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"Foolproof" (the forty-ninth ACWclub monthly writing contest) |
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Assignment: Write a story or poem using the following title: "Foolproof" 2500 words or less. Deadline: Midnight (DST), Sept 15, 2005 All entries are the property of the authors and cannot be copied or reprinted without their consent. |
| Foolproof By V.F. Geister vfgeister@yahoo.com (Entry #3) |
| ~Winning Entry~ |
| "Just a minute," George Berkovitz
peered intently at the piece of paper in front of him, first with his unaided
eye and, then, through his glasses. "Why would you…" he cast a quick, bewildered look at Art, slumped nonchalantly in the chair on the other side of his desk, "I mean, what makes you think I could submit this as a medical expense?" George’s tone of voice was controlled, but carried within it an embryo of irritation. In his entire accounting career no one ever tried to pull a stunt like this. "No, really, Art, how could a thought like this even cross your mind?" "What do you mean?" Art yawned, covering his mouth with his left palm and slowly fanning himself with a manila folder from George’s desk with his right. "Foof…it’s stuffy in here." "I mean, how did you figure that a ‘sex doll’ could be written off as a medical expense?" The piece of paper George waved at Art agitatedly was a receipt from "The ‘Real' Dollie' Company," denoting the purchase of a "Sample Doll, Face Type 2, Body Type 3, Code Name; ‘Tami’." "Listen, George," Art shifted his position in the chair. "This is just a suggestion. You’re the accountant. If you think I can get a bigger return if we shove her into a different category, then, I don’t care. It’s your call." "Art, Art, you don’t understand." George dropped the receipt on top of Art’s open folder and slid his hands through his hair. "You cannot write off the doll as anything. I was just curious as to what your train of thought was on this." "OK, here’s the thing. My wife died two years ago...." "Oh, I didn’t know, I’m sorry to hear that." "Well, you couldn’t know, could you? You weren’t my accountant, then." Art was a little irritated at being interrupted. "OK, so, anyway... about a month after she died, I started having these health problems. Insomnia, heart palpitations, bad headaches...." "You were missing your wife. I can certainly imagine. That’s got to be very painful." "Y’know, that’s what I thought too. But when I went to the doctor, he told me all my health problems were caused simply by the absence of a regular sex life. Apparently, it’s unhealthy when you stop all of a sudden." "Yeah," George nodded. A little ambush smile made its way onto his lips. "but…. "So..." Art spread his open palms before him with a flourish, "TA-DA! The purchase of the doll was a ‘medical necessity’." "Yes, but…" still smiling, George lifted his finger, finally able to bring up the argument he’d been holding in, "...to have sex with a doll?" He tried to suppress a grimace of contempt, "Surely your doctor didn’t mean a doll, but a real woman." "Well, actually," Art yawned again, "he didn’t specify. He just said to have a regular sex life." "Oh, come on Art - you can’t be serious." George’s embryo of irritation was, slowly, metamorphosing into its next stage of development. "You’re a good-looking man. Can’t you find yourself a real woman? Get yourself a girlfriend? Or, even get married again?" "In fact, George, I am serious." Art changed his relaxed pose to a more upright one. "You know my financial situation, so you, obviously, know that, though I, still do, occasionally, I don’t have to work anymore if I don’t want to. What you don’t know is how hard I worked all my life, just to get myself to this point. So, you’ll understand that I really don’t want to even chance the possibility of getting involved with some bimbo who would marry me for the security and stability I can, obviously, provide and, then, divorce me in three years to get half of it. I am just too old to start over; I don’t want to take such a risk." "OK, so, then, no wife. But how about a girlfriend?" George offered, smiling. "That’s not much better, George. You have to take her to restaurants, buy her a new car, pay for her kids’ college. Then she wants to go to on fancy vacations, Mexico, the Bahamas, go to Europe, take her here, there, everywhere. And, then, even if you’re not married, if she moves in with you, and stays put long enough - she’s got claim on your property, too. No, not worth it. Screw it." George squinted at Art. He wanted to ask Art where he got his legal degrees, to be spouting all this mumbo-jumbo, but... Art was right. So George just let him talk. "And to date women just for ‘good times’… not such a great idea, either. It’s inefficient, and I’m not even talking about money. With every new woman you have to be on your toes all the time, be ready to schmooze for two or more hours, listen to her stupid jokes or the endless story of her life – y'know, convince her how much you ‘care’." "And after all this investment, what’s the return? Where’s the guarantee that you’ll get laid? You know perfectly well: one day, they’ll give it up like it’s nothing... and another one they’ll have a hair up their ass about it so bad you’ll be glad, by date’s end, that they DIDN’T give it up." George felt his lips curl slightly and his head almost imperceptibly nod. True, true. Been there, done that. "So - just between us, now - I chose another option. Once a week a girl from an Oriental massage parlour comes over and gives me a... y'know... ‘massage.’ Which is fine, does the job, but, y’know, even though it’s the cheapest option overall, it’s still a hundred bucks a ‘pop’. Pardon the pun. And no matter how well it works... still, it’s only once a week." George shook his head disapprovingly, but his thoughts were losing their brittleness as his irritation slowly subsided into agreement. Art was, sadly, making sense. "So, once I found out about these dolls, I thought ’Bingo!’ For the price of about sixty visits from the Oriental gal, I could have myself a doll, twenty-four-seven. And the advantages over a real woman are incomparable. For instance, you know how you sometimes wake up in the middle of the night with the boner? And all you want to do is to have it off and go back to sleep? In that situation - what are your options? If you’re lucky enough to have a woman there with you at all, wife or no wife – you’re going to be in trouble. She’ll either push you away because she’s sleeping, or she has a headache, or she has to go to the bathroom first and ‘freshen up’ or, worst, she could start bitching that you don’t love her, you’re just using her, and blah blah blah, y'know what I’m talking about, how they get all worked up and go on and on about nothing." "I guess," George sighed. Yeah, this sounded familiar, too. "But my Esmeralda - she’s always ready to go. No talking. No excuses. No bitching." "Esmeralda? I thought her... its... name was ‘Tami’." George picked up the receipt from the pile in front of him and squinted at it. "Didn’t like the name, ‘Tami.’ Sounded like a hooker. So I renamed her ‘Esmeralda.’ Sweet. Romantic. From that book about the hunchback. She was his girlfriend in it. Not that I’m comparing myself to a hunchback," Art laughed, "But hey, I deserve a pretty girlfriend with a romantic-sounding name, just as much as the next guy. Even if the next guy DOES happen to be a hunchback." George rolled his eyes. Art could be such a doofus sometimes. Sometimes? Most of the time. But he was a regular client. And, in a limited way, a friend. So... whatever. Art continued. "And, tell you what, George… she’s what I’ve always wanted in a woman, but never in my life could get: perfection. Flawless skin, silky strawberry-blonde hair, big, blue eyes, luscious lips. Skinny where she should be and curvy everywhere else. Seriously, just go on-line and check out the ‘Real Dollie’ site for yourself. You’ll be abso-frickin’-lutely amazed at how beautiful they are." "OK, Art - but what about communication, companionship? After all sex isn’t the only thing you do with a woman." In fact, Millicent had instructed him on this very subject again, just last night, so the matter was fresh in his mind. "True, you can’t talk to a doll. But, like I was kind of saying, before - would you really want to talk to a woman if you didn’t have to? I don’t know about you, but when I’m horny, I’m not really interested in talking. Or listening. At those times, all I can think about is how to get her out of her clothes as fast as possible. And, then, all the rest of the time... well, I don’t know about you but, frankly, as I’ve gotten older, I’ve found I really don’t have that much to say to women. I, actually, would rather talk to men. Y’know, ‘cause with men, you can talk about anything and everything: sports and politics and business. Y’know, ‘life’.