Chicago Likes Things Tidy - F3 Cycle 62

Flash Fiction Friday Challenge

Prompt: Write a story set in the 40′s or 50′s where the protagonist is addicted to something
Genre: Pulp Crime or Pulp Romance - I picked crime
Word Limit: 1,800 - Actually finished with 1794 words
Deadline:  Wednesday, January 11, 2012 at 9:00 pm EST

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Rip looked up the front of the five floor brownstone on East 173rd in the Bronx.  He looked at the slip of paper in his hand.  "Fifth Floor - back apt."  Then under it, “Ask for Gus”.  He looked again up the five floors, every window hanging wide open in respect to the brutal summer of 1943.  Rip pulled a grimy handkerchief out of his back pocket, removed his hat and wiped the running sweat from his forehead.  He took one more anguished look up and started climbing the steps.

Plodding up the stairs, Rip considered why criminals always set up shop in the dumbest of places.  Here was a stand alone five story walk up and the flounder not only deals his drugs here but also runs his counterfeit gas ration card operation on the fifth floor.  Just what kind of brainiac was this clown anyway?  No way out but down these stairs or some rickety steel fire escape out back that may or may not be safe to even let the cat out on.  Gasping and red faced, Rip finally reached the fifth floor.  He wondered if he’d be able to get some free smack along with the fake ration cards he was there to pick up.  

On the landing Rip collected himself.  He took a moment to re-wipe his brow, pull up his britches, and run his right hand up under his left pit to make sure his gun was still there.  Rip performed this unconscious ritual every time he was involved in criminal activities in a new location or meeting with someone he did not know.  This visit would entail both. With a final few tugs readjusting his crotch, he headed down the dim hallway to the back apartment.

The Realm of Possibility - F3 - Cycle 61

Elder Jacob Bean closed the banned copy of the Scripture.  He understood why the second book had been outlawed during the Troubles.  Harsh times called for harsh measures.  The clearly defined rules found in the first book were perfect in their simplicity and dovetailed well with the brutal measures taken to fulfill the Great Elder’s prophecy of the Final Reformation.  He could not understand though why owning such an innocuous collection of harmless fables was still on the list of capital offenses.  Would not a good caning suffice?

Rules were rules. Shortly Elder Bean forgot about it.  He was only as inquisitive as he needed to be to render a verdict.  Without new rules, his only choice was to convict.  It was a shame they had no females of breeding age.  At least they would have been spared.  Elder Bean shrugged.  The family of three would have to die. 

“Jarrad get in here.”

No response.  Servo-tech Jarrad was not at his desk.  Elder Bean got up and walked out to the anteroom outside his office just as Servo-tech Jarrad came careening down the hall.   “Deep Apologies Elder Jacob, …….call of nature.” 

Elder Jacob Bean’s cold eyes studied his assistant for a moment.  “I understand simple Jarrad.  Even eunuchs have to urinate.”  His eyes softened and what might be construed a hint of a smile whisked across his face and was gone.  He handed Jarrad a bulky envelope.  “Please forward this to the Council of Elders ASAP.  I have rendered my decision.”

“Yes, right away your Holiness.”

~*~

The Final Reformation was in full swing by 2075.  The Troubles that had started in earnest around 2024, ripped and tore through Humanity for fifty years.  The planet’s population had at first tried to discuss their differences.  Unforeseen political and military alliances were formed.  Regional confrontations escalated into planet wide scorched earth campaigns.   War, starvation, disease, and mass suicides took their toll.  By 2035 less than two billion souls still walked the Earth.  Religious zealots took control over two thirds of the planet.  The Pan Asians controlled the rest.

The Age of the Three Kingdoms had begun.

~*~

Scurrying servo-techs connected last minute wiring to the feed going out planet wide.  They applied last minute make up to aging Elder faces and fussed over positioning of the altar in the Elder Well.   The Two prayer benches upon which the Witnesses sat had been scrubbed and polished.  Three stainless steel crosses with braided wire restraints formed a semicircle around the altar in front of a larger Cross upon which hung the current facsimile of what Christ looked like now.  He sported a stern face now days and fierce eyes.  His arms were spread open as if welcoming all who ventured into the Elder Well, but it was his razor sharp hands that told the truth of what went on here.  The Elder Well was designed for one purpose – to instill fear.  Fear kept the Elders in power.  Only the pious walked out of the Well alive.

Christ had finally transitioned from being the son of God and was now God’s Avenger. 

