Category: random

My Cousin Elmo says, “Beer is now cheaper than gas. Drink, don’t drive.”

“Uh, Houston?” Baker asked, “Are you seeing this?”

“Affirmative,” Houston came back.

Baker was the Commander of Lunar Exploration One. His second in command, Wilson, was standing closer to the object inspecting it, and taking photographs.

They were inside the dark half of the moon, the beams of their helmets the only illumination available and then penetrating the black by only a few yards. Both men stopped, staring at what they had found in the immense darkness surrounding them.

“What does it look like to you?” Houston asked.

“It looks like my grandma’s refrigerator,” Baker answered. “But I don’t recognize the brand.”

“What is the brand?” Houston asked.

“Sierra, Mike, Echo, Golf,” Baker returned.

“It’s plugged in,” Wilson interjected.

“To what?” the voice from Houston asked.

“A rock,” Wilson answered. “Should I unplug it, see what happens?”

“Negative,” Houston said. “The brand is Italian.”

“Italian?”  Baker asked as if his hearing had deceived him.

“Yeah, Williams, in Flight Control has one,” Houston returned.

“Roger,” Baker stated, “I think we should open it, see what’s inside.”

“Standby,” Houston instructed.

The two lunar explorers stood silently, looking at the refrigerator than at one another, when Wilson asked, “You don’t think the Russians are playing a trick of some sort, do you, Cap’n?”

Baker didn’t get a chance to respond as Houston returned, “Roger, L-E One. Go ahead and open it.”

Wilson was standing in front of the refrigerator and was closest to the handle, so he grabbed it. Baker stood on the other side in case something should escape from it.

The inside light came on as the door opened. Wilson fully extended the door then came around to look inside with Baker.

Not only was there a bright yellow bulb emitting light, but the back of the refrigerator was also teeming with flora and fauna. Green leaves and grasses waved in a slight breeze as oversized insects buzzed back and forth.

There was a long silence as Wilson and Baker watched. Houston remained quiet as well.

Then a low growl came from someplace in the back of the refrigerator. No sooner had it faded than a large reptilian eye appeared, blinking, studying the two astronauts.

Wilson slapped the refrigerator shut and backed away.

“What the hell was that thing?” Baker asked.

“A velociraptor,” Wilson panted in fright.

The refrigerator shook and thumped violently for about fifteen seconds as the pair backed away from it and towards the Lunar Crawler. Then it went silent.

By then, the astronauts were aboard the crawler and making way for the relative safety of their Lander.

“You know I don’t like crowds,” Les complained to his supervisor.

“Sorry, but you got the short straw, dude,” the other man said.

Thousands of people gathered in Las Vegas for the tech show, and Les was one of them. He did his four hours at his companies booth, then retreated to the privacy of his hotel room.

Day three and Les found himself restless. So he wandered about the convention floor, looking at the sights and checking out many of the new electronic gadgets on display.

That evening instead of staying in his room, Les visited one of the after-hour parties. While he was still uncomfortable in the crowded room, he did order a rum-and-coke, forcing himself to nurse the drink as he sat at the bar.

He watched and listened as people gabbed and chatted up one another.

Sheila had spent the day as a display model for the convention. She was hungry, and instead of going home, she decided to go to an after-hours party.

“Perhaps I’ll get lucky,” she thought.

Les was getting ready to leave when Sheila stepped up to the bar next to him and asked, “Is this seat taken?”

“No,” Les answered. “By all means, sit.”

Before he knew it, they were chatting and laughing, and he was buying their drinks. It was something Les had not enjoyed since his early college years.

“Wanna come back to my place?” Sheila asked. “I only live a couple of blocks from here.”

Not believing his good luck, Les sprang at the idea, saying, “I’d love to.”

Sheila quickly disappeared, saying she needed to slip into something more comfortable. As Les waited, he studied her unusual stereo equipment.

“Interesting,” he said. “Ham radio?”

Hearing her step into the living room, he turned to find Sheila standing in her bedroom doorway naked, smiling at him.

“Care to join me?” she asked.