…" "So, OK, you can’t talk about ‘life’ to women. But, what do you do for holidays, then? Birthdays, Thanksgiving, Christmas - y'know, occasions when you’re supposed to be with people, when you don’t normally want to be alone?" George glanced at his photo of Millicent, staring amidst the clutter on his desk. "Oh, that’s no problem," Art waved his hand dismissively. "Holidays I spend with one or the other of my kids. They draw straws or something to decide who gets me." "Well, that’s kind of sad...." "Nah, not at all. They have their own lives, their own stuff to do and, now that I’ve got Esmeralda, it’ll work out just fine." "But still, Art, the way you seem to have this arranged, you’re going to be alone most of the time. Just you and an... inanimate object." "Yeah, George - but, y’know, I’ve been thinking... whether we’re with wives or girlfriends or dolls... when it comes right down to it, aren’t we all, still, really... alone? We are, George. All alone. So, why pretend? Seriously, think about it." George stared at Art for a moment then sighed and shook his head. He didn’t need to think about it. He thought about it every Saturday night after he’d finally convinced Millicent to, OK, then, whatever, just lay there and let him. "Seems you’ve got everything figured out, Art. OK, I’ll submit your doll as a ‘medical expense’. Fingers crossed the IRS has as good a sense of humour as I do." He chuckled at the thought of the looks on the agents’ faces when they saw THIS. "Seriously, I’m telling you, George - a doll is the very best thing, an absolutely foolproof purchase." George wasn’t clear whether Art said this in relation to his taxes or his... other problem... but he was starting to feel uncomfortable under Millicent’s cold eyes, glowering at him over Art’s file. "OK, then," George filed the receipt back in Art’s folder and picked up the next piece of paper on the pile, "let’s move on, shall we?" *** Art had just finished the dishes and was settling down to watch the game when the phone rang. "Yeah?" "Art - George Berkowitz." "Hey, George. What’s up? Problem?’ "Nah, no problem. Just letting you know they’re done." "Great. So, what do I owe the bastards?" "Ah, you broke about even, this time, but on the plus side. By the way, your doll really helped with that." "Fantastic! Y’know, the way you were talking, there, I didn’t think it would. So, OK, you’ll mail me the papers like usual, right?" "Going out tomorrow morning." "Wonderful. Your check’ll be in the mail, too." "Great." Art was puzzled by this curt response followed by... nothing. And the game was about to start. "So, George, anything else?" "Um... kind of." "Yeah? What?" "Uh... can I ask you a personal question? Strictly between us?" "Ask away, George. Whatever it is, is safe with me. I won’t even tell Esmeralda." Art laughed. "Even though, y’know, now there’s a gal who can keep a secret!" "Uh, yeah, well... actually, now that you mention it, it’s about your doll...." "Esmeralda? What about her?" "Uh... hmm... OK, does she... it... she... do those dolls really... um...." "Do they what, George?" Art could hear faint music and cheering coming from the television. "Spit it out." "Do the dolls really feel the way the site says they do?" "Oh. Oh, yeah, their skin is very soft. Warm, too. Close your eyes and you’d swear you’re holding a young babe." "No, Art - I mean... down there. Does it really feel like... y’know... young pussy?" "Oh, that… well, sure. Lube it up and it’s just like the real-deal. Natural. Tight. Why - you thinking of buying one?" "Well…" George paused so long that Art though he’d lost him. "George?" "I’m here. Well, yeah, actually, yes. And... no." "Yes... and no. What? Which is it?" He could hear referee whistles, now. George took a deep breath. "Well, Art, I’m kinda’ thinking I should have one but, y’know, I’m not a single guy, like you, I have Millicent to consider, and believe me, I have enough trouble just trying to get her to do it once a week, missionary-style; I can imagine how much shit would hit the fan if I even mentioned ‘sex toy’, much less ‘sex DOLL....’" "Yeah, see what I mean about women? Better off with a doll, like my Esmeralda." "Well, that’s the thing...." "What?" "Since I can’t, feasibly, bring home a doll, and, y’know, you’re all alone, there... I was just kind of wondering if...." Art scowled. "Wait, George, I’m not understanding you. You mean, you want to come here and, what... use... Esmeralda? Like a hooker, like, for an hour or something?" "Well, yeah. But..." "But...?" "But not an hour. More like, say, fifteen minutes." Art’s eyes narrowed. "Sorry, George, I don’t think so. Thanks for calling about the taxes. Your check will be in the mail tomorrow morning. Have a good evening." "No, wait, Art, what’s the matter? Didn’t you say the dolls are a foolproof solution to sex prob...." "Have a good evening, George." Replacing the receiver, Art turned and quietly padded back to his place on the sofa across from the television. "Oh, nothing. Just a wrong number, don’t worry about it." Carefully, Art moved his arm between the sofa back and the flannel night-gowned shoulders, pulled them into him and, settled, stretched his neck enough to plant a slow, gentle, kiss on the top of the silky, strawberry-blonde head snuggled into his chest and, smiling, picked up the remote. "OK, so, what did I miss, Esme? Anyone score, yet, babe?" |
| Foolproof By lee10@host365.com (Entry #4) |
| ~Runner Up~ |
| The karaoke bar was the perfect
place for telling tales, for whispering secrets and for the hatching of plots.
The walls were dark-panelled and the lighting was dim. Tall, potted plants
formed secluded alcoves and the caterwauling of two, skinny, blonde teenage
girls, squawking an ill-toned duet, was an ideal blanket of sound. “I tell you nothing can go wrong,” Piers shouted at Fernando, confident he wouldn’t be overheard. “The plan’s foolproof.” Fernando didn’t look quite convinced. For the past hour, he’d raised all the objections he could think of, but Piers had easily answered every one. “You’re the man I need,” Piers urged. “The two of us can make a killing in six months.” The teenagers stopped chewing the microphone, giggled and ran from the stage. Piers lowered his voice. “It’s such a simple plan and you’ll soon have made enough to take off for the States. Six months, that’s all I ask.” Piers scattered the bait. He began reeling his friend in. He knew the Canarian had grown bored scamming money from holidaymakers; at little recompense to himself, at any rate. “You’ve got a real talent for picking those who’ll fall hook, line and sinker.” Piers laid it on thick and Fernando lapped up the praise. “For every middle-aged, British couple you deliver to the villa, you’ll earn one thousand euros. That’s twenty times the rate you’d make with anyone else.” Fernando licked his lips. Piers knew he had him. “Nothing, but nothing can go wrong.” He raised his voice again as a beer-gutted German started to sing a strange, slobbery version of ‘My Way’. “We’ll go up and have a look at the villa now.” “Now?” Fernando looked at the gold watch that nestled amongst the fine, black hairs on his dark wrist. “But it’s nearly midnight!” “Right. And you need to see the view and soak up the ambiance at all times of the day. You’ve got the know the product.” Fernando grunted and snatched his mobile phone and his cigarettes off the table. “OK,” he grinned. His even, white teeth gleamed in the shadows. Gotcha, thought Piers. On the way out they passed the stage. As the German almost hit the last, long note, Piers wondered if he might electrocute himself, the microphone was so covered in spit. Piers had been working on his plan since he’d arrived in Tenerife last year after bumming around the Far East since he left university. He’d been hoping to con his grandmother out of some cash and turned up, unexpected, at her villa on the mountainside above Los Cristianos. To his surprise, although she was still living on her own, she was totally doolally. She’d opened the door, taken Piers for her long-dead husband Reginald, asked him why he’d taken so long to fetch the milk, and Piers was in. “Did that mean,” Fernando chuckled when he was told the tale, “that you had to, you know?” “No,” Piers laughed. “She always settled for a milky Horlicks and a kiss on the cheek.” He’d gone on to explain how easy it had been easy to persuade the old girl to part with some of her wealth to bring the villa up to standard and just as easy, last week, to talk her into “going on holiday” to a home for the elderly. “And the villa is ours for the duration,” Piers had concluded. “And the family?” Fernando had asked. “What of the rest of your family? Will no one miss her? Will anyone come looking?” “No,” Piers reassured him. “My parents are dead. There’s just the one aunt and her snivelling brat. They were over here about twenty years ago, when I was fifteen, and there was an almighty bust-up. My father took Grandmother’s side against Aunt Sylvia and she