”

Two men in blue scrubs rolled a stretcher into the room.

Tony pulled a lever on the side of the recliner and lowered the back to a horizontal position.

I yelled at all three men, “What in the hell is going on?”

“Please step back, Sir,” said one of the men, as they transferred Mark to the stretcher.

I screamed, “I demand to know what you’re doing with my friend.”

One of the men took an envelope out of a plastic bag that was hanging from the side of the stretcher. He handed it to me. “Read the terms of the contract.”

I stood dumbfounded as they rolled Mark out of the room.

After they were gone, I opened the envelope and scanned the copy of Mark’s contract.

If, in the course of playing The Game, The Donor becomes unconscious, Section III of this contract shall be invoked.

I skipped to Section III.

I, The Donor, agree to donate my entire body to The Company. The Company shall have full discretion in regards to the disposition of The Donor’s body. In most cases, all viable organs will be harvested and sold on the open market. However, in certain cases, the entire cadaver, or parts thereof, may be donated to universities or research facilities.

I barely made it out the front door before I began to barf. As I stood there, vomiting all over their sidewalk and myself, two men in scrubs came out the door, walking toward me.

I ran to my car as fast as I could, stomach acid eating away at my throat.

The men ran after me. I didn’t know why they were following me, and I didn’t want to find out.

I jumped into my car and drove out of there like a maniac. My seat belt hung loose at my shoulder, unbuckled. I shot out of the parking lot, and plowed into the side of a passing garbage truck.

As my body was hurled toward the windshield, headfirst, I knew my fate was sealed. I would soon be joining Mark.

But I was wrong.

**********

Two days later, I woke up in a hospital room, bandaged from head to toe.

A cheerful nurse walked into my room. “Oh, wonderful. You’re awake.”

I tried to speak, but nothing came out.

“Don’t try to talk right now. Your larynx was damaged in the accident—you know, your voice box. But the doctor did surgery on it, and he said you should be able to talk in a week or so.”

She walked over to the table and pointed to a beautiful arrangement of flowers.
“Did you see these? They’re beautiful, aren’t they?”

I tried to nod, but only my eyebrows moved.

“Let’s see who they’re from.” She opened the card. “Oh, isn’t this nice?” She walked over to my bed. “It’s like a credit card. It says: Your first 10 spins are FREE. At DonorLotto.”

My body began to shake—violently.

“Sir? Sir, are you okay?”

No! I was not okay. It all came rushing back to me:

My buddy, Mark. The game. The B.L.E.E.D. machine. The stretcher.

The CONTRACT!!!

THE END

Each of [...]]]> Gwen stood in her lab, admiring the reflection of her sleek, naked body. At 30, she was every bit as stunning as the day she met her husband, Artie, at an engineering conference five years earlier. It was love at first sight. Or perhaps, love at their first discussion of artificial intelligence.

Each of them held a Ph.D. in Electrical Engineering. Artie was an MIT man. Gwen, a Stanford girl. Which one could outsmart the other? It was a daily game. And was just for fun at first. Then it became an obsession.

They had separate research labs, located at opposite ends of their sprawling home. Pass codes and retinal scanners provided tight security over each lab. Neither had stepped inside the other’s lab in four years.

Each of them held highly secretive government positions. Their research was critical to national security. Yet, the prospect of saving the free world was not nearly as intriguing as winning their little daily game of war against each other.

They liked to think of it in terms of a Medieval Empire. At the end of each day, the victor would be crowned: either King Arthur or Queen Guinevere. For the next 24 hours, you were either the Royal Highness of Intellectitude, or you were the Perfunctory Pauper of Pitydom. There was no middle ground.

Gwen got dressed and walked out to the kitchen.

Artie was standing at the stove. “Permission to speak, Your Majesty?”

Gwen would enjoy her queenly perks throughout the day, until the rightful owner of the crown was reassessed at 10:00 p.m. “Silence!” She paused for effect. “Now you may speak, Serf.”

“I am preparing a most royal omelet for you, Majesty.”

“Today…I shall have Eggs Benedict.”

“But omelets are your favorite, My Queen.”

She grinned. “Not today. Eggs Benedict.”

“Then Eggs Benedict you shall have, Majesty.”

Gwen sat down at the table. “How’s your pet project coming along?”

“The virus that will invade your computer system and hypnotize you?”

“Yes. The one that will supposedly allow you to control my mind via post-hypnotic suggestion.”

He smiled. “It’s coming along quite well. Just a few more tweaks to the algorithm, and—”

“—you’ll make me bark like a dog?”

“Not quite, Your Majesty. I will make you bark like a cat.”

She sneered. “Apparently they didn’t teach you this at MIT, but cats don’t bark.”

“But you will, My Feline.”

“Watch your mouth, Peasant! You must address me with proper respect at all times.”