Though Les tried to remain calm, he found himself fumbling to get undressed as she stepped back into the room. He could hear her pulling back the covers, exciting him even more.

“Where would you like to start?” Sheila asked.

“I have no idea,” Les blushed.

“Well, let’s start with a little ’69,’” she responded as she pushed Les back onto the bed.

He reached up and cupped her butt cheeks in his hands and greedily pulled her to himself. Les didn’t even have the chance to scream before his head disappeared into the sharp-toothed, eel-like maw.

A few minutes later, Sheila leaned back against a pillow, so full that she figured she wouldn’t need to feed again for another Earth month. That would give her time enough to clean up her mess and finish setting up the communication equipment to contact her home planet of Venus.

Lieutenant Edwige Barre found the wind from the mountainside much colder than she expected. It was nighttime, 19 January, and there was a blanket of snow covering the streets, and more was threatening.

She had to hurry, as she didn’t have much time and didn’t want to get caught. Her all-black bodysuit and the shadows would help camouflage her movements.

Though alone for this part of the mission, Edwige was a member of a much larger team. Five other time-transitioning units were training to continue the experiment, should this one fail.

“What happens if we change something and some members disappear?” she had asked.

“We don’t think anyone will be affected, but if that does, we’re five-deep, and someone will take our place,” the project director said. “That includes you and me.”

To know anything more beyond preventing the murder of this woman was above her pay grade.

Not only was she selected because of her physical skills and courage, but also like the woman and man she was tracking, she spoke French and Cajun fluently. She was also the average height of a woman for the time and could blend in if somehow she were to become trapped.

It had been a painful transition from where her journey started, and her body felt like a pincushion, her mind slightly muddled. She had never experienced anything like it during her lengthy training period.

Though disoriented, she found the female target’s home with ease. Entry was even less of a problem as she forced the backdoor open.

While the team had no idea of the home’s layout, it took Edwige seconds to locate the bedroom and slip beneath the bed. While she didn’t have any way of measuring time, she figured she had less than 30 minutes for her target to return home.

Juliette was angry. For all the good she did for Virginia City, its people still treated her like a two-bit whore.

She stormed down the hillside street from Piper’s Opera House, where Mark Twain was lecturing, towards her small home on D Street. On the opposite side walked Jean Marie.

He called out, “Bonjour, Mademoiselle Juliette!”

She did not return the greeting as she continued hurriedly down the street.

Jean Marie looked back at her in anger and gruffed, “Ignoré par une pute maudite.”

Jean Marie spoke no English and could barely order the beer he was drinking. As he stood, back against the far wall, the loner thought about Juliette’s snub and growing angrier by the minute.

After four more beers and six shots of whiskey, he left the saloon and wandered about the town, looking for a place to sleep that was out of the wind. Then he had an idea.

The door to the house opened and closed. Edwige could hear Juliette muttering about her treatment and how one-day people would realize how much she had done for this ‘trou de merde’ of a town.

Within a couple of minutes, Juliette was in bed, and less than half an hour, she was sound asleep. Quietly, Edwige slipped from her hiding spot and took a position in the far corner of the room, near the closed door.

Then there was a loud thump from somewhere beyond the bedroom.

“Jean Marie,” Edwige thought.

The noise startled Juliette from her sleep, and she rolled over to listen. Juliette pulled on a pair of crinoline drawers she had at the foot of her bed, then picked up a piece of wood as she got out of bed.

How she saw Edwige, the Lieutenant had no idea. She was practically invisible in her black clothing and the lightless room.

At five-two, Edwige was nearly a head shorter than the woman with the piece of wood, who was now swinging wildly at the dark figure cornered in her bedroom. The blows were landing, but not all of them with efficiency.

Edwige tried to get out the door but couldn’t as the woman would not let her near the handle. So, she decided she had to fight back, striking the woman in the head with the butt of her Glock pistol.

The blow sent Juliette back and against the bed frame, but it didn’t stop her. Instead, she rushed Edwige, and the two ended up on the floor, Juliette straddling her smaller opponent, manually strangling her.