stormed off back to Blackpool with the brat, never to be seen or heard from again.” Piers smiled. “So I’m only jumping the gun a little bit. The villa will be mine when the old girl falls off her perch, and that can’t be long because she has some terminal illness or other.” * And now it was Day One. Piers strolled around the villa, checking that everything was in place. Down in the town, Fernando would be greeting selected British holidaymakers as they strolled along the promenade. Inevitably, they’d shake their heads and try to avoid him when accosted. “It’s Time Share,” they’d say. “We’re not interested.” “Yes. It is Time Share,” Fernando would reply. And that honest statement would stop them in their tracks, giving him the opportunity to describe the one two-bed, two-bathroom, exclusive residence in a delightful setting; a holiday villa that had only a few weeks left, at a discounted price! And when he offered the bribe, a drive up the mountain and the offer of refreshments, including drinks, they’d be hooked. Fernando was that good. Piers scheme was to sell holiday weeks for periods dating from six months time, when he and his money would be well clear of the island. With luck, he’d sell every week of the year at least ten times over. At 15,000 euros per week, he’d make a killing. The fictitious Reginald would take the flack from angry punters when they found they’d bought Time Share holidays that didn’t exist, while Piers waited in England for the executors of his grandmother’s will to sort out the mess. Meanwhile, the property would be increasing in value. It was a win-win situation; especially as Piers had used his grandmother’s money to set up the scam. Piers strolled outside to the front of the villa and stood on the veranda that overlooked the town and the sea beyond. The sun was hot already and the sea was liquid silver, flashing with a million pinpricks of light. He squinted. The drive curved down and away to the road. Soon, very soon, the first of his punters would appear, delivered by Fernando, like flies to his web. Way down the hill, he saw a small, red, moving dot on the road. He said a little prayer of thanks to the god of avarice and walked round to the back of the house. A sprinkler was throwing pearl droplets across a swathe of emerald grass, dotted with nodding palms. In a spot by an aquamarine swimming pool, where it would catch a gentle breeze, a small table waited, set ready for refreshments. Two kittens slept in the shade cast by the table. A young man was cleaning leaves from the pool. “Everything all right, Daniel?” Piers called. “No problems,” the young man called back. With a muscular forearm, he wiped sweat from his brow and carried on with his work. Fernando had found the gardener working in a bar. Daniel had been on the island for a month and was already bored with waiting on tables. He’d jumped at the chance of working outdoors. Piers had taken one look at Daniel and had hired him on the spot. Daniel was tall, blond and bronzed. Piers planned to bring his couples onto the patio after the sales pitch and sit them at the table near the pool, while they had a drink and discussed the offer. The sight of Daniel cleaning the pool would have the women reaching for a pen to sign on the dotted line, and their husbands wouldn’t be able to resist their wives’ determination. And if the women hesitated, the kittens would nudge them over the edge. * True to his plans, Piers’ grandmother died after six months and Piers wrapped up his successful con. There’s no point in being greedy, he told himself, as he fed all the shredded paperwork onto the gardener’s bonfire. * The karaoke bar was the perfect place for celebrating a scheme brought to a successful conclusion. Piers relaxed in his seat in a corner and sipped his whiskey while Fernando counted his last month’s earnings. “Plus a little bonus.” Piers slid a white envelope across the table. Fernando opened the envelope and gasped. “F-for me?” he stuttered. “Of course. You’ve earned it.” “But it’s…” “A first-class ticket for tomorrow’s flight to London, then on to L.A.” Piers pretended to look concerned. “That was what you wanted, wasn’t it?” Fernando struggled to find something to say, but put the envelope safely into his jacket pocket nevertheless. Then he held out his hand. “Thank you, Piers. It’s been a pleasure working with you. I will go and pack.” “Chow,” Piers shook his hand. Dismissed, Fernando left the bar. “I thought you’d never get rid of him.” Piers froze. He’d thought he was alone. “I heard the old woman had died.” Slowly, Piers looked up at a grinning Daniel who was peeping through the leaves of a potted plant. “And that was a good idea, giving Ferdie a ticket off the island. Get’s rid of most of the evidence, doesn’t it?” The karaoke was in full swing. A small boy was singing something unrecognisable, to the delight of his adoring parents. Daniel stepped round the plant. “Mind if I join you?” He set his beer on the table in front of Piers and sat opposite. “Yes, I do mind. You’ve been paid,” Piers snapped. “Get lost!” “No, Piers,” Daniel said. “I’m going nowhere. Not without my cut, that is.” Piers stood up. “I’ll get the owner of the bar to throw you out. He’s a friend of mine.” “Sit down, cousin. I don’t think he’ll want to become involved in a family affair.” A look of horror crossed Piers’ face. “You’re…” He pointed a trembling finger at Daniel. “Yes. I’m your little cousin,” Daniel chuckled. “What a strange coincidence it was to discover that my new boss was Piers Harewood, my lost-lost, black sheep of the family, cousin.” Daniel took a drink of his beer. “Do you know, I didn’t even recognise Grandmother’s villa when Ferdie took me up there that first day. But I sure as hell remembered you when you arrived. Nice scam you had going. But you always were a conniving sneak. And when I phoned Mum to tell her what you were up to, she said what did I expect? You take after Grandfather after all. Do you know?” he asked companionably, “it seems he paid for the villa by thieving from people.” Piers felt sick. A prophetic feeling of helplessness pressed down on his shoulders and the fear of seeing his plans unravelling was a hot fire in the pit of his stomach. “That’s what the falling out was about, by the way,” Daniel said. “That’s why Mum and I never returned to the villa. She said the rest of you were a bad lot and we were better off on our own.” “What do you want?” Piers managed to whisper. “Well, now. Let me see.” Daniel pretended to tick his comments off on his fingers. “I’ve been watching you. I’ve counted up what you’ve been making. It’s a tidy little sum. I think 70 :30. In my favour, of course.” “No way!” “Tell you what,” Daniel offered. “Because we’re family, you will give me five million euros in cash, that’s 60%, and I’ll let you keep the remaining 40%. And,” he pulled a passport from his pocket and examined Piers’ photograph, “you can have this back when you deliver the money.” Piers was aghast. “How did you get that?” “You’re very, very careless, cousin. You sometimes forget to lock your briefcase. Tut, tut, tut.” Daniel shook his head. Piers snarled and made a grab for his passport but Daniel leaned back, removing it from his reach. He tucked it back in his pocket. “That’s the deal. Take it or leave it. Or I go to the police and tell them what you’ve been doing in my villa.” Daniel smiled. “But I don’t think you’re that much of a fool, Piers.” The child stopped singing. The silence hung over the bar like a shroud, suffocating Piers. “You have no choice you know. Without this,” Daniel patted his pocket, “you can’t leave the islands.” He stood and finished his beer. “Oh, and I have other paperwork that points a finger at you too. So don’t try and do anything stupid or my lawyer will go to the police. They hate Time Share touts like you. It gives Tenerife such a bad name. So I’ll see you here tomorrow with the money, Piers.” He looked at his watch. “Same time. OK?” Daniel smiled down at his cousin. “I didn’t tell you, did I? Mum and Grandmother patched things up last year and Grandmother altered her will. She’s left me everything.” Piers sagged in his seat as Daniel walked away. He was so cheerful, the karaoke man thought he wanted to sing and offered him the microphone. “No, no,” Piers heard Daniel say. “Ask that bloke in the corner; the one with his head in his hands. I think he feels like singing the blues. You haven’t got that song that starts, ‘Fools rush in where angels fear to tread,’ have you, by any chance?” |
| The
WCA's The Writers' Choice Awards |
| Here's how the members of the
ACWclub voted for their favorite entries: First place: #3 Second place: #4 Others receiving votes: #5 |
Here are all the entries, posted in the order they were received.
| Foolproof P.S.Gifford psgifford@earthlink.net |
#1 of 5 |
| 1364 | |
| “It is a bloody foolproof plan” Charlie
Watkins said in his usual optimistic tone as he downed the last of his pint.
