HARDWOOD BLOOD CH.7 - THE NEW FASHIONED WAY

BLOOD ON THE CONCRETE HARDWOOD CH.7 - THE NEW FASHIONED WAY

By Rashelle Workman

It seems impossible, but your gut’s telling you the fancy-fingered globetrotters, those guys you were counting on to help you solve this case, are involved. Maybe even the crazy mofo’s who’ve been killing the girls and keeping their insides. Sick. Sick. Sick!

How’d I miss the signs, you wonder, smacking your forehead.

 Rage fills you. The idea of being duped and played like one of their basketballs rips through your brain, until you scream. “Aaaaaugh! It’s time for answers.” And you’ve got a plan.

Digging through Kareem’s tremendously large trunk of trinkets, you find a full body disguise. With a quick look around the alley, you strip and don a suit that looks remarkably like Clive, the Trotter’s old coach. Once you’re squished in, you search the trunk for a mirror. You’ve gotta check out your new face.

Amongst all the hairy wigs, dentures and masks, you notice, at the very bottom, a small red button. It seems to be screaming: “Push me! Push me!”

 So you do.

And suddenly the trunk and the ground underneath you begin to tremor. It looks like the whole place is shaking. “Holy earthquake, that button broke the Universe!” The words sound ridiculous floating away on the sour smelling wind, but you’re freaked.

There’s a twinkle and then the shaking stops. Relieved you turn to bolt and notice you aren’t in the alley anymore. Instead you seem to be inside a glorious, glamorous hallway.

The maroon carpet under your shoes feels plush, the walls have been wallpapered gold and maroon. Unable to help yourself, you place a hand against the wall. It’s soft, like crushed velvet. The ceiling is high above you and expensive chandeliers dangle every five feet. The hallway seems to go on forever. 

“Where in the world am I?”

Going for your gun, you reach into the holster. When your hand finds emptiness, you remember you aren’t wearing your clothes anymore. You’re wearing Clive.

Shuddering, you say, “On my own, just the way I like it.” The tremble of your bottom lip begs to differ. You’ve been in some crazy-assed situations in your life, but this wins—

“Hey, I thought it was my turn to feed her.”

You move toward the sound of the voice somewhere up ahead.

Part of you wants to shout for help. But experience has taught that announcing your arrival before you know where the hell you are, is a bad idea.

 Instead you listen, searching for the whereabouts of the voice. Snooping’s your job. Quickly you’re rewarded. There’s screaming, laughing and arguing. It sounds like a party. And the Trotters are hosting. Here . . . wherever here is.

On your left is a door. Placing your ear against it, you eavesdrop.

“Hang on. I’m going to go check on Kareem. He should’ve been here already.”

The door swings open and you fall into Curly, knocking him and you to the floor.

“What the hell? Clive?” Curly says, pushing you off.

The other Trotters come over and two of them help you to your feet.

“Cllliiivvvvve. Right,” Sweetwater says, punching you in the gut.

“Grab the Clive wannabe,” Curly says.

Two of the Trotters take one of your arms in their hands and drag you over to a wall full of water. Yeah, that’s right. It’s a fish tank the size of a wall! If you weren’t so freaked you’d think it was awesome. The damn thing is full of fish, dolphins and . . . Sharks?

“What the hell’s going on guys? What are you playing at?”

“Watch,” Sweetwater says.

Three girls appear in the tank, their hair floating around them. Pointed teeth exposed cruelly as they wave at you. One of them points a finger at you and then curls it, beckoning.

Your mind tries to reject what’s in front of you. Because the girls in the mermaid suits look a lot like the dead women with the missing insides.

The Trotters start to laugh.

“She wants you.”

“You should see your face.”

“Yeah, let’s see his face.” Curly rips off the mask.

You breathe a sigh of relief. Within the mask stank of cement glue.

“Again, what the hell guys? I thought we were supposed to be working together to solve murders. These girls . . . why aren’t they dead?”

Sweetwater scratches his chin. “Let’s just say they aren’t dead . . . anymore.”

“Huh?”

Twiggy continues, “Look friend. The tricks. The stunts we pull on the court. It takes a certain kind of . . . magic to do what we do.”

“Maybe we should demonstrate.”

Twiggy and Curly take you over to a door. Sweetwater pushes it open. Your socks are knocked off at the smell. The ocean. You swear you can even hear seagulls. The Trotters drag you up the stairs and stop at the top.

The mermaids are waiting for you.

“They’re gonna take you to meet our boss. Don’t struggle and you might get to come back. Got it?”