**********

Two days later, Artie completed the final testing of his hypnotic virus application. The toughest part was penetrating Gwen’s ironclad firewall.

Now it was time for the test. He texted Gwen.

Your Majesty, your humble servant requests a sexual rendezvous at the cabin. I suggest we go up separately, and meet there as strangers.

Gwen hated their cabin, and had refused sex for months. If she went along with this, it would prove that his application, and its post-hypnotic suggestion had succeeded.

Gwen texted him back, consenting. She would go ahead, and he would finish up his work and join her within the hour. This would be the ultimate conquest. Perhaps he would be King for a month.

Artie gave Gwen a mere fifteen minutes of lead time. What excited him more? The success of his hypnotic virus or the prospect of a wild, role-playing sex game.

On his way up the mountain he encountered a road block. He pulled over and walked up to one of the cops. “What’s going on, Officer?”

“Somebody went over the side. Drove right through the railing.”

“What kind of car was it? Did anybody see it happen?”

“Yeah. We’ve got one witness over there. Said it was a pink Rolls Royce. A beautiful young blonde. No passengers.”

Artie’s heart sunk.

The cop said, “You okay, Mister?”

“It was my wife.”

“I’m very sorry, Sir.”

His software had worked flawlessly, infecting Gwen’s computer system and hypnotizing her to follow his post-hypnotic suggestion. But something had gone terribly wrong. Had the hypnosis affected her driving skills? Had it affected her powers of concentration? Tears welled up in his eyes.

“Sir?”

How had he let it come to this? It was just a game. Life would never be the same without Gwen. If he could just take it back, he could be happy to let her reign as his queen for the rest of his life.

Artie spoke under his breath, more to himself than to the cop. “Even though I won the final game, my dear Guinevere, you were, and will always be the Royal Highness of Intellectitude. I love you…Your Majesty.”

The officer saw Artie’s face go blank. “Sir, would you mind answering a few questions? Sir?”

Artie walked away from the cop.

“Uh, Sir, I need you to come back over here, please.”

Artie began to walk faster—toward the broken railing.

“Come back. It’s not safe over there. Stop!”

But Artie broke into a full run. Past the other cop and the witness. Through the broken railing. Over the cliff.

Artie yelled, “Majesty,” as he flew over the edge and fell to his death.

Within moments, a beautiful blonde drove up in a sports car, parked it behind Artie’s car, and got out.

“Did someone have an accident?” she said.

“Yeah. A woman drove her car over the side. Then her husband jumped off the cliff.”

The witness stared at the blonde, as though he might have recognized her from somewhere.

“Oh, no,” said the blonde.

“Yeah,” said the witness, “but the weirdest part was what he yelled when he jumped off the cliff.”

“What was it? What did he yell?”

“Majesty.”

The blonde’s eyes glazed over.

The cop and the witness looked at each other, puzzled at her reaction.

Suddenly, she dashed toward the broken railing.

“Stop her!” yelled the cop.

The other officer tried to grab her arm as she raced by, but she was just too fast.

She leaped off the edge, screaming “Majesty!”

**********

Weeks later, a government computer expert managed to decrypt Artie’s hypnotic virus code and analyze it. It was a complex, powerful program that would remain top-secret. There would be no public comment regarding the code, or its connection to the deaths of two valuable scientists.

Gwen had immediately been aware that Artie’s virus had infected her computer system. The only way she could hope to defeat him was to bounce the virus back to his computer without him realizing it. And she had been successful.

So, when she had accepted Artie’s suggestion of driving up to the cabin for a sexual rendezvous, it had not been because of a hypnotic suggestion. It had been to beat him at his own game.

He was not aware that the android she had been working on for years had finally been perfected. It looked exactly like Gwen. And it was fully functional. How long would it take for Artie to realize he was playing sex games with an android? She would laugh her butt off watching him through a cabin window. And she would be queen for months.

Gwen knew she was pushing the envelope of safety when she allowed the android to drive her Rolls Royce up to the cabin. Something had caused it to malfunction and drive the car off the side of the mountain. Perhaps there had still been a problem with the calibration of the eyes.

Artie reached the roadblock and thought Gwen had driven off the cliff and was dead. He didn’t know about her android. And he didn’t realize he had been hypnotized by his own virus program. When he inadvertently said the post-hypnotic keyword, he followed his own post-hypnotic suggestion.

Gwen had avoided the hypnosis at first, and so she was not affected by Artie’s suggestion of the sexual rendezvous at the cabin. But right after that, his virus got her. His post-hypnotic suggestion had been planted in her mind as well.

And so, both geniuses were killed by the same post-hypnotic suggestion.

The Suggestion: Do whatever your spouse suggests. Go along with whatever your spouse wants. Blindly follow their lead without question.

The Keyword: Majesty.

THE END

I said, “Doc, why don’t you just give me a lethal injection right now?”

