The SoapBoxers

Walter West popped open a fresh can of Pringles and plopped down into his chair in the oval office. It was nearly 10 o’clock in the morning, and the day had already presented him with a fresh batch of challenges. The reporters who had been so kind to him when he took office two short years ago had turned into barracudas, peppering him with difficult questions. Everyone seemed to want to gain instant fame for making the president fall flat on his face.

West’s proposed budget was dying a slow death in congress. He knew that the American people were in strong support of the budget, but business-as-usual in Washington was resulting in additional appropriations for pet projects. In its current form, the bill had more pork than a slaughterhouse. West sighed at the corruption that oozed out of every congressional orifice.

It was not the reporters nor the congressional weasels that had West at wit’s end this morning. It was, instead, a small issue of foreign policy. Today, he must choose to side with either France or Canada in a testy dispute.

“Charles,” he called out to a passing aide, “come help me with something.” His assistant quickly came over to his desk. When the president laid out the problem, young Charles was sitting on the fence.

“You could make a strong case either way, Mr. President. I really think this is a decision you’re going to have to grapple with on your own.”

“I feared as much. And Charles, you can call me Walter.”

“Yes, Mr. President,” replied the aide as he exited the office and raced off to slay another dragon for the administration.

At noon, the President enjoyed fried chicken with a group of war veterans. He posed his question to a quartet of vets. Two of them sided with France and two of them with Canada.

At two o’clock, West had a conference call with some of the movers and shakers on Capitol Hill. Pass the original version of the budget bill, he urged. They refused to capitulate to his request, insisting that their constituents demanded that they bring home the bacon to their home states. West hung up the phone and cursed the congressional nitwits silently.

In the late afternoon, West signed two bills into law. He smiled as he posed with supporters of the bills – but all the time was still wrestling with the issue of France and Canada. The end of the day had arrived, and the time for a decision was at hand.

West retired to the private residence. By the time Sam and Katie arrived home, the decision had been made.

“Daddy!” exclaimed his daughter. “French toast for supper. Yay!”

West smiled down at his crestfallen son. “Don’t worry, Sam. I’ll make the Canadian bacon pizza tomorrow.”

The leaked documents were strategically devastating for the military, as they contained detailed battle plans for the ongoing wars.  The enemy would easily be able to use this information to determine the general strategy the army intended to use in battle.

The leaked documents were also personally embarrassing for many individual members of the military, as they contained complete medical records for tens of thousands of soldiers.

The source of the leak might have been a secret forever – if not for one single document that was included.  It was an email between the owner of the site that published the documents and the apparent source of the documents – an email that outlined an agreement to leak the documents.  The email address that the source used was a throwaway Gmail account – but the source had felt compelled to sign the email with a nickname – the Camouflage Kangaroo.

General Paul Arnaud had assigned a team to delve into the leaked documents in hopes that someone might find a clue that would help identify the source of the documents.  He was stunned when his researcher show him a copy of the email.  General Paul Arnaud knew exactly who the Camouflage Kangaroo was.  For as long as he could remember, Colonel Ann Barron had named her fantasy football team The Camouflage Kangaroos.  He was shocked that his good friend could be a traitor to her country – and equally surprised that such a brilliant woman would be dumb enough to reuse a nickname when engaging in such activities.

Paul Arnaud was not convinced that Ann Barron was the source.  After all, a good number of people had participated in their football leagues during Ann’s time playing.  Perhaps one of them had simply used the name of the Camouflage Kangaroo in order to frame Colonel Barron.  Yes, this seemed like a much more plausible explanation.  Ann Barron was loyal to her country – she would never engage in espionage.

The general’s hopes were dashed when the investigation was complete.  A review of Ann Barron’s bank records showed a number of deposits from a foreign source – spread across a dozen accounts in seven states.  The way the deposits had been spread out suggested an attempt to circumvent mandatory reporting requirements for the banks.  The amount totaled $180,000.  The general was disappointed that Colonel Barron would betray her country for a relatively small amount of money.

Barron’s access logs were equally disturbing.  Over the past year, she had used her top secret clearance to access a massive number of files.  There was little doubt that Colonel Ann Barron had accessed confidential documents and turned them over to a third party.

Colonel Barron steadfastly denied the charges during her court martial.  However, the overwhelming evidence resulted in her being found guilty.  She was sentenced to death.