“Don’t do this. I can’t swim,” you whisper, a new kind of terror stealing through your veins.

“No worries.”

They toss you in. And before you even have a chance to fight, the mermaids have you in their clutches and are dragging you down. There’s another door and one of the girls knocks. It opens. The girl to your right smiles.

And then they shove you in.

The room smells damp, but it’s dry. Your body is on solid ground. A drip-dripping catches your attention, but it’s too dark to see anything.

Except two glowing yellow eyes.

“Welcome. I’ve been waiting for you,” a voice growls.

Something hard splits your chest, grabs your heart and tears it out. Strangely, you still feel it beating. 

“The boys will get five years of magic for you. Score!” The deep voice rumbles, like the Earth itself is laughing. “Let’s make the Trotters’ day and send you back as a crab.”

“Score,” you think as you’re tossed into the tank. One of your large pincher smacks you in the eye.

I’m hungry. Where’s the fish? 

 The End.

HARDWOOD BLOOD CH.4 - LAY AN EGG

BLOOD ON THE HARDWOOD CONCRETE CH.4 - LAY AN EGG

By Rashelle Workman

You’re on your knees in a chicken suit with a gun pointed at your head. In this type of situation, there’s only one thing to do. 

Breathe heavily. 

You’ve seen the Lamaze techniques work for childbirth; maybe it’ll get you out of this situation as well. Plus, if you act like you’re trying to squeeze a chicken egg out your body, Clive might freak and leave. 

“Ooooh. Ooooh. Eeen,” you begin.

“What the hell are you doing?” By the sound of his voice, you can tell he isn’t sure whether to laugh or shoot.

 

You look into his anger-filled eyes and continue—louder. “Ooooh. Oooooooh. Eeeeeen.” All the deep breathing is starting to make you dizzy. The room smells of mentholatum and Pepto Bismol: A terrible combination, but there’s no way you can stop now. 

Instead you grab your stomach and hunch over, the big beak of the chicken suit smacking the floor, rattling your insides. A shock of pain zings through your body. 

A contraction, you wonder. 

“Stop that, you crazy . . . chicken!” By the quiver of his lips, you know he’s on the verge of serious laughter. 

This may work, you think.

You shake your head. “Oh. Ah. Ohhhhhhh.” Another sharp pain starts at your belly button and ripples along both sides of your stomach toward your back. “Owwwwww,” you yell. 

“I mean it—” Clive begins, but breaks off with laughter. 

You shake your head again. “No, man! I think I’m actually going to pop a chicken egg right out of me. For. Real!” You try to pull the large chicken head off, but it’s stuck. Panting, you let out another cry.

 

“You do realize you aren’t really a chicken, right?” The guy asks in between guffaws. 

“Righ—ri—bacaw!”

 

It just felt right. You start to peck at the floor, trying to pick up the dust bunnies with your sharp beak. “Bu. Bu. Bu. Bacaw!”

The pain inside hurts so badly, it’s mind-numbing. There’s a burning, ripping and tearing . . . 

Plop. A large brown chicken egg lands on the floor behind you.

You look up. Clive’s got to be impressed with the remarkable feat you’ve achieved.

But the look on his face is anything but impressed. Horror’s a more suitable word. 

“Bacaw . . .” you try.

Clive steps back, gun shaking and: POW! The gun goes off, smoke swirling from the end. 

Sticky red trickles into your eyes. As the room, Clive and the giggling old lady get fuzzy and your world goes black, you think, But who’ll take care of my chick? 

THE END.

Oops...Return to Chapter 4

TIME DOUCHE CH. 1 - MOVE THAT MACHINE

TIME DOUCHE CH.1 - MOVE THAT MACHINE

By Tomara Armstrong

“Are you getting dressed?” the transmitter buzzes.

“Uh…” you fumble and dump the contents of the drawer onto the floor. The blue-suited men on horseback haven’t noticed you, but they’re getting closer. You stir the clothing around, confused. “Uh, Thomas… Is this a dress?”

“It’s a workman’s smock,” Thomas Nubleman spits, “with coordinating breeches.”

“Breeches?” you drop the clothing and shudder. He has obviously put way too much thought into this. “I can’t wear that. I’m pretty sure I’m allergic.”

The horsemen are drawing nearer. While Nubleman attempts to exhaust his vocabulary bashing you, you decide to abandon the whole “getting dressed” idea and focus your thoughts on moving the time machine.