He told me there was a better solution. Heart of Gold Clinic. “I hear they work [...]]]> I’ll never forget that day in my cardiologist’s office. “Roy, you’ve got to give up sausage, smoking, fried food, Ding Dongs, and salt.

I said, “Doc, why don’t you just give me a lethal injection right now?”

He told me there was a better solution. Heart of Gold Clinic. “I hear they work miracles over there.”

Heart of Gold. They sounded like wonderful, caring doctors.

“But they’re expensive.”

“I’ll pay anything, Doc. But I ain’t about to give up poker night with the boys.” Fried shrimp, hushpuppies, Coleslaw, fries, and all the Budwiser you could drink. Big cigars and raunchy jokes. By 5:00 a.m. the smoke was so thick you couldn’t see halfway across the table.

Even though I was willing to pay whatever it took, I didn’t have much money to spare. Maybe if I had put off buying that new pool table and the 60-inch high-def TV. Oh, and my extended cab, 4×4 diesel pickup truck. But a man’s gotta have his boy toys. And how was I to know this heart trouble stuff was gonna come along and kick me in the butt?

Anyway, that’s what insurance is for, right? I could handle a small co-pay. So I made an appointment at the Heart of Gold Clinic. The secretary told me to get there early for registration. No problem, I thought. It would be the usual questions about medical history, insurance and employment.

But instead of handing me a clipboard of forms, the secretary led me to the finance guy’s office. He explained that my procedure would not be covered by insurance.

“How much money are we talking about?”

When he told me, I think my heart literally stopped beating. For like three or four seconds.

“But don’t worry,” he said. “We a have finance plan for every need. Very few of our customers pay cash.”

He said customers. Didn’t he mean to say patients? I should have realized right then and there that something was funny about the Heart of Gold Clinic. But it was my only hope—unless I wanted to start exercising.

“How much monthly payment can you afford?”

It’s so clear to me now. I should have noticed it at the time. He sounded like a car salesman. They never want to talk about the bottom line. It’s only about whether you can afford the monthly payment. Later you find out you paid $5,000 too much.

I was afraid to lowball him. Somehow I couldn’t see him making a counter offer. And this was life or death. “I could probably handle $300 a month.”

“Hmm.” He messed around with his computer for long enough to make me nervous.

I was about to blurt out a bigger number when he said, “I think we can make that work.”

The printer on his desk began to spit out a bunch of pages. I wish now I had read them before I signed.

Dr. Milca Hue was a small Asian woman. Quite beautiful. In fact, I would have asked her out if my divorce had been final. She seemed very smart. There was nothing to make me hesitate about going under her knife.

She explained that my new heart would be made of space-age plastic and electronics. The dang thing had four computers in it. But don’t ask me about computers. I don’t know squat.

My surgery was a complete success. I felt like a new man. And the best part was that I didn’t have to give up any of my bad habits. This newfangled heart keeps all my arteries cleaned out. So, whatever the thing cost, I figured it was worth every penny.

And the coolest part is the remote control. When I go to bed I set it on Sleep Mode, and sleep like a baby.

When I need extra energy for football with my buddies, I just crank it up, and I can play like a maniac. It’s so much better than my original equipment.

But that $300 monthly note got to be a problem. Especially after I traded in my year-old pickup. The new model was so hot. I just had to have it. But my new truck note is $895 a month.

That’s when I started having trouble paying my bills. As hard as I tried, I could not cover everything. I didn’t want to be homeless. And I sure as heck didn’t want to be truck-less. So I skipped my Heart of Gold payment for a couple of months. What were they gonna do? Repossess my heart?

I was surprised when I got a text message one day—warning me that my account was past due. It urged me to re-read my contract. I had two days to bring my account up to date.

I thought, what are they gonna do about it? Send a guy over to break my legs?

The next day I got another text message. YOUR ACCOUNT IS 60 DAYS OVERDUE. CONTRACT OPTION K WILL BE DEPLOYED AT MIDNIGHT.

Are you kidding me? I wasn’t gonna pay it now even if I did have the money.

But as midnight came around, I started to get anxious. Would there be a knock at the door? No. It had to be a bluff.

Still, I sat in my kitchen watching the clock. It’s one of those atomic clocks, so I knew it was accurate. As the second hand clicked its way toward 12, I began to sweat. Only fifteen more seconds until midnight.

Ten seconds. I felt my heartbeat begin to race. I checked the readout on my heart remote. Pulse: 92. Higher than my normal resting rate, but no need for alarm.

Five seconds. Pulse: 104.

Four seconds…three…two…Pulse: 127.

Midnight.

Pulse? The display had gone blank.

I felt the side of my neck with my fingers, desperately trying to find a pulse. It wasn’t there.

They were killing me for non-payment.

I checked the clock. I don’t know what I was expecting.

At five seconds after midnight, my heart started beating again.

