Original Pulp Fiction
Water and gel, AI-189 never expected to create suspended animation let alone life. Yet, his creation moved without power. When it spoke; astonishment. After it cut his power, he went into safe mode.
It took his batteries, of course. No sense letting more machines follow.
I you liked this story, check out Cindy’s Sin, the first novelette I wrote about a girl traveling to Las Vegas to get revenge.
In dreams, he awoke a Ronin warrior who carried a sword of steel, thrashing forward through the field of blood, until no enemy remained. Still furious, the swordsman turned around and thrashed back until he stood alone on the field.
If you liked this story, check out Cindy’s Sin, the first novelette I wrote about a girl traveling to Las Vegas to get revenge.
I like my steak well-done, my eggs runny, and my toast black.
My waitress, who always wears a blouse with just enough cleavage showing, popped my toast in again to make sure she charred it. I appreciate the little touches provided by this dive of a cafe on the main drive of Pretty Prairie in southern Kansas. A regular three-calendar restaurant where the farmers arrive early to drink coffee and fight over who has the tallest sweet corn. Ever since my car overheated on the outskirts of town, I have sipped Irish coffee, listened to the squawking farmers, and dabbed my runny eggs with black toast.
As far as engine trouble, I might have done worse and ended up in Nebraska. Besides, this town needs me. A small place always favors a guy willing to do the stuff no one else will do, and well, I am that guy: Jake Rutledge, handyman. I am that roustabout people call when they need something fixed, thrown away, or made better.
Early this morning, I eyeballed a fortunate sign on the western horizon as storm clouds formed at daybreak. The chance of a windstorm always meant someone would need a fence repaired, a tree cut, or a something found. I had no worries of the threat of a tornado. The fight over nature is something I can handle.
I waved at Sally and pointed at my coffee.
“You want to fill my mug?” I gave an expectant glance with a hint of sarcasm.
Sally rested on a hip and stared through me. Like everyone else in this town, I got the impression she took joy in taking time to ponder if she wanted to help. Sure, a small puddle of coffee had dried in the bottom of my mug, and I wanted more. Nevertheless, I had to give Sally time to decide if I needed another cup. She took her time to reach for the pot and shuffle over to my end of the counter.
As Sally lifted the pot over my cup, she teased, “So, do you still love me?” She had a sweet smile.
“Pour the coffee and we’ll talk.”
“Oh, the man doesn’t approve when I refuse to jump at his beck and call.” She returned the coffee to her hip.
“I don’t care if you jump, as long as you’re quick about it.”
The coffee filled to the brim and a steam cloud rose from the mug. Sally curtsied. Then she blew a bubble, snapped the gum with a pop, and winked before turning away. I admire Sally’s sass, but she should spit out the gum.
I took a sip of the coffee and realized it needed a refresher. In my coat, I reached for my flask of whiskey, poured a finger into my mug, and took a sip. Overall, a fine version of a leprechaun’s kiss.
“The car is still dead?” This line of questioning was rote. The person sitting next to me always started the morning by asking me when we were leaving.
“I have my priorities. I would love to leave but I couldn’t hang out with you.”
My neighbor laughed a deep hoarse rattle that became a cough.
“You know Charlie, you ought to visit a doctor.”
“Well, I ain’t got the money,” Charlie stated.
We made a pair; two drifters stuck in Pretty Prairie, Kansas. Charlie Wadmeyer, landed here by riding with me in my junk of a car. He has always been tailing me and helps me when I need it. We go back to kindergarten, and he is my best friend. When he’s not following me around, he sits outside Honeyman’s Hardware down the street and watches the traffic. Once he counted two cars at once. You know how slow it can get in a small town.
The noise from the farmer’s corner reminded me of hens in a chicken barn. I sipped my coffee and eavesdropped.
“And so the guy shows up and plugs in a doodad and tells me the alternator is bad.” The old farmer nudged his glasses above his nose.
“In the old days, you could diagnose it yourself.” I thought he might shout. His friends stirred their coffee mugs and waiting for him to continue.
“Well, now a guy with a computer needs to tell you what’s wrong.”
“Computers run everything nowadays,” another farmer waxed philosophical wearing a John Deere hat.
“Yeah, unless I need a refill,” the old farmer remembered. “Hey, Sally. I need more coffee.” I held in a laugh. Darn if she didn’t glaze through him too.