“It simply must work.” Roger and Cuthbert studied Charlie’s red rosy cheeks and rolled their eyes in unison…They had heard that line before. Twenty minutes later and spurred on by several pints of the finest cask conditioned ale that London has to offer the three middle aged men fell out of the aptly named “scoundrels Arms” and into the street and began to stumble off towards the corner fish and chip shop. In theory their plan was indeed ridiculously simple. Harriett Higgins, the widow of the great beer mogul Arthur, had recently choked on an unusually large pickled onion and had been discovered by her maid the next morning dead on her marble kitchen floor. Apparently after the maid had performed a celebration jig about the body she finally succumbed and called the police. By all accounts the coroner had a somewhat disturbing and troublesome time removing the offending onion. Harriett was not exactly a slender woman, in fact she was bordering on 360 pounds. Finally the coroner succeeded in his dreadful taste, and with a huge and undignified sigh signed all the appropriate paperwork, stating that it was ‘death by misadventure’ and sent the body to its next stop, the local morticians. Upon its arrival the all too handsome and far too dashing Trevor Steed, who was a mortician by day and a womanizer by night, set about his daunting task of cleansing and dressing the oversized body. There was even some nasty gossip about the town of some terrible accident involving highly explosive bodily gases and a lit cigarette, but I digress. Harriett’s final instructions had been painstakingly detailed; the oddest request perhaps was that she insisted to be buried with her beloved Pekinese dog, fluffy, who now wore a permanently startled look on his pampered face. It was public knowledge that she also demanded that her corpse was to be dressed in her best fox fur coat, be sporting her finest most lavish watch, her diamond studded necklace, earrings, bracelet, and matching tiara placed daintily upon her head. The funeral had transpired the afternoon before in the nearby historic Saint Peters Anglican cemetery…There had been quite a fuss as all of the local press had turned out, and many former employees from Higgins brewery were there in attendance. You see after her husband’s death, she had become sole proprietor of the historic award winning Higgins brewery and three days after his demise sold it off to an American mega beer (and I use that term very loosely…) brewery for undisclosed millions of dollars. The new owners, who have no actual interest in the beer, just in the companies name and heritage, quickly modified the recipe, replaced all the dedicated work force with computers and robots, and began mass marketing the wretched, tasteless putrid new product to the gullible Americans as “The true taste of Britain.” It was now the fourth most popular imported beer in North America. But yet again I digress. As the three sat there munching on their Haddock and chips along with a few pickled eggs they eagerly went over the final details. One of them was to remain on guard whilst the other two dug up Harriett, and every twenty minutes they would rotate. They had conveniently parked Charlie’s old Morris Minor van outside the churchyard earlier that day, and in the back were a variety of shovels, spades and pick axes. What could possibly go wrong? Reinvigorated by their late night gourmet feast Charlie, Cuthbert and Roger gallantly once more set off into the night. It was about half a miles walk to the cemetery, still it was a pleasant cool October evening and the thought of all that lovely jewelry, or rather how much they were going to get for it off their fence, Cedric, sped them along.. At just before midnight they arrived at the graveyard and began to unload the equipment from the van. Saint Peter’s ancient bell began to ominously chime just as they swung open the creaking wrought iron gate of the entrance. “Why do I suddenly expect Christopher Lee to suddenly jump up at me?” Cuthbert whined as the actual thought that they were grave robbing finally entered into his head. “Its easy money” Charlie said in an attempt to reassure him. “I have told you this plan is foolproof.” “Aye and we are the bloody fools” Roger whispered sheepishly. Charlie flashed his two accomplices his best menacing look, which unbeknownst to him made him look rather like a fat codfish. However they did pull themselves together. “Right” Charlie commanded sounding like a very bad impression of Michael Caine, “I will take the first watch and you too get digging right? And if I do see anyone or anything I will give a blow on this and you will know to hide.” As he spoke he reached into his anorak pocket and proudly pulled out a wooden duck call.” With some reluctance Roger and Cuthbert proceeded to the middle of the graveyard and towards Harriett’s final resting place... They had been smart enough to bring along torches and their beams reflected eerily amongst the old graves as they went. Finally they arrived at the oversized marble tombstone, which had been elaborately carved. They looked at each other and gave a big sigh, and then they started digging away at the soil. They had expected that removing the soil would be relatively easy, yet it turned into quite a task. Twenty minutes later, after they had only dug two inches, Charlie walked on over to them. He was obviously not very satisfied at their progress and scowled he swapped his duck call for Cuthbert’s shovel and they set about digging again. And so it proceeded. Every twenty minutes they continued to rotate. Finally six hours later and just as the morning sun was threatening to rise they finally hit the coffin…. With excitement reenergizing him Roger raced over to get Charlie, and then the three of them, covered in dirt, stood at the side of the grave and flashed their torches down at the box… Charlie climbed down, and using an old chisel forced the locks open… “It’s the moment of truth!” he said gleefully rubbing his hands together. Then, with Cuthbert and Roger looking on expectantly, he popped open the casket… Inside was a horrible sight, a most horrible sight indeed. Harriett was lying there in nothing more than her nit very modest frilly underwear and clasping fluffy in her hand. *** At that precise moment six thousand miles away a plane was beginning its final descent to Los Angeles airport. Trevor could not help but smile to himself. Sitting next to him was Tiffany Bradbury, a twenty three year old bleached blonde buxom beauty dressed in a lovely, albeit rather large, fox fur. ‘No more bloody dead bodies for me!’ He thought as he sipped on his canned Higgins ale. *** Three weeks later back in the ‘Scoundrel’s arms’ Charlie, Trevor and Roger again sat a there drinking pints and chomping down jellied eels... “I have been thinking” Charlie said scratching his chin. “And I have come up with another plan…And this one I promise is foolproof.” |
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| Foolproof roger@cowboylogic.net |
#2 of 5 |
| 1004 | |
| Dan’s view of the old photograph in hand fell from
focus as his reflection in the dark office window took over. There was the
image of a successful man grinning easily back. His hair had flags of silver
over each ear and was an inch or so too long when compared with the suits on
his board of directors but sweat equity and success had long ago given him
license to bend the rules. His mind wandered back to the year of that photo and his eyes followed to the picture. He had come a long way from the skinny kid who could never think of joining that club. The club was called the “Foolproof”. This was nothing he would consider anyway, being a loner sort in school who had to grind and fight for every passing grade. The very fact that it was an exclusive club, jocks, and geeks rather than the long standing cool jocks exclusive club historically part of the high school experience, made it even harder to be omitted. It was simply the principal that if you were not eligible for that club you were a certified looser. Little did they know the club did far more for him then it did for any of its members. Dan pulled over a yellow legal pad and wrote down the names representing the faces grinning perfectly back from under that bright yellow “Foolproof” sign. He wrote: - Marty - Ben - Shelly - Elizabeth - Sam B - Bruce - Sam R - Billy - Cynthia - Randy The photo was 22 years old and every one on that list now worked for him. Dan had spent years pulling strings in the background, way behind their backs to get to the point he had reached today. Yesterday was the final brick in the wall when his shipping department manager hired Billy away from Dan’s biggest rival. Three of these employees had once been professional athletes, making millions. Each of them had squandered the wealth and were now happy to be making less then 100 thousand. Two were Mensa members who had long lists of initials behind their names but had burnt many bridges to take magnificent offers from Dan’s Research and Development department. Two of the names on the list were attached to CEO positions in successful businesses. He bought them lock stock and soul. Three of these people had been alcoholics, destitute and ruined when Dan had lifted them from the curb and given them back