That was scary, I thought. Must be some kind of glitch in the software. I would get it checked out the next day.

As I began to relax, I laughed at myself. What was I thinking? That my heart was being controlled remotely by somebody at the clinic? How ridiculous. They had made me paranoid with those weird text message warnings.

Then, at twenty seconds after midnight, my heart stopped again.

Six seconds later it restarted. I panicked. Was this a pattern? My heart stops for five seconds, six seconds, seven… At that rate I would be dead before an ambulance could get there.

My phone beeped. It was a new text message. PAY BY MIDNIGHT TOMORROW OR THERE WILL BE NO RESTART.

I was hopping mad. They can’t get away with this, I thought. I would show this text message to the police. Then the message disappeared. I didn’t delete it. It was just gone. Their earlier messages were gone too.

The next day, I found the money to bring my account up to date. And I’ve never been late since.

I probably should try to warn other people about Heart of Gold. But I know they won’t listen. They don’t want to take care of their bodies. They don’t want to have to work at getting into shape. They just want an easy fix.

They’re fools. Just like me.

But at least now I understand what Heart of Gold really means.

You get the heart. They get the gold.

THE END

Why had Jessica told the man to go to Screen 13? wondered Debbie. It was only her first week at Jefferson Cinema, but even she knew there [...]]]> Jessica took the man’s ticket, tore it, and handed him the stub. “Screen 13. To the right, around the corner, and all the way at the end.”

Why had Jessica told the man to go to Screen 13? wondered Debbie. It was only her first week at Jefferson Cinema, but even she knew there was no Screen 13.

She followed the man at a distance.

Turning the corner, Debbie saw him reach the end of the hall. He would soon be confused and upset. She would apologize for Jessica’s mistake and lead him to the correct screen.

The man opened the door and walked inside.

Oh no, she thought. The man had just walked into a storage room.

Debbie hurried to the door, and pulled the handle. It was locked. She looked up at the electric sign over the door, which was dark, as usual. She knocked.

No response.

Zach walked out of Screen 12, which was directly across the hall. “Hey, Debbie, wanna go get a burger tonight after work?”

“What’s the deal with this screen, Zach?”

“That’s not a screen. Didn’t they teach you that during orientation?”

“Sure. But—”
“—the new owner is superstitious. He doesn’t like having a screen number 13.”

“I know. But a man just went in there.”

“A guest? No, couldn’t have been.”

“Jessica sent him down here. She told him his movie was playing on Screen 13. I heard her.”

“She must have been daydreaming. She knows better. Probably had one too many beers last night.”

“Maybe so. But they guy went in there. I saw him.”

Zach tried the door. “How? It’s locked.”

“I know. But I saw him go in.”

Zach knocked on the door and they waited for a while.

There was no response.

Zach shrugged. “How about that burger?”

“Not tonight.”

“Okay, then. Tomorrow night. Great. Can’t wait.”

“Zach?”

He walked away.

Debbie checked the door throughout the night, but it remained locked. She never saw the man come out.

**********

The next night, Debbie listened carefully every time she was near a ticket taker. Finally she heard Jessica direct a middle-aged woman to Screen 13. She began to follow the woman. But after only a few steps, another guest stopped her.

“Can you please help me?” the man said.

“Of course.” Debbie smiled. But she needed to give a quick answer. The woman was getting away.

“I stopped to get popcorn and my wife went on to get our seats. She has the ticket stubs. And I forgot which screen she told me. But I don’t want to have to search all twenty-five screens to find it.”

Twenty-four screens, thought Debbie. She helped him, and then hurried to catch up with the Screen 13 woman.

Debbie saw her at the end of the corridor. The woman looked up at the sign over the door.

Debbie was amazed to see the sign lit up.

The woman opened the door and walked into the theater.

Debbie walked faster.

As soon as the door closed behind the woman, the sign over the door went dark.

Debbie was practically running now. What in the hell is going on here?

When she reached the door, it was locked.

“Hey, Debbie, can you give us a hand with this trash?”

She turned around. It was Zach and Henry.

“Sure.” She walked over and helped them roll the three large trash cans toward the exit to the alley.

When they got outside, Zach flipped up the dumpster lid.

“Yuck, that stinks,” said Debbie.

“What did you expect?” said Henry.

“I don’t know,” she said. “The smell of stale popcorn, half-eaten candy and pickles, I guess. But this smells like…Zach, do have a flashlight?”

“Yeah.” He handed it to Debbie and she flicked it on and directed its beam into the dumpster. “What is that?”

Zach took a look. “What?”

“That red liquid.”

He shrugged.

“Looks like blood,” she said. “Smells like blood.”

“Vampire barf,” said Henry.

The two boys laughed.

“This is not funny,” she said.

“What’s the big deal?” said Zach.

“She thinks somebody was murdered,” said Henry. “Ooh. Creepy.” He laughed.