Elder William Graham ll sat and fidgeted in front of his mirror.  Tonight would be his first chance at the Bloody Pulpit.  He worried every detail with his hair, his robes.  He practiced his severe look.  He worried that his sweat would show through the heavy makeup.  After all, the Witnesses, comprised of the founding Elders would be watching his every move.  Sweat would be a sign of weakness in his faith.  A servo-tech with a clip board touched his shoulder.  “Five minutes Elder William.”

“Are all the sacred devices in place?”

“Yes Your Holiness.”

“Well then let’s break a leg.”

The servo-tech counted the last few seconds before the night’s festivities began.  “9….8….7….6…..”, and then with his right hand he silently finished at 3 and …………… an off camera tech with a calm mellow, made for prime time voice began,

“Welcome good Christians of the Realm.  The night’s Sacrifice is brought to you for the first time from the newly constructed and righteously blessed Harold Camping Studios here in New Holywood.  Elder William Graham ll will perform God’s Will as Heaven’s Apprentice and will be witnessed by twelve of our most revered founding Elders.

Tonight’s unfortunates are a family of three from Oxnard.   Caught with a copy of the New Testament, the mother refused to acknowledge her sin and plead for mercy.  Their fate was sealed when her husband tried to run with her and their son of six.  So tonight for your viewing pleasure, …….tonight we have a three-fer.

Ladies and gentlemen let the festivities begin……………”

~*~

Mullah Saluman Kaleri sat 6000 miles away watching the feed from the Realm.  Others in his mosque considered the monthly sacrifices broadcast over the Net nothing but more foolishness from the Realm of God.  He knew better.  There was more to their monthly blood letting than just reinforcing the fear of God to maintain control over their heathen majority.  They wanted a new crusade.  What they did today, tomorrow, next year was all aimed at defeating Islam.   The sacrifices were a promise of sorts should the Infidels successfully overrun the Kingdom Of Allah.    He knew this because it would be what he would do to them.

The Mullah watched the various players take their places in the Elder Well.  He watched each “lamb” being led or dragged in by two ornately masked assistants who shackled them each to their respective crosses.  He watched the Acolyte solemnly lay out the cloth which held the devices of the Sacrament and then stand at attention to the right.  “Ah”, he thought. ”Tonight the new guy has chosen blades to purge their sins.”  Mullah smiled and settled back to watch.

The music swelled.  The house lights dimmed.  The audience grew quiet.  Suddenly spots lit up Jesus.  Fire and sparks shot out of his eyes.  Heaven’s Apprentice began his slow march to the pulpit. Adorned in a simple red and green striped robe tied crudely with a knotted piece of hemp rope he gave the appearance of a god fearing man until he looked at the camera.  At once he became a figure to fear.  William Graham acting as Heaven’s Apprentice  had nailed the look.  There was an audible gasp heard as the audience moved forward on their seats.  This was a man to fear.

What followed was a well rehearsed sermon of the evils of allowing unclean thought to sully the mind of the faithful.  Mullah Salumen Kaleri lost interest and turned the sound down.  With one eye on the feed, he poured himself some tea and was just raising it to his lips when the first cut was made.  Mullah turned the sound back up and settled in.  “This guy knows how to do it.”  He took a sip of tea.

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Writing challenge for Flash Fiction Friday - Cycle # 61

Prompt: Write a story with a countdown and make sure to include these words: three, night, wire, sweat, and run.

Genre: Spy, Sci-fi, or Pulp

Maximum number of words: 2,012

Minimum number of words: 364

Deadline: Wednesday, January 4, 2012 at 9:00 p.m. ET

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~Approximately 1150 words

~ As usual not happy with it, but deadlines are deadlines

~ My apologies for using Dali's "Christ of St. John"

Compatible

Flash Fiction Friday - Cycle #60

Caleb Winters sat in his wheel chair on a dock that crudely interrupted the flat calm of Harpshead Pond.  His presence and the dock the only proof Mankind even knew of this peaceful place.  A loon cried off to his left and dragonflies swarmed in manic flight wolfing down mosquitoes foolish enough to be out and about.  Caleb spotted his bobber begin to bounce.

Caleb's fishing pole was stuck in the rod holder Harold had zip tied to his chair a week earlier.   Learning to fish with one hand had been difficult, but over the last seven days he came up with a system and yesterday he finally caught his limit. One more now and he would reach his limit today also.  He pulled the rod out and yanked hard setting the hook.  He immediately returned the pole in the holder to brace it.  Awkwardly he began to reel the line in.  