their lives. As a matter of fact, from that venture, he now had one of the most successful rehabilitation centers in North America. Dan wrote a simple meeting request and required each name on the list to be at the meeting at 8:00 AM in his glass board room on the top floor. He then finished his work on the list he was preparing with simple pencil on yellow legal pad. His finished list looked like this: - Marty Sleeping with Shelly who is his subordinate. - Ben Padding expense account on the last three multi-million dollar projects - Shelly Charging business dinners and rooms to her business account to be with Marty. - Elizabeth Running her hair salon from home while Virtual commuting to her job as accountant. Our business has been paying her hair shop phone lights and water for 6 months. - Sam B Taking kickback from 7 smaller suppliers who supply services to our company. - Bruce Saving customer lists on removable drives to take home. He is about to take an offer with one of our newest competitors. - Sam R About to sell his third company laptop to a family member. - Billy A copy of Billy’s history sent from Brad over at the other companies shipping department stated that Billy was going up the river for a good long time for diverting product to sanctioned countries. Feds would be here tomorrow about 8:30 for him. - Cynthia Pregnant with Marty’s child. Marty’s wife and Shelly are about to find out from Cynthia’s husband. Cynthia had planned to defraud the company health plan. - Randy Has three quarters of our flagship software code saved to hidden hard drive on his workstation. Also has an offer to join our biggest competitor. Dan pulled out a red marker and scribed “Foolproof. Was this club to keep fools in or out?” Smiling, he then stepped over to the photocopier and printed 10 enlarged copies of the photo and tucked them into the folder containing the necessary documents for tomorrow mornings meeting. By the end of tomorrow he thought, the day will indeed be foolproof. He pressed the pager button for his driver, killed the office lights and strode whistling down the hall for the elevator. |
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| Foolproof V.F. Geister vfgeister@yahoo.com |
#3 of 5 Winner |
| 2486 | |
| "Just a minute," George Berkovitz peered intently at
the piece of paper in front of him, first with his unaided eye and, then,
through his glasses. "Why would you…" he cast a quick, bewildered look at Art, slumped nonchalantly in the chair on the other side of his desk, "I mean, what makes you think I could submit this as a medical expense?" George’s tone of voice was controlled, but carried within it an embryo of irritation. In his entire accounting career no one ever tried to pull a stunt like this. "No, really, Art, how could a thought like this even cross your mind?" "What do you mean?" Art yawned, covering his mouth with his left palm and slowly fanning himself with a manila folder from George’s desk with his right. "Foof…it’s stuffy in here." "I mean, how did you figure that a ‘sex doll’ could be written off as a medical expense?" The piece of paper George waved at Art agitatedly was a receipt from "The ‘Real' Dollie' Company," denoting the purchase of a "Sample Doll, Face Type 2, Body Type 3, Code Name; ‘Tami’." "Listen, George," Art shifted his position in the chair. "This is just a suggestion. You’re the accountant. If you think I can get a bigger return if we shove her into a different category, then, I don’t care. It’s your call." "Art, Art, you don’t understand." George dropped the receipt on top of Art’s open folder and slid his hands through his hair. "You cannot write off the doll as anything. I was just curious as to what your train of thought was on this." "OK, here’s the thing. My wife died two years ago...." "Oh, I didn’t know, I’m sorry to hear that." "Well, you couldn’t know, could you? You weren’t my accountant, then." Art was a little irritated at being interrupted. "OK, so, anyway... about a month after she died, I started having these health problems. Insomnia, heart palpitations, bad headaches...." "You were missing your wife. I can certainly imagine. That’s got to be very painful." "Y’know, that’s what I thought too. But when I went to the doctor, he told me all my health problems were caused simply by the absence of a regular sex life. Apparently, it’s unhealthy when you stop all of a sudden." "Yeah," George nodded. A little ambush smile made its way onto his lips. "but…. "So..." Art spread his open palms before him with a flourish, "TA-DA! The purchase of the doll was a ‘medical necessity’." "Yes, but…" still smiling, George lifted his finger, finally able to bring up the argument he’d been holding in, "...to have sex with a doll?" He tried to suppress a grimace of contempt, "Surely your doctor didn’t mean a doll, but a real woman." "Well, actually," Art yawned again, "he didn’t specify. He just said to have a regular sex life." "Oh, come on Art - you can’t be serious." George’s embryo of irritation was, slowly, metamorphosing into its next stage of development. "You’re a good-looking man. Can’t you find yourself a real woman? Get yourself a girlfriend? Or, even get married again?" "In fact, George, I am serious." Art changed his relaxed pose to a more upright one. "You know my financial situation, so you, obviously, know that, though I, still do, occasionally, I don’t have to work anymore if I don’t want to. What you don’t know is how hard I worked all my life, just to get myself to this point. So, you’ll understand that I really don’t want to even chance the possibility of getting involved with some bimbo who would marry me for the security and stability I can, obviously, provide and, then, divorce me in three years to get half of it. I am just too old to start over; I don’t want to take such a risk." "OK, so, then, no wife. But how about a girlfriend?" George offered, smiling. "That’s not much better, George. You have to take her to restaurants, buy her a new car, pay for her kids’ college. Then she wants to go to on fancy vacations, Mexico, the Bahamas, go to Europe, take her here, there, everywhere. And, then, even if you’re not married, if she moves in with you, and stays put long enough - she’s got claim on your property, too. No, not worth it. Screw it." George squinted at Art. He wanted to ask Art where he got his legal degrees, to be spouting all this mumbo-jumbo, but... Art was right. So George just let him talk. "And to date women just for ‘good times’… not such a great idea, either. It’s inefficient, and I’m not even talking about money. With every new woman you have to be on your toes all the time, be ready to schmooze for two or more hours, listen to her stupid jokes or the endless story of her life – y'know, convince her how much you ‘care’." "And after all this investment, what’s the return? Where’s the guarantee that you’ll get laid? You know perfectly well: one day, they’ll give it up like it’s nothing... and another one they’ll have a hair up their ass about it so bad you’ll be glad, by date’s end, that they DIDN’T give it up." George felt his lips curl slightly and his head almost imperceptibly nod. True, true. Been there, done that. "So - just between us, now - I chose another option. Once a week a girl from an Oriental massage parlour comes over and gives me a... y'know... ‘massage.’ Which is fine, does the job, but, y’know, even though it’s the cheapest option overall, it’s still a hundred bucks a ‘pop’. Pardon the pun. And no matter how well it works... still, it’s only once a week." George shook his head disapprovingly, but his thoughts were losing their brittleness as his irritation slowly subsided into agreement. Art was, sadly, making sense. "So, once I found out about these dolls, I thought ’Bingo!’ For the price of about sixty visits from the Oriental gal, I could have myself a doll, twenty-four-seven. And the advantages over a real woman are incomparable. For instance, you know how you sometimes wake up in the middle of the night with the boner? And all you want to do is to have it off and go back to sleep? In that situation - what are your options? If you’re lucky enough to have a woman there with you at all, wife or no wife – you’re going to be in trouble. She’ll either push you away because she’s sleeping, or she has a headache, or she has to go to the bathroom first and ‘freshen up’ or, worst, she could start bitching that you don’t love her, you’re just using her, and blah blah blah, y'know what I’m talking about, how they get all worked up and go on and on about nothing." "I guess," George sighed. Yeah, this sounded familiar, too. "But my Esmeralda - she’s always ready to go. No talking. No excuses. No bitching." "Esmeralda? I thought her... its... name was ‘Tami’." George picked up the receipt from the pile in front of him and squinted at it. "Didn’t like the name, ‘Tami.’ Sounded like a hooker. So I renamed her ‘Esmeralda.’ Sweet. Romantic. From that book about the hunchback. She was his girlfriend in it. Not that I’m comparing myself to a hunchback," Art laughed, "But hey, I deserve a pretty girlfriend with a romantic-sounding name, just as much as the next guy. Even if the next guy DOES happen to be a hunchback." George rolled his eyes. Art could be such a doofus sometimes. Sometimes? Most of the time. But he was a regular client. And, in a limited way, a friend. So... whatever. Art continued. "And, tell you what, George… she’s what I’ve always wanted in a woman, but never in my life could get: perfection. Flawless skin, silky strawberry-blonde hair, big, blue eyes, luscious lips. Skinny where she should be and curvy everywhere else. Seriously, just go on-line and check out the ‘Real Dollie’ site for yourself. You’ll be abso-frickin’-lutely amazed at how beautiful they are." "OK, Art - but what about communication, companionship? After all sex isn’t the only thing you do with a woman." In fact, Millicent had instructed him on this very subject again, just last night, so the matter was fresh in his mind. "True, you can’t talk to a doll. But, like I was kind of saying, before - would you really want to talk to a woman if you didn’t have to? I don’t know about you, but when I’m horny, I’m not really interested in talking. Or listening. At those times, all I can think about is how to get her out of her clothes as fast as possible. And, then, all the rest of the time... well, I don’t know about you but, frankly, as I’ve gotten older, I’ve found I really don’t have that much to say to women. I, actually, would rather talk to men. Y’know, ‘cause with men, you can talk about anything and everything: sports and politics and business. Y’know, ‘life’.…" "So, OK, you can’t talk about ‘life’ to women. But, what do you do for holidays, then? Birthdays, Thanksgiving, Christmas - y'know, occasions when you’re supposed to be with people, when you don’t normally want to be alone?" George glanced at his photo of Millicent, staring amidst the clutter on his desk. "Oh, that’s no problem," Art waved his hand dismissively. "Holidays I spend with one or the other of my kids. They draw straws or something to decide who gets me." "Well, that’s kind of sad...." "Nah, not at all. They have their own lives, their own stuff to do and, now that I’ve got Esmeralda, it’ll work out just fine." "But still, Art, the way you seem to have this arranged, you’re going to be alone most of the time. Just you and an... inanimate object." "Yeah, George - but, y’know, I’ve been thinking... whether we’re with wives or girlfriends or dolls... when it comes right down to it, aren’t we all, still, really... alone? We are, George. All alone. So, why pretend? Seriously, think about it." George stared at Art for a moment then sighed and shook his head. He didn’t need to think about it. He thought about it every Saturday night after he’d finally convinced Millicent to, OK, then, whatever, just lay there and let him. "Seems you’ve got everything figured out, Art. OK, I’ll submit your doll as a ‘medical expense’. Fingers crossed the IRS has as good a sense of humour as I do." He chuckled at the thought of the looks on the agents’ faces when they saw THIS. "Seriously, I’m telling you, George - a doll is the very best thing, an absolutely foolproof purchase." George wasn’t clear whether Art said this in relation to his taxes or his... other problem... but he was starting to feel uncomfortable under Millicent’s cold eyes, glowering at him over Art’s file. "OK, then," George filed the receipt back in Art’s folder and picked up the next piece of paper on the pile, "let’s move on, shall we?" *** Art had just finished the dishes and was settling down to watch the game when the phone rang. "Yeah?" "Art - George Berkowitz." "Hey, George. What’s up? Problem?’ "Nah, no problem. Just letting you know they’re done." "Great. So, what do I owe the bastards?" "Ah, you broke about even, this time, but on the plus side. By the way, your doll really helped with that." "Fantastic! Y’know, the way you were talking, there, I didn’t think it would. So, OK, you’ll mail me the papers like usual, right?" "Going out tomorrow morning." "Wonderful. Your check’ll be in the mail, too." "Great." Art was puzzled by this curt response followed by... nothing. And the game was about to start. "So, George, anything else?" "Um... kind of." "Yeah? What?" "Uh... can I ask you a personal question? Strictly between us?" "Ask away, George. Whatever it is, is safe with me. I won’t even tell Esmeralda." Art laughed. "Even though, y’know, now there’s a gal who can keep a secret!" "Uh, yeah, well... actually, now that you mention it, it’s about your doll...." "Esmeralda? What about her?" "Uh... hmm... OK, does she... it... she... do those dolls really... um...." "Do they what, George?" Art could hear faint music and cheering coming from the television. "Spit it out." "Do the dolls really feel the way the site says they do?" "Oh. Oh, yeah, their skin is very soft. Warm, too. Close your eyes and you’d swear you’re holding a young babe." "No, Art - I mean... down there. Does it really feel like... y’know... young pussy?" "Oh, that… well, sure. Lube it up and it’s just like the real-deal. Natural. Tight. Why - you thinking of buying one?" "Well…" George paused so long that Art though he’d lost him. "George?" "I’m here. Well, yeah, actually, yes. And... no." "Yes... and no. What? Which is it?" He could hear referee whistles, now. George took a deep breath. "Well, Art, I’m kinda’ thinking I should have one but, y’know, I’m not a single guy, like you, I have Millicent to consider, and believe me, I have enough trouble just trying to get her to do it once a week, missionary-style; I can imagine how much shit would hit the fan if I even mentioned ‘sex toy’, much less ‘sex DOLL....’" "Yeah, see what I mean about women? Better off with a doll, like my Esmeralda." "Well, that’s the thing...." "What?" "Since I can’t, feasibly, bring home a doll, and, y’know, you’re all alone, there... I was just kind of wondering if...." Art scowled. "Wait, George, I’m not understanding you. You mean, you want to come here and, what... use... Esmeralda? Like a hooker, like, for an hour or something?" "Well, yeah. But..." "But...?" "But not an hour. More like, say, fifteen minutes." Art’s eyes narrowed. "Sorry, George, I don’t think so. Thanks for calling about the taxes. Your check will be in the mail tomorrow morning. Have a good evening." "No, wait, Art, what’s the matter? Didn’t you say the dolls are a foolproof solution to sex prob...." "Have a good evening, George." Replacing the receiver, Art turned and quietly padded back to his place on the sofa across from the television. "Oh, nothing. Just a wrong number, don’t worry about it." Carefully, Art moved his arm between the sofa back and the flannel night-gowned shoulders, pulled them into him and, settled, stretched his neck enough to plant a slow, gentle, kiss on the top of the silky, strawberry-blonde head snuggled into his chest and, smiling, picked up the remote. "OK, so, what did I miss, Esme? Anyone score, yet, babe?" |
|
| Foolproof lee10@host365.com |
#4 of 5 Runner-up |
| 2393 | |
| The karaoke bar was the perfect place for telling
tales, for whispering secrets and for the hatching of plots. The walls were
dark-panelled and the lighting was dim. Tall, potted plants formed secluded
alcoves and the caterwauling of two, skinny, blonde teenage girls, squawking an
ill-toned duet, was an ideal blanket of sound. “I tell you nothing can go wrong,” Piers shouted at Fernando, confident he wouldn’t be overheard. “The plan’s foolproof.” Fernando didn’t look quite convinced. For the past hour, he’d raised all the objections he could think of, but Piers had easily answered every one. “You’re the man I need,” Piers urged. “The two of us can make a killing in six months.” The teenagers stopped chewing the microphone, giggled and ran from the stage. Piers lowered his voice. “It’s such a simple plan and you’ll soon have made enough to take off for the States. Six months, that’s all I ask.” Piers scattered the bait. He began reeling his friend in. He knew the Canarian had grown bored scamming money from holidaymakers; at little recompense to himself, at any rate. “You’ve got a real talent for picking those who’ll fall hook, line and sinker.” Piers laid it on thick and Fernando lapped up the praise. “For every middle-aged, British couple you deliver to the villa, you’ll earn one thousand euros. That’s twenty times the rate you’d make with anyone else.” Fernando licked his lips. Piers knew he had him. “Nothing, but nothing can go wrong.” He raised his voice again as a beer-gutted German started to sing a strange, slobbery version of ‘My Way’. “We’ll go up and have a look at the villa now.” “Now?” Fernando looked at the gold watch that nestled amongst the fine, black hairs on his dark wrist. “But it’s nearly midnight!” “Right. And you need to see the view and soak up the ambiance at all times of the day. You’ve got the know the product.” Fernando grunted and snatched his mobile phone and his cigarettes off the table. “OK,” he grinned. His even, white teeth gleamed in the shadows. Gotcha, thought Piers. On the way out they passed the stage. As the German almost hit the last, long note, Piers wondered if he might electrocute himself, the microphone was so covered in spit. Piers had been working on his plan since he’d arrived in Tenerife last year after bumming around the Far East since he left university. He’d been hoping to con his grandmother out of some cash and turned up, unexpected, at her villa on the mountainside above Los Cristianos. To his surprise, although she