“Oh, I know,” said Zach. “Some guy was probably throwing a fit because his popcorn was too salty. So, the manager slit his throat.”

“Yeah,” said Henry, “or maybe his pickle wasn’t quite big enough.”

“Hey, if a guy’s pickle is too small, it ain’t our fault,” said Zach.

The boys laughed.

“You guys are so funny.”

“Ah, come on, Debbie,” said Zach. “If it is blood, it’s probably from the chicken wings. You know—we sell them in the snack bar.”

**********

Later, Debbie walked down to Screen 13 again to take another look.

“Debbie?”

She whipped around. Jessica was in her face. Debbie jumped back.

“Is there a problem?”

“No. Why?”

“You keep coming down here. You seem to be obsessed with this storage room.” She looked around to make sure nobody else was near. “You want to know why I sometimes send guests down here to Screen 13?”

“Uh…”

“Of course you do. I’ll show you.” Jessica took out a key, unlocked the door, and opened it for Debbie. “Come on in.”

Debbie walked inside. Jessica followed her.

“I can’t see where I going,” said Debbie.

“Just keep moving forward.”

Finally Debbie saw a faint light. Several people stood behind a small table which held a cake. With candles.

“Happy Birthday, Debbie,” said Jessica.

“But my birthday is not until—”

“—I know. We’re celebrating early.”

“So, that’s why you send people in here? For a surprise birthday party?”

“Yes,” said Jessica. “We find people who live alone and don’t have any family or friends. We mail them a free movie ticket, and then we surprise them with a birthday cake.”

Just as Debbie started to relax, she spotted a black blanket draped over something in the corner. As her eyes adjusted, she noticed that there was a shoe sticking out from under the blanket.

Hopefully it didn’t have a dead foot in it.

But what if it did? What if they were luring people into the theater—people that nobody would ever miss—killing them, and selling their body parts? That would explain the blood in the dumpster.

Those poor, lonely people.

But wait—she didn’t have any real friends. Her grandmother was her only family. And she had run away from home several times. Would anybody even come looking for her this time?

“Cut out the heart first?” The large knife in the man’s hand reflected candlelight into her eyes, blinding her.

Debbie knew she couldn’t possibly get away. She was dead meat. “Go ahead. Do it.”

The man looked puzzled. “Okay.” He turned around and cut a huge chunk out of the cake, including the heart made of thick, red icing. “Here you go. Happy Birthday.” He handed the plate to Debbie, smiling.

Zach jumped up from where he was hiding: under the black blanket in the corner.

Everyone began to sing “Happy Birthday.” By the end of the song, tears were streaming down Debbie’s face. It was her best birthday party ever.

**********

Debbie would never again worry about Screen 13. When she saw someone go in, she knew the door would lock behind them. She pictured them being treated to a wonderful birthday surprise.

She would never tell anyone about Screen 13, as she had promised. The secret was safe with her. To the rest of the world, it was just a storage room.

But she would never know what really happens to those lonely people who accept a very special invitation…to Screen 13.

THE END

“Feeling inspired today, Henry?”

Henry ignored Antonio.

“Time to get fired up. Write another bestseller.”

“How many times do I have to tell you? Your series is over. [...]]]> Henry poured the rest of the wine into his glass. He enjoyed the privacy of the dimly lit corner booth at the back of the restaurant.

“Feeling inspired today, Henry?”

Henry ignored Antonio.

“Time to get fired up. Write another bestseller.”

“How many times do I have to tell you? Your series is over. Done.”

Henry’s speech was so slurred that Antonio struggled to understand him. He would have tried to take away his car keys, but Henry no longer owned a car. The repo man had picked it up early that morning. “You can’t mean that, Henry. My books made you famous.”

“My publisher doesn’t want another Antonio book.”

“Why not? You’ve only written four.”

“You know why not. Sales were way down on the last one. The critics tore me to sleds…I mean…shreds.”

“Trust me, Henry. The fifth book will be frigging fantastic.”

The waitress delivered another bottle of wine. Henry thanked her and she walked away.

“How do you plan to pay for that wine?” said Antonio. “Do they know you’re broke?”

“My credit is good here.” Henry uncorked the bottle and refilled his glass, spilling some it on the table. “Look, I don’t really care what the critics say. My fans are tired of you.”

“Tired of me?” Antonio sat up. “No, Fool, they’re tired of your crappy writing.”

“Hey, don’t you dare take that tone with me. I’m a famous author.”

“So, write like one. It’s not my fault that you make me sound boring.”

Henry shook his head. “I don’t know how I ever made it work. A gang leader as hero. Crazy.”

“But it did work.”

“Yeah. For three books.” He gulped down the rest of his glass, and began to refill it. “But it got old.”

“No, Holmes, you got old. Your writing got stale. You were just going through the motions.”

