Valkyrie

"Wow..."

"What?"

"Tom Cruise has made a 'Hitler is Evil' movie..."

"Wow..."

"He gets it..."

"Wow..."

"Yeah... like, I dunno..."

"Wow..."

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The Mobius Trip (part 2)

CONTINUED FROM The Mobius Trip (part 1)

...Just in front of the street signs was another signpost. Atop that post, adorned with Kiwanis and American Legion insignias, was a sign that read:

Welcome to Topton.

I felt a premonitory chill run through me and the Blond Bombshell found my hand in the dark and squeezed tightly...




I let the car drift forward a little, seeing if it knew where to go. After a moment I figured I should decide. Since this all started by not taking a left, I chose left. For good luck. As I drifted down Haas to the next intersection, the Blond Bombshell spotted some headlights about three blocks in the distance. "Look!" she shouted.

"What?"

"There's a car!" she pointed excitedly.

"Wow." I replied. "And there's a truck." I said pointing to a parked vehicle.

She wasn't amused. "I have to pee." she said flatly.

"Oh... well then... I don't think that car can help." I answered. "Let me try to find an all night gas station."

I turned right on a residential street. Few lights were on. I was going towards where I remembered the illumination was, from the trip in. Hopefully, the downtown area. Suddenly I heard a deep throated rumble behind me and was blinded by my rear view mirror. A huge engine revved menacingly, headlights turning the interior of the car white. Bleaching the color from everything.

"What the..." I began as I turned in the seat, my seat belt holding my left shoulder in place. As I turned back to fuss with that, the vehicle behind us roared again and shot around us in a squeal of tires and a cloud of blue smoke. All I saw was a squat, black, boxy sedan, flames spewing from the tail pipes as it accelerated towards downtown.

"Let's see where this street goes." I suggested making a sudden right.

"I don't have to pee any more." she informed me in a small voice.

Eventually I found my way back to the intersection of Centre and Haas. Uncharacteristically, I said, "I think we're lost. Let's just back track." and I headed out of town the way we had come in, the industrial plant now on my left.

After about two or three miles I said, "I think we turned left to get onto this road so we need to make a right up here, somewhere."

"Uh, huh." she replied, sulking. I began calculating how much more booze it would take to salvage this evening. It was 12:28 and the bars stopped serving at 1:00. We had to get un-lost. Fast.

I saw a road teeing off to the right and said, "I think this is it." Slowing down to make the turn, I cracked my window a little to get some night air and heard a powerful engine revving in the distance. I quickly pushed the button to close it again.

We continued on this road for several more miles when we spotted a smudge of light on the horizon, in the near distance. As we approached I commented, "Wow. All these towns look the same at night. That's just the way Topton looked coming into town."

When we got a little closer, the resemblance increased. Suddenly we were passing the industrial plant on our right and I let the car slow down and stop at the intersection of Centre Street and Haas. The railroad tracks were on our left.

"How the hell did you manage that?" she demanded.

"I dunno." I answered slowly, clearly and utterly dumbfounded. "I made one right turn. I was headed out of town, made one right turn and we are back here on the same road we left by. It just isn't possible."

"And yet, here we are!"

I looked at her, thinking how unfair all this was to me.

I looked to my left, up Haas, and saw a fiery glow crossing an intersection about four blocks away. "Let's go." I said, spinning the steering wheel to the left, making a U-turn onto the berm next to the railroad tracks. I headed back out of the town of Topton again.

This time I was determined to find out how the hell I got turned around. I didn't tell the Blond Bombshell what I was doing but I had to know how a single right hand turn brought me back onto the original road, heading the opposite direction. I mean, everybody knows that two wrongs don't make a right but three left do.

So I headed back past the industrial plant on my left and into the Topton countryside. A little over two miles out I spotted the right hand turn and began slowing down.

"What are you doing?" she asked from the dark.

"Uh... trying to get out of here?"

"This is the same road we turned on last time. You can't keep making the same mistake until you get the result you want. It will always be wrong."