was still living on her own, she was totally doolally. She’d opened the door, taken Piers for her long-dead husband Reginald, asked him why he’d taken so long to fetch the milk, and Piers was in. “Did that mean,” Fernando chuckled when he was told the tale, “that you had to, you know?” “No,” Piers laughed. “She always settled for a milky Horlicks and a kiss on the cheek.” He’d gone on to explain how easy it had been easy to persuade the old girl to part with some of her wealth to bring the villa up to standard and just as easy, last week, to talk her into “going on holiday” to a home for the elderly. “And the villa is ours for the duration,” Piers had concluded. “And the family?” Fernando had asked. “What of the rest of your family? Will no one miss her? Will anyone come looking?” “No,” Piers reassured him. “My parents are dead. There’s just the one aunt and her snivelling brat. They were over here about twenty years ago, when I was fifteen, and there was an almighty bust-up. My father took Grandmother’s side against Aunt Sylvia and she stormed off back to Blackpool with the brat, never to be seen or heard from again.” Piers smiled. “So I’m only jumping the gun a little bit. The villa will be mine when the old girl falls off her perch, and that can’t be long because she has some terminal illness or other.” * And now it was Day One. Piers strolled around the villa, checking that everything was in place. Down in the town, Fernando would be greeting selected British holidaymakers as they strolled along the promenade. Inevitably, they’d shake their heads and try to avoid him when accosted. “It’s Time Share,” they’d say. “We’re not interested.” “Yes. It is Time Share,” Fernando would reply. And that honest statement would stop them in their tracks, giving him the opportunity to describe the one two-bed, two-bathroom, exclusive residence in a delightful setting; a holiday villa that had only a few weeks left, at a discounted price! And when he offered the bribe, a drive up the mountain and the offer of refreshments, including drinks, they’d be hooked. Fernando was that good. Piers scheme was to sell holiday weeks for periods dating from six months time, when he and his money would be well clear of the island. With luck, he’d sell every week of the year at least ten times over. At 15,000 euros per week, he’d make a killing. The fictitious Reginald would take the flack from angry punters when they found they’d bought Time Share holidays that didn’t exist, while Piers waited in England for the executors of his grandmother’s will to sort out the mess. Meanwhile, the property would be increasing in value. It was a win-win situation; especially as Piers had used his grandmother’s money to set up the scam. Piers strolled outside to the front of the villa and stood on the veranda that overlooked the town and the sea beyond. The sun was hot already and the sea was liquid silver, flashing with a million pinpricks of light. He squinted. The drive curved down and away to the road. Soon, very soon, the first of his punters would appear, delivered by Fernando, like flies to his web. Way down the hill, he saw a small, red, moving dot on the road. He said a little prayer of thanks to the god of avarice and walked round to the back of the house. A sprinkler was throwing pearl droplets across a swathe of emerald grass, dotted with nodding palms. In a spot by an aquamarine swimming pool, where it would catch a gentle breeze, a small table waited, set ready for refreshments. Two kittens slept in the shade cast by the table. A young man was cleaning leaves from the pool. “Everything all right, Daniel?” Piers called. “No problems,” the young man called back. With a muscular forearm, he wiped sweat from his brow and carried on with his work. Fernando had found the gardener working in a bar. Daniel had been on the island for a month and was already bored with waiting on tables. He’d jumped at the chance of working outdoors. Piers had taken one look at Daniel and had hired him on the spot. Daniel was tall, blond and bronzed. Piers planned to bring his couples onto the patio after the sales pitch and sit them at the table near the pool, while they had a drink and discussed the offer. The sight of Daniel cleaning the pool would have the women reaching for a pen to sign on the dotted line, and their husbands wouldn’t be able to resist their wives’ determination. And if the women hesitated, the kittens would nudge them over the edge. * True to his plans, Piers’ grandmother died after six months and Piers wrapped up his successful con. There’s no point in being greedy, he told himself, as he fed all the shredded paperwork onto the gardener’s bonfire. * The karaoke bar was the perfect place for celebrating a scheme brought to a successful conclusion. Piers relaxed in his seat in a corner and sipped his whiskey while Fernando counted his last month’s earnings. “Plus a little bonus.” Piers slid a white envelope across the table. Fernando opened the envelope and gasped. “F-for me?” he stuttered. “Of course. You’ve earned it.” “But it’s…” “A first-class ticket for tomorrow’s flight to London, then on to L.A.” Piers pretended to look concerned. “That was what you wanted, wasn’t it?” Fernando struggled to find something to say, but put the envelope safely into his jacket pocket nevertheless. Then he held out his hand. “Thank you, Piers. It’s been a pleasure working with you. I will go and pack.” “Chow,” Piers shook his hand. Dismissed, Fernando left the bar. “I thought you’d never get rid of him.” Piers froze. He’d thought he was alone. “I heard the old woman had died.” Slowly, Piers looked up at a grinning Daniel who was peeping through the leaves of a potted plant. “And that was a good idea, giving Ferdie a ticket off the island. Get’s rid of most of the evidence, doesn’t it?” The karaoke was in full swing. A small boy was singing something unrecognisable, to the delight of his adoring parents. Daniel stepped round the plant. “Mind if I join you?” He set his beer on the table in front of Piers and sat opposite. “Yes, I do mind. You’ve been paid,” Piers snapped. “Get lost!” “No, Piers,” Daniel said. “I’m going nowhere. Not without my cut, that is.” Piers stood up. “I’ll get the owner of the bar to throw you out. He’s a friend of mine.” “Sit down, cousin. I don’t think he’ll want to become involved in a family affair.” A look of horror crossed Piers’ face. “You’re…” He pointed a trembling finger at Daniel. “Yes. I’m your little cousin,” Daniel chuckled. “What a strange coincidence it was to discover that my new boss was Piers Harewood, my lost-lost, black sheep of the family, cousin.” Daniel took a drink of his beer. “Do you know, I didn’t even recognise Grandmother’s villa when Ferdie took me up there that first day. But I sure as hell remembered you when you arrived. Nice scam you had going. But you always were a conniving sneak. And when I phoned Mum to tell her what you were up to, she said what did I expect? You take after Grandfather after all. Do you know?” he asked companionably, “it seems he paid for the villa by thieving from people.” Piers felt sick. A prophetic feeling of helplessness pressed down on his shoulders and the fear of seeing his plans unravelling was a hot fire in the pit of his stomach. “That’s what the falling out was about, by the way,” Daniel said. “That’s why Mum and I never returned to the villa. She said the rest of you were a bad lot and we were better off on our own.” “What do you want?” Piers managed to whisper. “Well, now. Let me see.” Daniel pretended to tick his comments off on his fingers. “I’ve been watching you. I’ve counted up what you’ve been making. It’s a tidy little sum. I think 70 :30. In my favour, of course.” “No way!” “Tell you what,” Daniel offered. “Because we’re family, you will give me five million euros in cash, that’s 60%, and I’ll let you keep the remaining 40%. And,” he pulled a passport from his pocket and examined Piers’ photograph, “you can have this back when you deliver the money.” Piers was aghast. “How did you get that?” “You’re very, very careless, cousin. You sometimes forget to lock your briefcase. Tut, tut, tut.” Daniel shook his head. Piers snarled and made a grab for his passport but Daniel leaned back, removing it from his reach. He tucked it back in his pocket. “That’s the deal. Take it or leave it. Or I go to the police and tell them what you’ve been doing in my villa.” Daniel smiled. “But I don’t think you’re that much of a fool, Piers.” The child stopped singing. The silence hung over the bar like a shroud, suffocating Piers. “You have no choice you know. Without this,” Daniel patted his pocket, “you can’t leave the islands.” He stood and finished his beer. “Oh, and I have other paperwork that points a finger at you too. So don’t try and do anything stupid or my lawyer will go to the police. They hate Time Share touts like you. It gives Tenerife such a bad name. So I’ll see you here tomorrow with the money, Piers.” He looked at his watch. “Same time. OK?” Daniel smiled down at his cousin. “I didn’t tell you, did I? Mum and Grandmother patched things up last year and Grandmother altered her will. She’s left me everything.” Piers sagged in his seat as Daniel walked away. He was so cheerful, the karaoke man thought he wanted to sing and offered him the microphone. “No, no,” Piers heard Daniel say. “Ask that bloke in the corner; the one with his head in his hands. I think he feels like singing the blues. You haven’t got that song that starts, ‘Fools rush in where angels fear to tread,’ have you, by any chance?” |