Unable to breathe and amazed at how strong her target was, Edwige picked up the piece of wood and clubbed Juliette in the side of the head. On the fifth strike, Juliette finally slumped forward, unconscious.

Then Jean Marie tried to enter the bedroom, shoving the door against the still trapped Edwige. As Edwige wiggled from under the woman’s body, Jean Marie moved away from the door.

It took all of Edwige’s strength to get the half-nake woman onto her bed. It was then that she noticed that Juliette was bleeding severely.

She started to administer first aid, but the woman gained consciousness, grabbed a pair of scissors from her nightstand, and stabbed Edwige in the stomach. Surprised, Edwige tried to stand up, but again the scissors found their mark, this time in Edwige’s right shoulder.

Knowing she could die if she didn’t stop her attacker, she jumped on top of Juliette and pressed her left forearm into the woman’s throat. In response, Juliette rammed the scissors into Edwige’s lower back, piercing her left kidney.

Within a minute, the battle ended, and Edwige pulled herself from the unconscious body of Juliette, collapsing to the floor. Then she heard the door open and instinctively rolled over and clambered to her feet, prepared to defend herself.

“Mon Dieu!” Jean Marie exclaimed, springing on Edwige, punching her, and yelling, “Meurtrier.”

Her strength zapped, Edwige fell back on the hardwood floor and waited for the man to strike her again. Instead, he got to his feet and checked on Juliette.

Understanding that she was dead, Jean Marie turned back to Edwige and kicked her. He was in the process of kicking her a second time when she vaporized before his eyes.

The violence of his kick, married to the sudden lack of a target, caused the still intoxicated man to flop violently onto his back.

“Type A, stat,” said the emergency room doctor as she worked feverishly to save Lt. Barre’s life.

The injuries were many, and blood leaked from nearly all of them. The Lieutenant tried to remain awake but finally slipped into unconsciousness.

It would be two more days before she could speak and be coherent in doing so.

“So odd the way it went down,” the project’s director said.

“It was Jean Marie coming into the house as he did that caused everything to go off the rail,” Lt. Barre said. “It had to be.”

“Well, you’re fortunate to be alive,” the director said. “I guess we can’t change the past after all.”

“Yeah, why’s that?” Lt. Barre asked.

“According to the historical record Juliette Bulette still died in 1867, murdered, and Millain went to the gallows the next year for the crime, continuing to claim he was only there to steal, but that someone else killed Juliette,” he said.

“Oh chère Dieu,” the young Lieutenant exclaimed, suddenly feeling violently sick to her stomach.

My Cousin Elmo says, “Where’s a rock when you need one? Oh, that’s right, God banned them when Cain slew Able.”

The craft glided gently to a stop exactly as programmed. Commander “Skeeter” Caster removed his helmet and smiled at the camera mounted over the control dash, happy that the first test of their hyper transonic-warp engine had worked.

“Sagebrush One to Groom Lake, I’m outside of our solar system, and it took less than 78 seconds, 77-point-7 seconds to be precise,” the Commander said. “I’d call that a success.”

Groom Lake was once known as Area 51, but that was years ago, and now the Sierra Nevada Space Agency, a private corporation, owned the property, using it to launch spacecraft. Skeeter had started with the company as a lowly flunky five years before the agency won its first federal contract, and now he was their lead test pilot.

After a minute of staring out into the darkest void he had ever seen, the test pilot looked back at the camera and said, “Okay, let’s get this baby turned around so we can come home.”

Skeeter pushed a couple of buttons on the dash, and the craft jumped to life, swinging to its portside with a violent shutter. Before the ship could line its nose up for home, half-a-dozen buzzers sounded, and several lights flashed on the dashboard and the side panels.

“Uh, Sagebrush One to Groom Lake, jus’ had a wicked shimmy as I started Charlie two-seven thruster,” he stated as calmly as he could.

As the ship continued to rotate to its left, he pulled his helmet back on and began the process of responding to the flashing bus lights and turning off the alarms that accompanied them.

“What the…” Skeeter began, “Groom Lake, I have a ‘collision imminent’ alarm that is refusing to turn off. And there is nothing out here to run into.”