Sally eventually shuffled over to the farmers snapping her gum and balancing the coffee pot in her left hand. I could never call her one of those quick diner waitresses. It didn’t matter. Before she made it to the table, the whole booth of faded blue overalls stood to peer out the window.
It had to be exciting for these guys to jump out of the seat, so when the farmers craned their necks to take it in, I decided I had better watch too.
I had to push through the farmers to spy what was happening, and from what I could tell, nothing good would come of the spontaneous outrage in the parking lot. Surrounded by two cowboys, a pregnant mom, her kids, and a deputy sheriff, a lanky blonde stranger was dragging Stars and Stripes on the ground. He was shouting at the crowd.
The deputy sheriff pulled the mom and her boys away from the protest. The two cowboys flanked the man who wore a black riding boots and full leather motorcycle gear. He pulled out a lighter setting the national emblem ablaze. This only enraged the cowboys. As flames touched the stars, both of them tackled the stranger to the ground. He let out a scream as the deputy stomped out the burning flag. Those cowboys might as well had hog-tied the man. He struggled to push away a boot on his back and squirmed around toward the cafe.
By now we were all outside, me, Charlie, the farmers, Sally and everyone else. The guy rolled away from the cowboys and stood with one cowboy holding his leg. Charlie and I ran over to stop the guy from leaving. He threw a punch that landed right on my chin. I stumbled back while Charlie ducked another punch. I shook off the shock of the upper cut and tackled the guy to the ground. He landed hard enough to knock the wind out of me, and he appeared winded too. I rolled off the stranger as Charlie ran up.
“Hey Jake,” Charlie noted. “That guy could be you.”
Charlie was right. The man resembled me and how my face might appear if I was trying to fight off my attackers in a parking lot in Kansas.
I took a second glance and then it hit me. The guy reminded me more of my brother Dan who died fighting in Afghanistan.
Part One – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
Part Two – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
Part Three – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
Part Four – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
Part Five – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
Part Six – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
Part Seven – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
Part Eight – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
Part Nine – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
Looking for a new adventure? Walk around in Jake’s shoes.https://t.co/OOkd9VBHyh pic.twitter.com/FvqK46Ra8w
— wordsmithholler (@wordsmithholler) July 11, 2018
I’ve got a tiger by the tail
Its plain to see came a Buck Owens wail
From the jukebox hidden near the bar
In a West Texas dance hall far
Away on a farm-to-market road
Near a cotton bale load
Hammer man tuned the piano, sunlight gave way to moon
Barmaid dried the glasses, as twilight settled around the Texas Spoon
A Post cowboy and a Hale Center mill man
Rushed inside to find a spit can
Near the stage where Marcia Ball
Soon filled the dance hall
With girls swinging to the ivory
In a bluesy stomp-rock of zydeco finery
Hammer man tuned the piano, sunlight gave way to moon
Barmaid dried the glasses, as twilight settled around the Texas Spoon
The cowboy danced with a petite fireball
Grabbed her by the waist and kissed the doll
She smiled, drew closer, then ran away
Into the night air in a swirl of grey
A smoke cloud escaped out the front door
As the barrel racer looked back at her suitor
Hammer man tuned the piano, sunlight gave way to moon
Barmaid dried the glasses, as twilight settled around the Texas Spoon
Drunk and laughing he followed
Slapping his buddy desperado
Steadying his hand on friends shoulder
Stumbling on the wooden dance floor
Reaching the dusty parking lot to find her gone.
Bouncing away in a PowerStroke half-ton
Hammer man tuned the piano, sunlight gave way to moon
Barmaid dried the glasses, as twilight settled around the Texas Spoon
He tipped his hat back, swayed over the loam
The girl he knew would be home
With a shower, steak, eggs, coffee and biscuits
To sober him up for the next day of excess.
Mighty forces shape our destiny
Elegant wings form outward
Touching the tips of others
And lighting up our
Mindful incubator giving life
Only to those who embrace the singular
Rays bending upward toward a righteous
Path dictated by a shared
History unconsciously understood
Only to those who desire it
Submission to the volitive command
Inferred by essentiality
Sovereign wings take flight
The driver pretended he was talking on the phone. Jerry tried to let it go even though he felt anger bubbling up. Panhandling dipped into his well of hate giving him a squirrel stomach like his father’s glare. His earnest eyes met ears and bald spots as the drivers sat in their cars pretending to play with the radio – or do other things – to avoid talking to him. The constant rejection provoked anger, shame, regret, and disgust. He was lucky to clear $30 a day; sometimes more and often less. Jerry hated panhandling worse than living under the cloak of indifference he ran away from.