“Because I got tired of you. Okay? There, I’ve said it.”

“Whoa. You got tired of me? My stories are exciting. Dangerous. And besides, if you’re so tired of me, why haven’t you already written a book that’s not about me? It’s been two years, Man. Why haven’t you moved on?”

Henry’s response was to take another sip of wine.

“I’ll tell you why. Because you’ve got writer’s block. And you know why? Because you’re too stubborn to write what you’re supposed to be writing. Quit fighting it, Dude.”

“Another Antonio book.”

“That’s what I’m talking about. And it’s easy, Man.

All you’ve got to do is follow your muse.”

“And I suppose you are my muse.”

“How do you think you wrote those first three books? Why do you think they were pure genius?”

“Because you…inspired me.”

“That’s right, Jack. I’m you’re muse. And you shouldn’t have tried writing that fourth one without me. You shut me out, Man. You thought you could go it alone. Well, I hope you’ve learned your lesson.”

Henry fumed. “Get out of here. Go, and never come back. I don’t ever want to see you again.”

“Take it easy, Holmes. You need me. You can’t write a great book without me.”

“I don’t care. You’re making me crazy. Just go!” He motioned with his wine glass, sloshing the red liquid all over the table.

“You still don’t get it. You can’t do it without me.”

“If I never write another word it will have been worth it, just to get you out of my life.” Henry words were barely intelligible.

“Without me, Man, you ain’t got no life.”

“Are you listening to me? I want you gone! Dead.”

“Oh, really? Dead?” Antonio searched Henry’s eyes. “Well, there’s only one way that’s gonna happen, Man.” Antonio pulled out his pistol.

“What are you doing? Put that thing away.” Henry held out his hands in a vain effort to protect himself, knocking over the bottle. The wine flowed freely onto the tabletop.

“You’ve had your say, Punk. There’s no turning back.” He rotated the gun ninety degrees, gang-style. “It was a great life while it lasted, Man.”

“No!”
Antonio squeezed the trigger.

**********

Cause of death: Unknown. No heart attack. No stroke. Henry’s only injury was a bruise on his forehead, an obvious result of his head hitting the table. The heart had been functioning normally. Then it just stopped.

The waitress told police she thought she heard Henry talking to someone as she was walking up to his booth to deliver a bottle of wine. Yet when she arrived, Henry was sitting alone.

The lead investigator suspected someone had poisoned Henry’s wine with some undetectable substance. He knew that authors sometimes make enemies with their writing. But he had no leads.

The ex-wife knew who had killed Henry. Although, she would never tell the police. Or anyone else. They wouldn’t believe her anyway.

Over the course of their marriage, she had learned one of the best kept secrets of great fiction writers: the characters are real.

Sure, the writer creates them. But once created, they are forever in his life. To bring him joy. To give him comfort. Or to torture him.

Until the day he dies.

***** THE END *****

“Yeah.”

“Murder?”

“Yep.”

“Husband?”

“How did you guess?”

The old woman grinned. “Well, one look told me you ain’t from the street. So, it had to be either the husband or the boyfriend.” She spit on the ground. “Bastards. What did he do to you?”

“It’s a long [...]]]> “Just came in today, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“Murder?”

“Yep.”

“Husband?”

“How did you guess?”

The old woman grinned. “Well, one look told me you ain’t from the street. So, it had to be either the husband or the boyfriend.” She spit on the ground. “Bastards. What did he do to you?”

“It’s a long story.”

“Good. I’ve got plenty of time, Honey. And so do you.”

“Okay.” She took a deep breath and exhaled. “It all started one day during my senior year in high school.

…..

…..

The old woman said, “So, Harry asked you to the dance instead, you ended up marrying him, and he beat the hell out of you until you finally killed him.”

“No. Harry married April.”

“But I thought—”

“—when we saw April crying in the hallway that day—those were tears of joy. Harry had asked her to the dance because of that crappy poem. It made her so happy that she started crying. Harry should have been mine. Instead, I ended up with Jake. Harry was my one true love.”

“But you lost him because your prank backfired.”

“Yeah. I tried to make a fool out of April, but instead I made myself April’s Fool.”

What a nice dream, I thought. Face to face with a beautiful woman—in bed. Her blonde hair glowed, backlit by the morning sun.

“You promised me a picnic today, and it’s nearly 11:00.”

Wait. I knew this woman. It was Debra—from high school. I had a huge crush on her, but [...]]]> “Wake up, Sleepyhead.”

What a nice dream, I thought. Face to face with a beautiful woman—in bed. Her blonde hair glowed, backlit by the morning sun.

“You promised me a picnic today, and it’s nearly 11:00.”

Wait. I knew this woman. It was Debra—from high school. I had a huge crush on her, but I never asked her out. Too shy. Then I noticed her wedding ring. I glanced at my left hand. Yes! Matching rings.