As he said that, he saw the glass of the forward screen begin to cobweb. If it disintegrated completely, Skeeter knew he had made a one-way trip into nothingness, and no one would be coming to save his ass.

While betraying his fright, he said, “Groom Lake, we have a structural failure. The forward screen is fracturing, and I don’t think it will hold much longer. Please tell my wife that I love her and that…”

“That is it,” the Centers Director said into the hotline, “All communication ceased, and we have not been unable to reach Sagebrush One for the past 15-minutes. I don’t want to say it, but I know everyone’s thinking it.”

There was a long pause before the Director spoke again, “Yes, sir. I’ll notify the team.”

Andrea Caster was at the kitchen sink when the cat hissed, then jumped from the window sill of the breakfast nook and dashed into one of the bedrooms.

“It’s only a cloud crossing over the sun, you silly cat,” she laughed.

Then Wiley, their Doberman, began to bark as if he were in a panic. Andrea decided to investigate and stepped outside onto the back patio.

Above her floated a gigantic object, motionless and noiseless. It was so large that it blocked out the sun.

Behind her, she heard the telephone ringing, so she returned inside and answered it.

“Wait, what are you saying?” she asked her mother-in-law, who was on the other end of the line crying. “No, that can’t be. It was a test flight, that’s all.”

The front doorbell rang, and Andrea dropped the phone.

She knew it to be true. Her husband was dead.

Still, Wiley continued to bark. But jus’ as sudden his barked turned to a whimper, the kind of whimper he made when Skeeter arrived home.

Andrea rushed to the door and threw it open. There stood to solemn-faced men in suits and a youthful-looking priest.

“No, no, no,” she screamed.

“May we come in?” the priest asked.

Andrea stepped back, still screaming. They entered.

Suddenly the backdoor opened and banged shut. Andrea and the three men looked, only to see Commander “Skeeter” Caster standing in the dining area with a dazed expression on his face.

The shadow disappeared, and the sun was shining bright again.

Buddy and I are jus’ now back from our daily hike. We would have been home sooner had I not had to search for, but never find, what I was expecting to see.

For nearly a quarter-century, I have been going to the same place to sit and relax, meditate, pray and allow my imagination to go free. It is, or was, a large boulder that I could climb to the top of, whether raining, blowing, snowing, or in the blistering heat.

It took me over half an hour to fully grasp that the boulder, the size of an average home, was gone. There is nary a sign of it, not even a gaping hole where one should be.

Instead, the ground is flat and filled with Pinion and sagebrush.

Dad, can we stop and see that ball of twine we heard about yesterday?” my son asked.

“Sure,” I said as we approached Exit 13 that led to the town.

Twine Town isn’t its real name. I don’t want to remember the name, let alone have a desire to say it aloud.

We stopped there to see the world’s second-largest ball of twine. It was started in 1933 by Henry Johnson in memory of his two children, who died one early morning after they lost the guideline from the barn to the house in a blizzard.

The boy and girl froze to death, less than 10 feet from the back porch. Mrs. Johnson lost her mind with grief, dying a year later after being placed in an asylum.

Henry Johnson died twenty years later when the ball was only seven feet around. Since then, Twine Town has held an annual festival, said to be on the anniversary of the children’s death, adding twine and increasing its circumference a little at a time.

Taken by the huge Gordian Knot, my twelve-year-old son walked around it, running his hand over its rough and uneven surface. After a few pictures, I stepped outside for fresh air as the room had a funky rancid odor.

After a couple of minutes, I returned to where I had left my son. Only, he was gone.

Panicked, I raced around the small quad, searching for him. Finally, I headed for the police department to help.

“Are you sure he didn’t run away or something?” the officer at the desk asked.

“He wouldn’t do that,” I answered, “Besides, he doesn’t know anyone around here, and he’s rather shy.”

“Well, your boy wouldn’t be the first child to surprise his parents by running off,” he said, “I’ll get a BOLO on the air. I’m sure he’ll turn up.”