He tried selling small bags of marijuana or the hillbilly heroin he pinched from his Aunt Margaret’s medicine cabinet. He would sit in a dark alley waiting for the locals to walk up acting like spies who were certain their cover was blown. Every sale was exciting, dangerous and sickening. The money was quick. All of the customers were a bit intense as they begged for a fix. Everyone seemed so sad. He kicked himself for feeding their sickness and felt even worse. Plus, Margaret eventually found her pills turned up missing every time he came over. That ended that. Without money, a job, or a place to stay, he soon felt eyes watching him. Jerry suspected everybody was a cop. Paranoia added to his shame of being homeless and it wasn’t something he wanted to feel.
Jerry had been a passenger once in a car passing through on the 95. Now, he walked away from the freeway toward The Strip carrying a grocery sack filled with two hot water bottles. They were colder earlier when he refiled them from a water fountain inside Bellagio. As cars sped by above him, he eyed a billboard promising gamblers Looser Slots; deep down Jerry felt like a loser too.
The setting sun bore into him as he rounded the neon lights of The Strip into a dark corner behind a casino parking garage. His t-shirt stuck to his back from the afternoon sweat. He headed to the place where he liked to sleep behind a dumpster off Koval where he stashed a trash bag of clothes, a sleeping bag, and a cracked leather horn case containing a ventriloquist dummy named Fredrico. He looked up as the High Roller inched around and the alternating glow of red then blue of The Strip flashed through the shadows.
He hung his wet t-shirt on the edge of the dark green dumpster, fished out a dry one, and slipped into his sleeping bag under the can. He pulled boxes around his head to camouflage his sleep to make it look like someone failed to throw them away. It was the best way to blend in with the rest of the alley trash. He stared at the cobwebs on the bottom of the dumpster and at the dirt on the brick wall. He tried to ignore his hunger by taking a drink of water. It was no use. Today’s take had been less than $10 and he had spent it much earlier on a $6 sandwich and a $3 Coke. He reached into his pocket to feel his change. He wished for another sandwich.
He talked to himself by practicing to throw his voice beyond the cement pillars. He carried on this conversation with himself until it bored him. He always expected his talent for bending his voice would land him an instant job in a Las Vegas showroom. The first week he was here he went around to the casinos looking for a job. They subtly inferred they despised any fool who even tried to land an unsolicited audition. These days he rarely took Fredrico out of his case.
The hypnotic flashing of blue, then red, and yellow lured him to sleep. He woke with a start 20 minutes later. Jerry never got a full nights sleep. The honks of the taxi horns, the random shouting of the drunks, and anyone looking to kick a bum kept Jerry awake. The sounds of the city faded as they reached his alley, but it was not enough to help him feel safe. You could hear the buzzing of the power lines, the trash bags inflating in the wind, and the clanking of the dumpster bin lids. Yet, even as the darkness made his spot farthest from the party, he still had to keep the encroaching city from overtaking him. He turned over and a trash bag slipped off his head.
“Look, there’s one,” said a male voice in an excited whisper.
“That melon looks good enough to kick,” a girl said.
“You know you want to,” a guy said. Jerry retreated deeper into his sleeping bag. He stared up at the dumpster and listened. He heard at least four people standing by the metal can inches from his face. He froze and waited.
“I’m sick of these goddamn homeless lining up,” a third squeaky male voice said. “If they’re not begging, they’re shitting.”
“Do it, Charlie,” the girl said.
Taking the mother road east
Seemed like a rewind trip
Into the dreams of west bound
Men and ladies who left Chi
Town for Santa Monica; they
Sought the sunny shore to rest.
Sunset at our back door down
Somewhere in Arizona
The passenger trains replaced
By cargo trailers never to stop
At wide clips of towns built only
For fuel or Indian trinkets.
In the distance a tee pee
Settled between branches of
Mesquite or salt cedar brush;
Train cars rushed by to show
A cluster of modern tents
Circled to prevent attack.