"Actually my Uncle Ray married my Aunt Ruthie three times and they are quite happy now." I argued.

"Honestly, Johnny, let's just go straight."

"I'm sorry. I have to do this. If I can't figure out how one right hand turn takes me back to where I started it'll drive me nuts."

She sat in the dark, her porcelain features illuminated by the dash lights, her back against the passenger door. Her long blond hair glowing goldenly in the moonlight. After a moment she said, "Yeah, me too. Go for it." That is why I loved her so much.

So I turned right onto the side road and we both watched the countryside and the farm houses. We paid attention to the curves in the road. Eventually we saw some light on the horizon. I slowed the car a little and said, "Uh, oh."

About a mile later we passed the industrial plant on our right and coasted to a halt at the intersection of Centre and Haas. "No fucking way!" we both said simultaneously.

I opened my door and stepped out onto the pavement. There was a slight breeze blowing and I thought I smelled something like ozone in the air. Possibly a hint of sulfur. I looked back towards the industrial plant and wondered what they did in there. Possibly quantum physics? Maybe a quantum janitor had bumped into the holographic universe projector with his mop and we were stuck in a sliver of time? Maybe Rod Serling was having a wet dream? Who knew?

All I knew was it was time to leave. I saw a squat shape at the far end of Centre Street. Heard the throaty rumble of a modified engine and the burble of straight pipes. I pictured a boot clad foot pressing the accelerator as the beast roared to life. Headlights came on and blinded me despite the distance. Tires squealed and the lights shot towards me.

I jumped into the driver's seat and the Blond Bombshell shouted, "Go! Go! Go!"

I spun the wheel again, my own tires screeching as they found purchase and propelled the car in another U-turn. Spinning and fishtailing on and off of the berm next to the railroad tracks. We passed the industrial plant, now on our left, as we exited Topton for the last time. The lights behind us were still gaining rapidly.

As I shot away from town I looked in the rear view mirror and saw the fiery lights skid to a halt at the intersection of Centre and Haas. Just inside the WELCOME TO TOPTON sign. Then I rounded a curve and it was gone.

This time we did not make the right hand turn. We continued straight and eventually came to Route 222. We knew where we were from there. It was 12:57 and I had just about given up on keeping the Blond Bombshell's buzz going. Surprisingly, she put her head on my shoulder and her hand on my upper arm. "That was pretty cool back there." she whispered.

Cool, I thought.

Later, in the light of day, I tried to find Topton. I drove the roads, looked at maps and asked the locals about the town. No one has ever heard of it. But the thing I cannot shake is that black car, stuck in some crazy space/time continuum, roaring endlessly up and down the streets of a forever sleeping Topton. Searching for a way out.

I guess we got lucky that night. And then again later, too.

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The Mobius Trip (part 1)

I was out club hopping with one of the Blond Bombshells the other night when something weird happened. I don't mean weird as in having a Blond Bombshell to hang out with. I mean weird as in voice-over-after-the-scene weird.

We had spent part of the evening seeing Sara Ayers at The Pub on Main and then migrated to The Summit Bar@Grill to listen to EFB. Admittedly, there were a few drinks involved. But blaming what happened later on the drinks would be like blaming venereal disease on having sex. I mean, there's not always a one-to-one correlation. Is there?

Anyway, when we left The Summit we should have. Turned left that is. What we did was discuss it and, being with a date with whom I was willing to test both above theories, I took her advice and turned right. That was the last right thing I did.

Almost immediately she said, "I don't recognize this road."

Having never been on the road myself, but being a guy, I pretended to. "We're O.K." I said. "I think we passed that barn coming in." This is usually a safe gambit because all barns look alike and blonds aren't notorious for observing things outside their personal space.

"No we didn't," she replied. "that barn has an earthen ramp and the one we passed earlier tonight was wooden."

"I think you are mistaken." I muttered. "Our turn off is just ahead."