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| Foolproof walshnyc@yahoo.com |
#5 of 5 |
| 1377 | |
| The Silver City, a long time ago… The angels had gathered, the lower castes amassed and facing forward, the Council of the Seven looking down upon them, the focus of all attention. Gabriel, the voice of the Council rose to address them all: “It looks as if everyone is here,” he said, scanning the solemn faces; “so we may as well get started. I summon Alphohm to come forward to recount the progress we made in our last meeting.” Alphohm advanced from the crowd amid the surging murmur of their voices. He was largely unknown, yet had somehow been given the task of recording and reporting the content of the meetings to upper management. In this, the third such meeting, the invisible politics of his assignment was still a matter of much speculation. “So far,” he began, “we’ve managed to agree on the wording of five of the rules that we have been commissioned to draft. I have delivered these to Him, and He sends word that he is pleased.” “He should be pleased; the first four rules are all about him.” There was a collective gasp as all turned toward the council, the only beings present who could speak out unbidden. Sariel was the author of the remark. “Tread carefully,” Michael of the council said, glaring. “Our job here is not to question His rules, but to make them more accessible to those who will abide by them.” “But what does any of this have to do with us? Are we not better suited to more important tasks than to devise a set of rules for the Creator’s ant-farm to live by?” “What’s an ant-farm? I mean, I know what an ant is, but I don’t understand the reference.” Uriel asked. The others on the council seemed just as perplexed. “I’m not sure,” Sariel conceded. “It’s a term I’ve heard the Creator use. I think He is comparing them to an experiment in which a species is contained in a controlled environment, and at the whims of whomever put them there.” “That seems an apt comparison,” said Jeremeil. “Why does he keep coming up with all of these strange concepts and words? I don’t understand half of what he says anymore…” Uriel said. “He’s all-powerful- he can do whatever he wants,” Gabriel reminded him. “If He’s all-powerful, then why did He enlist us to write their rules?” Sariel demanded. “We’re not writing them, we’re interpreting them,” Michael replied. “As for why He wants our hand in doing so, I believe it is because like them, we are his creations and are also inclined to answering to a higher power, and are thus more likely to understand the wording that will convey his rules the best. We on the council acknowledge that we are closer to Him than them, so we have included the lower ranks to help us in this matter.” He nodded to the crowd below as a vocal band of seraphim acknowledged his recognition of their caste. “I hate to interrupt,” Alphohm said, stepping forward meekly; “but I believe his would like to have the remainder of the rules completed as soon as is possible…” “You are right, Alphohm,” Gabriel said. “We are not doing a service to anyone if we don’t wrap this up. Would you give us a quick recap of the rules completed thus far?” Alphohm recited them in rapid succession: “Thou shalt have no God before me; Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image; Thou shalt not take the Lord’s name in vain; Remember the Sabbath and keep it holy; and, Honor thy father and mother.” “He kind of shifts gears there, doesn’t He?” Jeremeil remarked; “It’s all, ‘respect me-respect me- respect me- respect me,’ then BAM- suddenly it’s about honoring mom and dad…” “Shifts gears?” Uriel said. “Forget it,” Gabriel said. They all did, and he continued: “He wants to keep his creations reverent toward Him, and the first four pretty well covers that. As time goes on, he plans to be less and less involved with their development, so it would fall on the parents to teach that reverence to their children so that it may pass through generations, thus the fifth rule being as it is.” “Those first four did seem kind of redundant; they must be pretty stupid if He feels like he has to keep repeating Himself,” Raphael remarked, finally joining the discussion. “They’re only human,” Gabriel said. “With that in mind, we need to boil down the next rule to such simple degree that it would be foolproof in their ability to understand it.” “What’s the gist of it?” “He doesn’t want them to kill each other.” “Makes sense,” Raphael said, then turned to address the crowd: “We open the floor for suggestions; anybody..?” A gray-haired male in an overcoat raised his hand, and the crowd immediately grew quiet. “How about ‘Don’t kill anyone unless they make you really, really mad.’” “That’s an interesting take on it, Clarence, but I don’t think it’s what he has in mind,” Gabriel said. Another hand was raised, and he granted permission to speak with a nod. “How about ‘If you kill it, you eat it.’” “Della, that sounds like it might have some applications in other areas, but since we’re talking about killing members of one’s own species, that’s just gross. Next?” “Don’t kill unless you absolutely have to.” “That’s pretty close to what I think he’s looking for, Roma, but it leaves too much open to interpretation,” Gabriel explained. “I think if we keep it simple and direct, humanity will adhere to it easier.” This went on for some time, as the notion of any of the assembled killing one of their brethren was a foreign concept to which their only exposure was witnessing it among humanity. Suggestions were given, and summarily dismissed until a familiar voice struck the simplest chord: “Why not just say ‘Thou shalt not kill?’ That seems pretty foolproof…” Alphohm was the source of this suggestion, but instead of protesting his speaking out of turn, the Council of Seven all nodded in agreement. “It doesn’t get more simple and direct than that,” Raguel said, voicing the consensus. “Very well then- it is done,” Gabriel decreed. “So, what’s next on the agenda?” Raphael asked; “Is it anything we can bang out before taking a recess?” “I doubt it,” said Gabriel. “Seems He wants to convey to them that it is wrong to have sexual relations with someone to whom they are not married.” Most of the council let out a collective groan. Uriel wondered “What if one of the spouses is really, really ugly?” “I think we’ll address it after a short recess,” Raphael decided. He rose and dismissed the crowd with instructions for when they should return. As they began to file out of the meeting place, Alphohm approached the Council. “I will use this opportunity to inform the Creator of the declaration of the sixth rule,” he said, and the council nodded their agreement. They watched as he disappeared into the departing throng, then turned to face each other. “Do you think he knows?” Michael asked no one in particular. “Knows what?” Sariel asked. “That we know who he really is.” “I’m sure he does,” replied Raphael. “Who?” “The Creator, Sariel.” “If we know who Alphohm is, why wouldn’t the Creator?” “Alphohm is the Creator,” Gabriel explained. “Had you not guessed that?” “He is?” “Of course. How else did you think he could have such an important position in these proceedings, yet not be one of us? And how else would you explain his ability to speak out of turn while all others of the lower ranks remain incapable of doing so?” “But… why?” “I think He feels He’s been neglecting us, so he’s let us and the lower castes to participate in the process, but he doesn’t trust us to get it exactly right. If you think about it, every rule we’ve drafted so far has been suggested or guided by Him in the guise of Alphohm. As a strategy for getting exactly what he wants while keeping His underlings contented, the plan is… what was the word he used?” “Foolproof.” “Maybe not, especially if he doesn’t know that we know…” Sariel said. “He knows.” “How can you be so sure?” “Sariel, what part of ‘all-powerful’ do you not understand?” ****** The discussion continued through lunch, during which the Seven Angels of God transcended space and time and went to The Outback Steakhouse. Sariel forgot all about his contentious posturing after having a Bloomin’ Onion and a really big margarita. The angels eventually helped to finish what would become the Ten Commandments, then settled into semi-retirement. Gabriel is writing his memoirs, Raphael got a great deal on a time-share in Boca, and Michael is patiently awaiting the death of John Travolta so he can have a long talk about one of his movie choices. The remaining angels faded into obscurity, occasionally appearing before people who have a tendency to live in trailers and possess less than a full set of teeth. Humanity continues to take liberties with all of God’s rules, and seems to have a real hard time with the one about the killing. Rather than be angry about this, God has been ignoring humanity, instead spending hours of good clean educational fun with an actual ant-farm. |
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"You're Too Loose"
The Aspiring Editors Club