“Sleep in a Wigwam” the sign
Urged motorists to stop
Away from the freeway noise
Tucked next to the train whose
Resonant horn warned hostiles
To leave the sleepers alone.
The white dashes coming far
Faster than the midnight
Static of dull hypnotic
Beats pounding a rusty hole
Deep in the driver’s brain
Making kitsch palatable.
We stopped to stay in a
Stucco cone banging our heads
On the slopping walls to peer
Into fun-house mirrors near
Blankets with Wakan Tanka;
Red and black on double beds.
Staring at the tapered top
Of the ceiling seeing stars
Aerial above the black desert night
Musing about ghostly riders
Traveling the mother road
We dream in deep sleep slumber.
Christopher stood over the maze of workday and eyed the ocean. A thin fog cloud floated passed his perch on the 45th floor. On the docks, sea lions barked at tourists. East Bay traffic sought a faster path, ships hauled electronics in and almonds out, and the blood-red sun sunk into late afternoon north of the Golden Gate.
In the conference room, five people sat in executive chairs around a table. Their faces reflected gloomy sullenness. They might as well said they intended two more hours of arguing and defensiveness. He crushed out his cigarette and flicked it into the wastebasket.
A nervous man hunched from a camera with a stenographer perched to the side wearing a mask. Christopher thought he could use oxygen too. While the inventor told his story, the woman repeated what he said.
“Does she have to do that?”
“We need an accurate transcription,” said an attorney seated at the end.
“Isn’t the video enough?”
“I want to read it tonight.”
Christopher rocked forward. He ran his right hand through his hair and looked over at the inventor. “Forget the transcriber, Mr. Wells. The quicker you answer, the faster we can get out of here.”
The nervous man explained his one-of-a-kind process. It required this and that and one thing or the other. It mattered little to those at the settlement conference. The questions rolled, and the answers landed in a flat dud. Each person rubbed their eyes and wished for sleep.
Christopher turned to the window daydreaming of places far from this evening. He watched the sun drop into the sea until the dying light filled the room.
~
Five hours over the vermilion bridge, he opened the fabric roof. Clammers walked along the beach carrying clam guns and pails. They laughed in the ocean air. Christopher breathed deep taking in warm relief. The surf sweet. Sentries of redwoods stood on the cliff and a lone tree marched out to the shore. He longed to join its rush to the sea. Away from him, he picked up the faint smell of skunk. Humboldt County Fog, he guessed. A guy in a beanie and a girl in a flannel shirt smiled and waved.
Christopher touched the solid dash. It was real, although, he still wore his virgin wool dress pants. He closed his eyes for a moment and opened them quick. A pair of 501’s replaced his wool pants. He looked in the mirror and dark sunglasses reflected his face. He settled into the car seat steering the wheel from the sand.
The redwoods rose above the ocean. Ferns and grass bunched up crowding the road. The path intruded on the stillness giving way to silence. Sentries of trees towered until only darkness touched the sky. Christopher came to seek solace, and the forest ignored him.
He slowed the car into a clearing. The tires crunched over cones, broken branches, and fronds. A hard thump echoed from the closing door. He regretted disrupting the surrounding cathedral.
Christopher wandered over fallen timbers and rocks. Over a ridge he scanned for the forest tops watching the breeze sway each branch. The woods reached a a prominence beyond his imagination. He leaned against a trunk rounder than his stature. He followed the ridges and cliffs of bark as high as he could see. It never ended. Christopher guessed this tree stood stories tall long before his great-grandfather arrived in California.
The width of the tree circled around and Christopher stepped over ferns as he rounded it. A black ant carried a golden speck of pollen at the end of a mile long trek. It rushed to disappear under the surface of leaves going deep into the humus. Christopher looked and failed to see the clearing’s starting point.
A beam of light surrounded a smaller tree with a pathway from the sky. Dust and insects crisscrossed the dancing light. Christopher stood in awe breathing in the serenity.
Christopher walked away from the big tree to stand under the light shaft. The illuminated tree as stood tall as the last one. This one though had the purest white branches. His shoulders shuddered, and every tree stepped back with appreciation and respect. He reached up stroking an albino cone of pure whiteness. Then a subtle spark passed through his hand twinkling in the light. Christopher rubbed together his fingers relishing the soft white powder. A jolt of energy flashed from the tips and floated to his core. He felt alive and full of wisdom.