You quickly push out the door and begin to survey the landscape. The earth is soft from a recent rain and the breeze tickles your nether regions. There are a few trees in the area, and if you can somehow move the machine closer to one, it might shield it from view.

“I can do this,” you breathe.

“What’s the plan then?” Nubleman’s voice carries from inside the time machine. You left the communicator mingling with the breeches on the floor.

“I can do this.” The machine looks really sturdy, but you have a gym membership, and occasionally you go. Occasionally is, actually, rarely… never. The chances you can move this thing are highly unlikely, but what the hell. You crack your knuckles, loosen your shoulders and neck, and give the machine a good shove.

Nothing.

You glance over your shoulder to check on the progress of the men on horseback, dig your feet into the wet ground, and try again. Sliding in the mud, you grunt and it give all you’ve got.

Nothing. It’s built like a brick shithouse.

With a quick glance over your shoulder, you take several steps back, staring down the beast. You’re not afraid… much.

Barreling toward the machine, you lose footing and slam into its side. It wobbles—almost tipping, but the wet ground suctions it back in place.

“Ugh!” Throwing yourself onto the ground, you kick the damn thing in full tantrum mode.

“What’s going on?” the communicator buzzes. “Has disaster been averted?”

The irritating voice of Thomas Nubleman brings you back to reality. You roll onto your stomach and look for the horsemen. Something has gotten their attention and they are headed your way.

Think fast, think fast.

You roll around in the mud, covering yourself as the horses move closer. On your feet, you strike a pose. If you don’t move, you’re fairly sure they won’t see you.

The three horses move dangerously close, but you hold your stance, barely breathing. One of the soldiers dismounts and starts slowly toward your position.

They don’t see me. I am invisible. I am earth and air. They don’t see me.

“Qu'est-ce que c'est?” One of the soldiers on horseback says as he points at you.

“C'est un cochon couvert de merde,” the other spits, and they both share a laugh, most likely at your expense. You try not to smile—keeping very still.

No, they don’t see me.

The dismounted guard approaches you with musket in hand. The bayonet is extended and reflects the sunlight directly into your eyes. You’re blinking erratically when he shoves your right shoulder, and you stumble, “Votre nom, le cochon?”

They see me. Shit.

“Shit! Uh…” you search your repository of useless information. You took French in school, but somehow you’ve buried that under the catalog of movie quotes and trashy pick up lines. “Um… Les chinois et les chinoises ne sont pas grands.” Found it!

You smile.

He doesn’t.

With a swift move of his hand, his bayonet pierces you through the left collarbone. You fall to the ground, crying for your mommy.

When you finally open your eyes, all three men are standing over you—blades mere inches from your chest. You hear Nubleman still droning on about chronotons over the communicator in the time machine, while his French friends turn you into a pin cushion of temporal debris.

Ouch doesn’t even cover it.

THE END

Oops...RETURN TO CHAPTER 1

RED PLANET STOWAWAY CH.9 RETURN TO THE SPACEPORT

RED PLANET STOWAWAY CH.9 - RETURN TO THE SPACEPORT

By RaShelle Workman

“Well King . . . Janitor, this is all really, really amazing, but I’m just the accountant.”

He nods and you watch the disappointment creep over his face. For a moment you feel a spasm of guilt at letting him down, but it passes. He steeples his many fingers above the desk in front of him and his disappointment changes into a sad smile.

“You are one tough pzange to crack.”

“Pzange?”

“It’s similar to a chicken egg on your planet.”

“Oh,” you laugh. “Wait, why do you say that?” you ask, confused.

“There are many reasons Wallace. Are you sure you won’t change your mind? I think ruling our planet would suit you.”

“Yeah . . . no can do, your Janitorship,” you say, setting the Rubik's-cube-looking-thing on his desk and standing. “Would you just take me back out to the lobby? I should probably look for the basketball players. Charles Barclay is married to the president’s daughter, you know?”

Momentarily you worry that you might’ve said too much.

“But of course. Why do you think Team Earth is staying in this hotel?”

“Oh,” you say again and wonder how he thinks you could make a good leader.

“No worries young Wallace. I can get you a room right next to the players, if you’d like. Come here. I’d like to show you something first.” He stands and walks over to a wall.

Relieved, you walk over. “Sure. Thanks.”

He quickly presses his fingers on the wall, making music with an invisible device. When his fingers stop moving a part of the wall slides away, revealing a room. In the room is your fondest dream.