Whatever was on Caleb's line was bigger than any fish living in this pond.  His rod tip dipped hard with each crank of the reel.  Caleb stopped.  Could it be one of those lake trout Harold boasted about?  Called them togue or something like that.  He was often not sure what Harold was saying.  His thick Maine accent frequently a foreign language to Caleb’s New York City ears.

Caleb brought the rod back up with a sharp tug.  Nothing.  He moved the pole one way, then another.  Again nothing. 

"Damn!  Another snagged line. ....... Harold!......... HAROLD!..........My damn line's snagged again."

No response.  Caleb sat in his chair fuming.  What was the use of hired help if they were never there when he needed them.  Caleb sighed, tried to calm down using those relaxation techniques that flexible filly at the hospital tried to teach him.  No good.  He continued to rant.

Several minutes later a man stepped out of the camp nestled in the tall pines some 75 feet up from  the dock.  He wore a bloodstained white apron and was wiping his hands on a dishrag.  He looked down towards the dock.  The afternoon sun had dropped far enough he had to raise his hand to his forehead to block out its intensity.   He saw Caleb.

"Caleb!  Did you call?"

Caleb turned in his chair as far as he could.  Over his shoulder, "Yeah, where the Hell have you been?  My line's been snagged for an hour.  Get down here and fix it."  Harold rolled his eyes. Caleb's ranting followed him as he turned and walked back into the cottage to locate the tackle box. 

"What the Hell have you been doing Harold?  You got blood all over your apron."

Kneeling down next to Caleb rifling around the tackle box looking for another hook and leader Harold spoke. "Been cleaning all them damn fish you been catching.  You ever gonna eat any?  If not, I know a family that would appreciate the fresh fish."

"I don't eat seafood, you know that.  Just toss it out."

Harold found the leader and hook and stood up.

"Toss perfectly good filets?  No sir I won't do it.  I'll drop em off for  Millie and her brood on my way to town."   Harold bent over and reached for the last bobber in the top tray of the tackle box.  "You keep snagging something in the same spot.  Ferchrisakes, try casting somewhere else.  Think all I have to do is babysit you?"

Caleb opened his mouth and quickly closed it.  He opened it again.  "Just fix the line dammit, It's almost sundown.  One more fish and I hit my limit again.  Never thought I'd enjoy wrestling fish out of the water.  You know I hate seafood dontcha?"

"Yeah Caleb, you just told me.  You hate eatin fish, but you love catchin them.  I'll sleep in comfort tonight knowin that.  Thanks."

Caleb looked at Harold again.  His eyes became slits.  "What bug crawled up your ass?" 

Harold straightened up.  His back complained, his knees screamed.  He was getting too old for this nursing shit. 

"Well, I'll tell ya Caleb.  It was you.  You crawled up my ass.  You’ve done nothing but piss and moan since the day I rolled you out of the van.  First it was the mosquitoes.  They were eatin you alive.  Then you didn't like how the bug spray made your skin all greasy and shit.  We get past that and after the first night all you did was complain about how noisy it was here.  Trees rustling, loons crying, ....Ferchrisakes Caleb we just come up from Manhattan.  You think this place is noisy after living there that last 50 years....And while I'm at it, what the Hell were you thinkin when you bought this place? .......  Spent five million dollars and for what?  I know, I know, you wanted your own retreat, your quiet place to escape Humanity.  Well goddammit, then retreat and shut the fuck up."

"Caleb's eyes were no longer slits, they were bug eyed open.  Oddly speechless, he took a moment to gather himself.  Finally, "Well now, I guess you can pack up your things and we'll be done with each other.  No employee of mine shows me disrespect."

Harold did not say anything.  He reached out and grabbed the snagged line.  He cut it loose and attached the new bobber, leader and hook.   When he was done he threaded the hook through the fattest worm left in the small bowl next to Caleb's wheel chair.  He handed the rod to Caleb. 

 “Here you contrary ole fart, fixed.  Now fish and leave me the Hell alone."  Harold walked back up the dock and headed for the camp.

Caleb spun his chair around and watched Harold's back disappear into the cottage. He smiled.  The two of them had been together for 20 years now ever since the plane crash and the round the clock care Caleb needed from then on.  He loved that old Mainer, he really did.  But what he loved the most was pissin him off.
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The challenge was created at "Flash Fiction Friday"  - "Write a story using the weather, a town, something to eat, and a song.".

I did not hit the prompts very well, but I did finish it inside the word limit.  My first draft was over 1300 words.  I kept nibbling and condensing until I had 1000 words exactly.

Not hitting the prompts cleanly bothers me some, but finally punching out some fiction again, well, that more than makes up for it.

I'll be back.