Another thing you need to know about guys is that we will defend to the point of absurdity a course of action, once we have committed to it. Even if it wasn't our idea in the first place and even if we didn't originally agree with it at the time. I think this is why they send men to war.

Women, on the other hand, are willing to look around an unfamiliar place, admit they are lost, talk to five perfect strangers, take their stupid advice, and come home with three pair of shoes. Then tell you about the quaint little village they found. Yeah, right.

So we continued forward in the dark, the lights from an occasional farm house our only markers in the night. "Johnny, I don't like this. I have no idea where we are." she said with a tremulous voice.

I glanced over to see if the booze was wearing off yet and decided I was still safe. "How lost can we be?" I tried to reassure her. "We are less than ten minutes from where we were and at least twenty minutes from Deliverance lost. Besides, that was in a whole 'nother state."

"What was?"

"Deliverance. Ned Beatty? Burt Reynolds? The banjos?" I silently shook my head in the dark and lamented the loss of women my age. I wondered where they all went? Were they hanging out with guys twenty years older than them? And how far could that go before all that was left was a bunch of little old ladies bitching about the men they had known?... Oh wait... Aunt Nellie. That's where she came from!

"Johnny?"

"Huh?" The car had drifted towards the berm. A piece of paper or an old shirt fluttered in the short distance then whipped past the passenger side window as we passed it. I involuntarily yanked the wheel to the left, over-corrected, felt the rear end begin to drift and downshifted, the tires grabbing at macadam and loose gravel, and finally lurched forward. Once the car straightened out I slowed down again, pretending I had meant to do that.

"Nice driving, Slick" she mumbled from the dark. "Do you know where we are yet?"

"Why get all hung up on details?" I asked.

Up ahead we could see the lights of a small town illuminating the horizon. I glanced at the clock on the dash and saw it was 12:17 in the morning. "Maybe there's a 7-Eleven or a Dunkin' Donuts open? We could ask for directions." By we I meant her. Everybody knows guys don't ask for directions. They give them. Then I began hoping there was a man working. Otherwise we would end up with three pair of shoes.

As we came into town we passed some kind of industrial plant on the right of the road before approaching an intersection parallel to some railroad tracks on our left. I peered ahead, trying to read the road signs in the car's headlights. "It looks like we are on Centre Street and the cross road is Haas."

"Good." she said. "Let's leave now."

"I'm trying to." I answered a little too sharply. Geeze, what a buzz kill.

Just in front of the street signs was another signpost. Atop that post, adorned with Kiwanis and American Legion insignias, was a sign that read:

Welcome to Topton.

I felt a premonitory chill run through me and the Blond Bombshell found my hand in the dark and squeezed tightly...



TO BE CONTINUED


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The Broken Doll Gambit

I was talking with a friend the other day and he thought there was a parallel between the way we treat our little children and the Catholic Church. The biggest one being, when children ask, "Why?" we say, "because I told you to."

My friend says that is just like when the priest says, "because The Pope says so." It's not really much of an answer.

Which is a pretty good observation but, also, why this stuff should only be done by professionals.

It did get me to thinking, however. What if we really did treat our little children the way Catholics are treated by their church? Like, when a child does something wrong, instead of punishing the child (or even better yet, teaching the child why the behavior is wrong), what if we set up a system where they can endlessly repeat the same mistakes with virtually no consequences?

You know, like Billy breaks Suzy's doll so he anonymously confides in a relative stranger who basically says, "You know what, Billy? Just say the alphabet four times, count to 20 three times, and don't worry about it."

How cool would that be?

Pretty soon, little Billy (and all of his friends) would be breaking things with impunity. They would probably branch into other areas of mis-behavior. They may even begin stealing dolls and holding them for ransom. Or forcing them to perform at tea parties. Or maybe hiring out targeted acts of doll destruction. You know, just to keep them in line.

My God, where would it end?