There is a beach, the white sand lined against a Caribbean blue ocean for as far as you can see, the Earth’s sun setting on the horizon. A wave rolls toward the shore and crashes a few feet in front of you. Some of the water hits your face. With a hand, you reach up and touch the wetness then press the finger to your tongue. It tastes of salt. The smell of the ocean air enters your nose and the sound of seagulls in the distance reaches your ears.

You take a step forward, ready to run into the surf, but remember where you are and look back. “How . . .?” you ask.

“I can make anything possible,” he says, smiling, but with a note of seriousness in his tone.

You know your face is filled with wonder. --And that you should be getting back. But just a few minutes on the beach won’t hurt, you think.

“Why don’t you go? In ten minutes I’ll bring you back.” He waves you forward, encouraging you.

Knowing you may never get this chance again, you say, “Okay.”

As soon as you step across the threshold, the wall slides closed, but you don’t care. You run to the water’s edge, removing shoes and socks as you go.

From behind there is a clicking sound, but you’re paying it no mind. You are so close to the water—the ocean you’ve dreamed of. Excitedly, you stick your feet into the water, ready for the crisp coolness you’ve always heard about.

It’s strange though. It seems slimier than you expected . . .but you smile at fulfilling your dream and say, “The ocean.”

“The ocean.” You hear hundreds of whispers from behind, copying your words over and over.

Surprised, you turn around and the room goes black.

Except for hundreds of blood red eyes.

“What’s going on? King?”

You feel tiny pin pricks all over your body.

“King.” Hundreds of whispers parrot the word from every direction. And the eyes are dancing everywhere. You smell something too: putrefied flesh.

“Please,” you beg, wishing you’d decided to be king or had chosen to join the marine biologists on planet Zarthus --but you can’t do anything about it. You suddenly fall backward to the ground and can’t get up.

You’re paralyzed.

The blood red eyes swarm you. You can feel jagged little claws and hairy bodies scurrying all over your body, hear the ripping and tearing away of your clothing, and all the while they are whispering secrets -- about Malloy, about the president, about your family, about Earth, and about what really happened the night you hit your head. They know everything.

And then the clicking sound starts again. You have no idea what is making it, but the whispering has stopped. The furry bodies have frozen where they stand.

They seem to be waiting for something, and finally it comes: a voice so beautiful, it sends hot tears to yours eyes. “Feed, my children.”

When the first one takes a bite, it’s from your arm. It stings, but of course you can’t scream. By the hundredth bite, you would have thought you’d be numb. Not so. You feel it all. The flesh tearing. The muscles ripping from the bone. The tendons and sinews breaking and snapping. It’s as though something has been done to keep you awake—to keep you conscious—to allow you to experience every ounce of pain and drop of blood that leaves your body.

They keep you alive for what seems like a long time. Could be hours, or maybe days.

When they finally allow you to die, they say as one, “Good-bye, Wallace.”

THE END

Oops...RETURN TO CHAPTER 9

RED PLANET STOWAWAY CH.7 "TURRIBLE" NEED FOR ENLOMS

RED PLANET STOWAWAY CH. 7 - "TURRIBLE" NEED FOR ENLOMS

By RaShelle Workman

The sight of Malloy sends a stabbing pain to the back of your eyes. You’d like nothing more than to jump on a shuttle and get far, far away, but the saying ‘keep your friends close and your enemies closer’ seems to be appropriate right now. You need to find out what the hell is going on so that you can get back to your exciting life as an accountant. The three stooges are obviously heading in the direction of the bar to get Bob. That gives you a few minutes to assess what you have to work with. So with one throbbing eye on Saleen, Peter Tan and Malloy, you grab your wallet and open it. You’re shocked to discover all that’s in there is your ID and thirty zircons.

What the hell happened to the rest of it?

Frantic, you search the rest of your pockets. There’s a piece of gum, a yellow g-string, two pieces of lint and a bit of what you think is a pretzel. Realizing you have no idea when you last ate, you shrug, toss it into your mouth and start to chew.

“Not a pretzel,” you gag, spitting it out. “How much to the Hilton here in Cydonia?” you ask the holographic media guide. With the edge of your shirt you try to wipe the taste out of your mouth.

You don’t even want to think about what it could have been.

Bee-Boop

“It is 20 enloms to the Hilton Cydonia.”

Bee-Boop

Well that’s four times as much as I have, you think.