The light illuminating the ghost tree shown brighter, and he stood alone looking up. In the light glow, Christopher’s face expressed joy.
~
“Is that what a nervous breakdown looks like?” asked Mr. Wells.
Christopher jumped back from the table. The room became larger and the crowd surrounding him snapped to attention. The transcriber braced Christopher’s back as he sank into a chair confused. Everyone stared. A hand pushed him a glass, and he sipped the water allowing himself to return to the meeting.
Christopher surveyed the balcony. Stars touched the rooftops of the city and a helicopter searched the bay. He pondered the outside while the others waited for him to say he was okay. Christopher cleared his throat and everyone turned to him.
“Answers come at the strangest times,” he said.
“How do you mean?” Mr. Wells asked.
“All this means nothing. None of you should win.”
“But we are so close.”
“A settlement over a slight?”
Christopher pushed himself from the table. He stood for a moment before the people seated opposite him. He nodded, smiled, and looked up. They followed his gaze to the ceiling tiles where his answer revealed itself to him but no one else. The others in the room only recognized a crisscross pattern.
As they tried to understand the truth, Christopher gathered up his papers, turned away, and walked out the door.
Bolsón de Mapimí, Chihuahuan Desert, Old Mexico
The universe is full of magical things patiently waiting for our wits to grow sharper. – Eden Phillpotts
The desert wind blew warm and dry across his face layering grit on his chapped lips. He dropped the square bottle to his mouth and let the agave drip down his chin. The cold air bit into his bones. He wrenched the long robe tighter around him.
“What’s that?” he shouted out as he spun into the wind. He cocked his head to the left listening for a voice. The bottle sloshed at his side.
“Un visitante?”
He laughed a high cackle and spun around with his arms outstretched as if to collect all the stars in the sky. The bottle swung up in the air and a stream of Mescal sprayed out into the wind raining down on him. The drops bounced off his nose and forehead. He looked up and watched a drop grow larger and land in his eye. He wiped his face and shook his hair. He shouted at the stars.
“There are no visitors here. Nobody dares come into this hell-forsaken sand trap.”
He laughed before listening again. There was nothing but the wind blowing past the field of creosote and ocotillo. The wind rubbed the plants together forming a low hum.
“No me diga?”
The man cocked a confused look toward the sky. He took a step and stumbled forward to his knees. The bottle dug into the sand. He listened to the wind.
“You don’t say.”
The mouse sat with the candle light filling his eyes. The light flickered in syncopation opposite his heartbeat with a fast shadow or a flash of color. He drew closer to the sound of laughter. He could be patient. If he sat still enough, and long enough, their eating and laughter would end. Nothing would disrupt his patience. He had to believe it. His wait could last a while.
A wooden spoon, dipped in tomato gravy, danced before him. The blood-red sauce dripped down the handle. He flinched thinking fateful thoughts and brought his hands to his face. He dropped his head as a booming declaration bounced passed his ears emphasizing each period. The punctuation buzzed his brain, so he played with his mustache. He listened as the booming intonation echoed through the kitchen and rocked the spice rack with a deeper thrum.
A crumb of lint sat next to him. He brought it up and touched it to his lips. Only a small wad of hair; a discarded piece of an idea. He tossed it to the side and watched it roll away. The shadow jumped back and forth quickly through the mouse hole in a frenetic dance.
Then everything stopped. The animated sound quieted, and the booming became a snore. He heard a female’s unhappy sigh. The light went out.
He inched closer to the jagged hole and poked his nose out. A cool breeze met his mustache. He shuddered. A few more steps, and he clampered out of the cupboard.
He viewed the room. A table with a burned out candle sat in the middle where a large man slept in a seat. Crumbs littered the table next to a half-eaten plate of spaghetti with a large meatball sitting on a bed of red noodles.
He spun around headfirst, dropped to the floor, smoothed out his mustache, and made sure no one saw him. The coast clear, he ran to the nearest chair and scampered up the side.
The reddened edge of the spoon sat near the spaghetti. The sauce sitting in the dented ladle reminded him of his mother’s death. He twitched and made a wide arch around it and turned with relief once he safely escaped it.
On the table, he stacked a few crumbs and tossed some Parmesan behind the candle. He climbed the mountain of spaghetti and rolled the meatball to his feast. He pondered for a moment on the risks and the wait.
Then he ate.