Fortunately, all of this is just humorous speculation and kidnapping, prostitution, and murder for hire cannot be excused by some anonymous stranger in a darkened booth with a wave of his hand and some nonsensical command to repeat a rote expression ten times.

I mean, c'mon! Where would that end?

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Of Lobsters and Slaves

It is a soon to be well known internet fact that, in the days of our forefathers, lobsters were considered to be one of the lowest forms of seafood. Not a delicacy by any stretch. Bottom feeders. Virtually garbage.

As such, lobster was routinely fed to the slaves of the period.

Which got me to thinking. Who figured it out first?

Did the poor, grizzled slaves with work calloused hands, and shoulders stooped from picking tobacco, shuffle home at the end of a long work day, their legs tired, their backs aching, into their unpainted shanties - to lobster dinners?

Did they suddenly straighten as they shrugged out of their soiled work clothes and slipped into dress slacks and velvet collared, silk smoking jackets? Was the dining table in the center of their one room shack covered with a white linen table cloth, the tapers lit and sitting snugly in their silver candelabras, lobsters steaming on the fire in the corner of the room, drawn butter bubbling in silver chaffing dishes? Did they wear lye scrubbed lobster bibs and complain that they only had one nut cracker and tiny fork with which to extricate the delicate sweet meat of the lobster's claws? Were the little ones already in bed having feasted upon their daily portions of shrimp and cocktail sauce?

We may never know but oral history would suggest that the irony was not lost upon the slaves, or at least their ancestors who got to retell this story with benefit of hindsight. As the story goes: One night after the crustaceans were sucked empty and the butter and lobster juice stained bibs were thrown carelessly on the table, Jasper sat with his feet upon a small hassock before the fire, lighting his cigar with a piece of kindling, talking between puffs, "Massa went a huntin' today... Uh, huh."

"Did he ketch anythin'?" his mate whispered, not wanting to wake the little ones.

"Yes'm. Him and that ol' dawg of his kotched them up two scrawny squirrels and a tired ol' groundhawg... Uh, huh."

"MMMM, mmmm!" the female replied, picking a stray piece of lobster meat from between her teeth, wiping her hands on her butter stained apron. "That do sounds like some mighty fine eatin'!"

"UH, huh."

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Attack of the Brain Vampyre!

Beware! Beware! All who pass beyond this point have been warned...




...What? You're still reading? This is my point, exactly! I have been noticing a correlation between my readers and vapid stares. Empty gazes. Silly grins. A certain diminution of IQ.

I write about Wife Whisperers and I attract more female attention. I jump out of an airplane and everybody wants to jump out of an airplane. I stop dating red heads and I'm inundated by blonds. Now don't get me wrong. I appreciate the attention, but I'm thinking something else is going on here.

Like the time I rushed to Victoria Secret's 50% Off Sale and they were still modeling the entire ensembles. I never know what people are thinking.

Take my friend Kenn for an example. When I first met him, his name was Ken. But after three years of reading my blog he can't even spell his own name correctly. What's with the extra n, buddy? Did you flunk Abbreviation Class in grade school? Were all of the cool nicknames taken? And he's just one example.

Apparently several of my blogs have been read during a study group exploring Spiritual Enlightenment. As Larry the Cable Guy says, "I don't care who you are - that's funny."

So it got me to thinking. How can these otherwise bright people find themselves going after the shiny lure? It's not the brilliant writing. Or the original ideas. I've actually looked up the word derivative in the dictionary and copied it into a blog, for God's sake!

Something else must be going on.

Maybe the neo-Gothic architecture of my blog's typeface was once used in a voodoo zombie sacrifice and the residual demonic aura is still working it's hoodoo? Maybe the steady drone of my uninspired wording is hypnotizing my readers into a passive state of non-productivity? Maybe the letter n is stuck on Kennnnn's keyboard.

We may never know.

But I can tell you three things. I'm not getting the benefit of the extra IQ points being left behind. The more points you lose here the more likely you are to return. And, but for a difference of 3 points, this would be Kenn's blog.

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