Looking around for some cover to follow Malloy, Saleen and Peter Tan, you see a bunch of really tall guys. Trying to remain calm, you realize who they are. It’s Team Earth, the number one basketball team on your world! You remember hearing something about an exhibition game—Earth vs. Mars—some scheduled entertainment during the convention. You’d wanted to get tickets because your favorite players, Charles Barclay, Michael Jardin and Shaquille O’Nell were going to play. And now, as luck would have it, you’re four feet away from them. They appear to be heading in the direction of the bar. Putting the gum in your mouth, you duck behind them.

Peering between the bodies, trying to casually touch one of the players and still remember your life is in danger, you watch out for the three stooges and Bob. They pop out of the bar, two Peter’s arm in arm. A couple of the basketball players take notice of Saleen, whistling and so forth. You think your life is over for a moment because you see the evil grin spread over her face as she starts to walk over. But Malloy stops her.

“No Saleen. We need to find that meddling jerk . . .”

It’s still easy to hear the four of them talk. They’ve stopped in the street. All of the basketball players could have too, if they’d wanted, but they could not care less. A shoe shop has caught the attention of the players. Michael Jardin’s new shoes are on display in the window and the rest of the team is giving him grief about it. You’d love to listen, but instead eavesdrop on Malloy and the others.

“ . . . and big mouth Bob here seems to think we should head to the Hilton, so I guess we’ll start there. Right Bob?”

One of the Peters morphs into Malloy and nods. “That’s what I’m guessing sir and I am the secret weapon. I was programmed to know everything.”

“Shit, I didn’t realize a program could be so cocky, especially since you let Wallace get away,” Saleen yells, smacking him on the back of the head.

Bob morphs into Saleen and says, “I know you have a personal, intimate knowledge of my programmer and you don’t think I can be cocky?” He copies her evil grin and smacks the back of her head.

“I’m gonna kill him. Right after I kill you and if he’s told you so much about me, then he knows I’ll do it, the son-of-a-bitch!”

You watch as Malloy and Peter trip and fumble over themselves trying to keep Saleen off the morphing mutt. You also appear to be spewing bubbles from your mouth. It seems the gum wasn’t gum.

No damn way! What the hell happened the night I hit my head?

You spit out the “gum,” and use your shirt to wipe out your mouth again. Then you turn your attention back to the three stooges and Bob.

“Knock it off Saleen,” yells Malloy, purple-faced. “You may be able to kill the programmer, but we need this mangy secret weapon. Now c’mon, let’s go.”

Malloy, Saleen and Peter Tan start to walk away, but Bob doesn’t move. He morphs into you and gives you a wink. Smiling, he rapidly morphs into Charles Barclay and then Malloy before following after the others.

What the hell?

“Hey, that was me,” Charles Barclay says.

“Was that a Martian?” Michael Jardin asks.

There is a lot of talking, laughing and butt smacking as the basketball players head into the bar. You follow knowing you need money and fast. The team sits down at various tables and you suddenly have a plan. It doesn’t matter that you’ll look like an idiot in front of your favorite players; your life depends on this. Getting down on all fours, you start to search under the tables near them.

Sure enough, within seconds, Charles Barclay says, “Hey, did you lose something?”

Trying not to turn red, you say, “Yeah, I lost my twenty enloms I need for the shuttle.”

Pulling out his wallet, he says, “Oh, that’s turrible. Just turrible. Here’s a hundred. You’d better hurry.”

“Oh, really. I cou—”

“Just take it and hurry,” he says

“Thanks Charles. Good luck on the game,” you say, running like mad to catch the three stooges and Bob.

You see Malloy get on a shuttle car. You climb on the one behind them, making it right before the doors close. Watching for them, you buy a ticket that’ll take you to the Hilton and a Team Earth hat and then have a seat. While staring at the backs of Malloy, Saleen, Tan and Bob’s heads, you think about what Bob did. Was he trying to tell you something? Was he still drunk enough to be helpful to you?

Then you remember something so important that you’re shocked to realize Bob may have been trying to tell you something. President Manuel Womack’s daughter is married to Charles Barclay. Was that the where and when the assassination was going to happen? At the game.

Pushing a button on your left arm rest, an invisible drawer opens in front of you. Inside are two tiny sensory buds to be used for complimentary movies, music, local news and international news. You place one below each of your earlobes. Immediately a holographic image pops up. Using your mind, you scan the news until you find information about the game. Your mind tells it that’s the information you’re interested in and the volume comes up. It takes thirty seconds to find out the game is tomorrow and where it’ll be.

Next you look for the map of the shuttle service and find out that the game will be held at the Genesis Convention Center. It was built for this game—in honor of the peace treaty between Earth and Mars. The stop for the GCC is two before the Hilton.