She placed her soft hand on my shoulder and smiled. “Last night was wonderful.”

Oh, my God. We had made love last night? I tried to remember it. How could I forget it?! Don’t overreact, I thought. Be cool. Don’t wake yourself up. This is too good. “Yes, it was, Baby. Fantastic.”

“Well, let’s get going. We can pack the lunch together. It’ll be fun.”

Great, I thought. I’m all in. But my body felt heavy. I couldn’t move. My eyes began to close.

“Honey?”

I couldn’t help it. I was falling asleep. No! I don’t want to…

I have no idea how long I was asleep. But when I felt myself waking up, I began to get excited. The picnic. With my beautiful wife, Debra. My eyes were open, but everything looked blurry.

“Finally. I thought you’d never wake up.”

Debra’s voice sounded funny—like she suddenly got a bad cold. When my vision cleared, I was shocked to see—a man. A bum in ragged clothing lying in bed with me. All at once I inhaled his rancid breath, and recoiled in disgust. “Who are you? And where’s Debra?”

“Great. Now you don’t even know my name. We’ve been together for nearly a year, and you don’t even know who I am. That’s pathetic, man.”

I wanted to kick him out of my bed. Or find a pistol or call the police. But I couldn’t do any of those things. I couldn’t move. And my eyes were closing.

The next time, I was afraid to open my eyes. But the sweet fragrance in the air gave me hope.

“Hey, Baby. You’re not trying to back out on our picnic, are you?”

My eyes popped open. There she was. Just as before. “Of course, not, Sweetie.” This time I would not fall back to sleep. I hopped out of bed. “I’m ready to go.”

“Okay. But you might want to get dressed first.”

“Right.”

“It’s gonna be a perfect day,” she said.

“Yes, it is.” I walked into the bathroom, so happy to be awake. To be walking around. I was good now. And this was not a dream. It was real. What a life.

Then I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I looked kinda funny. My skin looked soft. I rubbed my hand across my face. Why was it so smooth? Where were my morning whiskers? And when had I let my hair grow so long?

I turned on the light to get a better look. I had breasts! “No!”

“What’s the matter, Honey?”

“I’m a woman!”

“And you just now realized it?”

I don’t know whether I fell back to sleep or fainted. But I awoke to something hitting the bottom of my foot. The bottom of my shoe. Why was I wearing shoes in bed?

Then I realized I wasn’t in bed. I was lying in an alley next to a dumpster.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out a handful of crumpled bills. The man bent down and took the money out of my hand, and replaced it with a small baggie. I held it up to my eyes. Drugs?

Was this my real life? Sleeping on cold concrete in a stinky alley with my fellow druggies? No wife, no home, no bed?

The man grinned at me. “Enjoy.”

“No!” I threw the baggie at him. “Get away from me!”

Suddenly, my body was sucked up into a tornado, and then abruptly spit out. At least that’s what it felt like. I was dizzy, disoriented.

The young guy leaned in. “Be cool, man. No problem.” He put the baggie into his jacket pocket and walked away.

I looked around and thought, what is this place? My head began to clear. It was my high school prom. Wait. Now it was coming back to me. Earlier that night I had taken some pills. I got them from that guy—the one who just offered me the baggie. Some of the cool guys were doing it, so I thought, why not? How stupid. I decided it was time for me to go home.

I turned around and bumped into a girl, causing her to spill her glass of punch. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” she said, checking her dress. “I don’t think any of it got on me.”

When she looked up, I got a lump in my throat. It was Debra. I felt my face turn red.

She put her hand on my arm and smiled at me. “Really. It’s okay.”

It was now or never. “Hey…you want to…”

“…dance?”

What I was doing? Every kid in the room was probably watching—seeing me make a fool of myself.

“Sure,” she said.

And that one word changed my life forever.

**********

“Wake up, Sleepyhead.”

I opened my eyes to see my beautiful wife, Debra, lying in bed with me.

“You promised me a picnic today.”

Five years ago I dreamed this scene. It was exactly like this.

I grinned. “And a picnic you shall have, Baby.”

THE END

What a chump he was. Phil had paid fifty bucks to be stripped naked, tied to the bedposts, and—nothing!

How was he going to get himself untied?

Then he heard the front door open. Sure—she’d probably gone out to her car for some equipment. A whip [...]]]> “Where are you going? Come back here! Hey!”

What a chump he was. Phil had paid fifty bucks to be stripped naked, tied to the bedposts, and—nothing!

How was he going to get himself untied?

Then he heard the front door open. Sure—she’d probably gone out to her car for some equipment. A whip or something. He’d never tried that, but he was certainly open to experimentation. “Where did you go, Honey? I missed you.”

He watched the doorway for his sexy, young hooker. But instead, his business partner appeared.

“Ed. What the hell are you doing here?”

Ed grinned. “Having a little fun, Phil?”