“I’m going back over to the ball of twine, in case he did wander away and returns,” I said.

“You do that,” the officer said.

While bothered by his attitude, I left and returned to the display. As I loitered about the place, I noticed town folk watching me, some looking away when I made eye contact, others staring.

As I tried not to notice the odd behavior, I turned to look at the twine. Something flashed, then fell to the floor with a metallic sound.

Walking over to look at the object, I instantly recognized it as the silver cross and chain I had given him for his last birthday. I studied the area to see from where it could have come.

Then it struck me. My son was inside the ball of twine.

Not taking the time to think about how he might have gotten inside it, I took out my knife and cut away. A reddish mist sprayed out and into my face, arms and hands.

I hacked until I could push the upper half of my body inside the sphere and grab my son.

He was being held fast by twine, which I chopped and cut until it released him. Free, I lifted him over my shoulder and dashed for my truck.

By the time I locked the doors, a crowd of people had gathered and began beating at the vehicle’s window.

Quickly, I started the truck, and without hesitation, stomped the gas pedal to the floorboard. And though I ran down two or three people, I sped out of the town’s limits within five minutes.

I looked at my son, and he gave me a goofy little smile as he recovered from his frightening ordeal.

“How did you end up inside the ball of twine?” I asked.

“It grabbed me, opened its mouth, and swallowed me,” he answered.

That night, being some 100 miles away from the place, I left my boy asleep in our motel room and drove back to Twine Town. The place was quiet, nobody on the sidewalks, and no vehicles in the street.

With the five-gallon gas can I had purchased beforehand, I slipped into the display area with the twine and doused it, using all the fluid in the container. As I prepared to strike a match to the ball, a general alarm sounded, and the quad suddenly filled with people.

Realizing I could not escape, I tossed the match to the twine and stepped back to watch as it turned into an all-consuming blaze. As it began to unravel, I saw, much to my fright, the gathering outside the display area begin to disentangle as well.

Taking a chance, I pushed my way out the door and through the now struggling mass of unwinding humanoids. Half a second later, I was in my truck and speeding out of town.

In my rearview mirror, I could see nothing but a conflagration as the entire town disappeared in a hellish wall of flames.

My Cousin Elmo says, “Ghislaine Maxwell and Jeffrey Epstein are a perfect couple because she can still finish his sentence.”

A friend called his wife to say that she saw a horse stuck in the feet-deep snow about a quarter of a mile above her running path. She saw it two days before but thought little of it as wild horses are constantly traversing the hillsides.

“It looks like it’s trapped,” she said, “No trail showing it had moved either backward or forward, and the snow is over its rump.”

“Poor horse,” his wife said. “Is there anything we can do?”

“I called around, and no one’s answering their phones, so I’ve left a bunch of messages, but no one’s called back,” she answered.

His wife looked at him. He knew then that he would be the one heading up the rocky hillside to see if he could coax the animal down or learn that it might already be dead.

In no time, with his heaviest snow gear on and throwing rope in hand, he headed up the embankment. It took him about an hour to reach the poor beast.

It was good and stuck in snow that had thawed and refrozen for at least three days. When the horse raised its head and looked at him, he was amazed.

Moving slowly, not wanting to scare it and get a hoof in the head for his effort, he finally got the rope around its neck and then began the task of hacking out a path out of the ice that had formed around much of its body. It was easier said than done, and an hour and a half later, the horse took its first step out of its would-be icy tomb.

Together, and very slowly, they worked their way down the hillside. He stumbled and fell, as did the horse, but it stayed with him and didn’t drag him off as he had half suspected it might.

Once they reached the running trail, they gave the horse hay, some carrots, and bits of sliced apple. It turns out the horse was not wild but had escaped its enclosure a week before, and the animal’s owners were out searching for it.

Through an online message board, they heard about a horse stuck in the snow, reaching the base of the trail as the pair were coming to it. Another day and night, and the horse would have died, as it had already given up when he made his way to it.

Britches is now home and safe.

And while he’s cold, he is satisfied. His wife is making a large pot of turkey soup that will end his internal chill.