After that, you check the Entertainment news and see if it’s possible to find out where the basketball players are staying. Bingo, they’re staying at the Plaza. At least that’s what the Gazareos Star says. That’s one stop before the Hilton.

You have a choice to make.

Do You...

A. Continue to the Hilton and see what Malloy, Saleen and Peter Tan have planned?

B. Get off at the Genesis Convention Center. Getting there before they do may give you an edge?

C. Get off at the plaza and try to hang with the basketball players?

RED PLANET STOWAWAY CH.2 SEARCH THE MACHINE ROOM

RED PLANET STOWWAY CH.2 - SEARCH THE MACHINE ROOM FOR A WEAPON

By RaShelle Workman

You decide to head in the direction of the chugging noises.

Where there’s a machine there’s a weapon, right? you try to convince yourself.

There’s a big sign on the door from which the obnoxiously loud sounds are coming. It’s a depiction of a human inside a red circle with a big, red line going through it. Across the top, in bold, it reads: AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.

“Wouldn’t you know it, I just became authorized,” you tell the sign as you pull on the handle.

The door opens with a hiss, and smoky vapors leak into the hallway.

“Oh hell,” you say, quickly closing the door behind you. It’s dark and loud – so loud you think your head will split in two at any moment. Putting both hands over your ears, you try to keep it together.

“Aww,” you scream, frustrated. There’s no turning back now though. Malloy is surely only seconds behind you. Using both hands, you feel along the walls on either side of the door to search for a light switch.

“Bingo.” You flip it on. The room is large and lit with strange orange lights.

It sounds like a bunch of people are running. Even over the noise, you hear shouting. “Hurry. Go! Go! Go!”

A herd of elephants, you think, shaking your head.

Heading down the first aisle, you start looking for anything to use as a weapon. You need one. Fast!

Machines of all shapes and sizes are everywhere. You have no idea what any of them do. Being an accountant, the types of machines you use involve adding and subtracting, the occasional search of an online website or the press of a button

You run up and down aisle after aisle, searching between the machines. Above them. Underneath them.

Nothing.

You run down an aisle that has a lot of knobs and buttons against walls of computers on either side. Blues, greens and reds are lit up all over the consoles. You don‘t stop, even though you‘re starting to get a little light-headed. There is nothing here that‘ll be of use.

“Damn,” you think, turning left and left again, slamming into something. “What the –?”

Taking a step back so you can get your bearings, you realize you’ve run into some sort of robot. You’ve also noticed your head is heavy. The thing is typing away on a keyboard. It turns and looks at you. “No. Humans. Allowed. You. Are. Not. Authorized.” Its yellow eyes look at you and back at the computer screen. It’s still typing away.

“Hey R2, you wouldn’t happen to have a weapon I could borrow, would ya?” You can’t help letting out a giggle. What the crap?

The robot is about your height, maybe taller. It has a rectangle head and a round body. The neck, arms and legs look to be made out of metal pipes. The thing looks like something you could have built in junior high shop class. It also seems to be getting wider and thinner; taller and shorter. Suddenly there are fifty more of them just like it. You figure you must be hallucinating, but can’t seem to care.

Smacking it in the head, you say, “Hey Roboturd? A weapon—mind if I use your arm?” Wobbling, you reach out to grab it.

“You. Are. Unauthorized,” the robot says, facing you.

It grabs you under the arms and lifts you into the air. Feet dangling, you start laughing and stick your hands in the air. “Weeee,” you yell, unable to help yourself. Inside you‘re scared to death and wonder where it‘s taking you.

You hear a whoosh and some doors slide open. The robot drops you into a container with grates along the bottom. One of your legs falls through as well as some ashy looking substance.

The robot looks down at you, its yellow eyes glowing, and says, “As. My. Favorite. Group. The. Coasters. Like. To. Sing: Take Out. The. Papers. And. The. Trash.”

It waves and there’s a whoosh as a set of big metal doors closes above you.

You wave back and chuckle because you can’t help it. Whatever was or wasn’t in the air has affected your brain beyond your control. Even Malloy and his nasty junk seem kinda funny right now. You realize Malloy must have set off an alarm. Those who worked in the machine room left so that they could put something in the air to cause your hallucinations. You can’t help but wonder what or who picked you up and carried you over to the container. Maybe Malloy in a space suit? You’ll never know because an extreme heat starts to rise. You look down. Massive flames are seconds away from incinerating you.

Before screaming, you think, Yackety yak, don’t talk back.

THE END

Oops...RETURN TO CHAPTER 2