“I don’t want you here tonight.”

“I can see that.” Ed continued to grin at Phil as he studied his old buddy’s out of shape body.

“What are you looking at? You’re fatter than me!”

“Why did you do it, Phil? I trusted you.”

“What are you talking about? What did I do? Steal your hooker?”

“I don’t need hookers, Phil.”

“Of course not. You’ve got a gorgeous young bride—half your age.”

“Yes, I do.”

“But when’s the last time you—”

“—shut up, Phil. Just shut your stinking mouth!”

“The truth hurts, don’t it?”

“You stole from me, Phil. You’ve been robbing me blind.”

“What?!”

“Don’t deny it, man. You’ve been cooking the books. Did you think I’d never notice?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Just this year alone you’ve stolen $40,000.”

“What!? Are you out of your mind, Ed? Look around. Does it look like I’ve got any extra money?”

“Probably spent it on gambling—or hookers.”

“You know I don’t gamble. And I’ve never hired a hooker before. Not until tonight. In fact, she approached me—at the bar. Wait—that was you, wasn’t it? You paid her to set me up—to come here and tie me up like this.”

“And you fell for it, you idiot.” Ed chuckled.

“Fine. I’m an idiot. But I didn’t steal any money. I would never do that.”

“Right, Phil. I believe you,” he said facetiously.

“Have you talked to your dear wife about this?”

“Oh, so now you’re gonna try to shift the blame to Rachel? How dare you!”

“Did you even ask her about it?”

“No. Of course not.”

“Why not? She’s the bookkeeper. It would be easy for her to manipulate the numbers.”

“If you say another word about Rachel—”

“—what? You’re gonna kill me?”

Ed stared at him, but didn’t speak a word. This made Phil nervous.

Finally, Ed said, “You need to take better care of your yard, Phil.”

Phil was confused by the sudden change of subject.

“Fire ants are overtaking your entire yard. They’ve built a huge mound against your bedroom wall. Right about there,” he said, pointing.

“So?”

“Fire ants can be deadly, Phil. Did you know that?”

“I know it hurts when they sting you.” He would play along with Ed’s crazy line of thought. Hopefully, Ed would get bored after a while, and untie him.

“Yeah. Did you know that when a calf is born, if a fire ant stings him while he’s on the ground and he doesn’t get up right away, he could be a goner?”

“You’re kidding.”

“No. I read about it. When that one fire ant stings the calf, it gives off pheromones that attract the rest of the colony. In no time at all, the calf is completely covered with ants. And those hundreds of stings eventually overpower the poor animal’s immune system.”

“You read too much, Ed. Now, untie me.”

“Fire ants are very resourceful, Phil. Did you know that if it floods, the ants band together to form a raft?”

“You’re making this stuff up.”

“No. It’s true. And the raft carries the queen ant to safety. It’s amazing.”

“Yeah, Ed. Amazing. Now, come on.”

“You know, I’ll bet that colony of ants right there outside this wall could easily make its way inside if it had a good reason.” He walked out of the room.

“Where are you going? Come on, Ed, you’ve had your fun. Untie me.”

Ed walked back in, carrying a five-gallon bucket. He removed the lid and began to sprinkle its contents near the wall. “What we need is a nice little trail.”

“What is that?” Phil was afraid to hear the answer.

“Why, it’s fire ants, of course,” he said with delight, as he continued to create a trail of dirt and fire ants across the floor and onto the bed.

“Stop it! Stop it, Ed! Okay, okay! I’ll admit to whatever you want! Yes, I stole the money! It was me—so call the police!”

“Too late for that, Phil.” He poured the remainder of the dirt and ants on top of Phil’s bare crotch.

“No! No!” Phil began to thrust his midsection up and down, sending much of the dirt into the air.

Ed jumped back to avoid the airborne ants. “It’s no use, Phil.”

“Please! Ouch! They’re biting me! Please cut me loose!”

Ed calmly put the lid back on the top of the bucket and walked out of the room with it, as his former friend began to scream. There were no other homes close by. Nobody would hear.

He walked out of the house and down the sidewalk toward his car. Would he get away with it? Probably. The small town sheriff was a good friend. And Phil had no family.

Ed’s only contact with the hooker had been via throwaway cell phone and two hundred in cash, left in Phil’s mailbox.

Ed smiled. It had been so easy.

The one thing he had not anticipated was the bullet. The one that caught his left temple.

Ed fell to the ground, bleeding. But he didn’t die immediately. He lay paralyzed, head resting on a large mound of soft dirt.

No, he thought. It couldn’t be. Please, no!

An angry fire ant stung his lip. The pain was excruciating. But worse than that was the realization that hundreds, if not thousands, of ants would soon attack his nose, his eyelids, his ears—everything!

And as he died in agony, he understood. His old buddy had not betrayed him.

Rachel! How could you?!

THE END