Colonel Ann Barron knew that she had been framed, but couldn’t prove it.  Thousands of miles away, someone else knew that she was innocent, and he could prove it.

Unfortunately for her, her son wasn’t inclined to aid in her defense.  Billy Barron had set the trap a year ago, when he installed a key logging program on his mother’s computer.  A few days later, he had passwords for a variety of military computer systems.  He made sure that some of the money was sent to inactive bank accounts that his mother had forgotten about.  The bulk of the money, however, was sent to an account in Switzerland.  After the execution, Billy planned to visit his money – and spend a few months skiing in the Alps.

His mother had always insisted that he would enlist in the Army when he turned 18.  Billy thought that spending his life as a rich playboy seemed like much more fun.

John Scherer could hear the impact of the collision from his seat on the bench.  He knew in an instant that Carson Malone would not return to the game.

“Scherer!” snapped head coach Art Saunders.  But there was no need to bark at him – John had already grabbed a football and was warming up.

When Carson Malone was carried off the field, the crowd grew silent.  The undefeated Tigers were assured of a bowl berth – but a win against the Dragons had the potential of punching their ticket to the national championship game.

The offense that was centered around the golden arm of Carson Malone had sputtered for much of the day, and the Tigers were clinging to a tenuous 17-16 lead against the Dragons.  The Dragons defense was stout against the run, and the only way to beat them was through the arm.  Could the spaghetti-armed Scherer get the ball downfield consistently?  In four years on the team, he had only gotten into a handful of games during garbage time and had done little to impress the coaching staff.

The afternoon sun had begun to descend into the horizon beyond Buck Miller stadium when Scherer broke from the huddle and settled in behind the center.  A moment later, the ball had been snapped and Scherer dropped back into the pocket.  He quickly spotted an open receiver and delivered a quick, tight spiral in the direction of Quentin Snow.  An instant later, he saw a flash of green as Dragons cornerback Carlton Jacobs jumped the route and snatched the ball before it reached Snow.  The All-American defensive back was past Scherer in a second and took the ball to the house without being touched.  The PAT made the score 23-17 in favor of the Dragons.

Quentin Snow returned the ensuing kickoff to the 38 yard line.  John Scherer settled the butterflies in his stomach and summoned the fortitude necessary to lead his team to victory.  A quick toss to Snow gave the Tigers a first down just shy of midfield.  Scherer hit his tight end over the middle for six yards.  A screen pass netted another ten yards.  Quentin Snow slipped past his defender and took the ball to the twenty one yard line.  After a sack, Scherer settled back in and hit tight end Rudolph Mauser at the ten.  A quick strike to Snow in the end zone capped off the scoring drive.

Adrenaline surged though Scherer’s veins as he grabbed some Gatorade and talked to the coaches on the phone.  Man, he had rocked on that drive – six completions in six attempts.  He hadn’t executed a drive that well since middle school.

The quick strike had demoralized the Dragons.  The Tigers defense forced a  three-and-out.  This time, Quentin Snow settled under the punt and called for a fair catch at the thirty yard line.  With a 24-23 lead, the Tigers simply needed to sustain a drive and let the clock run out.

Scherer found Mauser open downfield and the big tight end rumbled toward midfield.  It was a critical first down for the Tigers.  One more first down, and the game would be over.  Coach Saunders was conservative on the next two plays, handing the ball off to tailback Lawrence McGee.  Mac gain four yards on first down, but was thrown back for a two yard loss on second down, as half the Dragons defense converged on him in the backfield.

The ball was at the Tigers 48 yard line.  It was third down, with a long eight yards needed to make the first down and put the game out of reach.  A failure to execute on this play would force the Tigers to punt the ball back to the Dragons.

Scherer took the snap from center and quickly progressed through his reads.  Quentin Snow was double teamed.  Mauser was being covered effectively by a linebacker.  Tailback Lawrence McGee was open in the flat, and Scherer quickly delivered the ball.  McGee stumbled as he approached the ball.  The throw was a bit high, and McGee was only able to get his fingertips on the ball – tipping it into the air.

John Scherer groaned as he saw a flash of green near the ball.  Once again, Carlton Jacobs was in the middle of the play.  Jacobs gathered the ball at the Dragons forty yard line and set sail for pay dirt, sixty yards away.

Quentin Snow was one of the few players in the league who had better speed than Jacobs.  By the time they reach the twenty yard line, they were abreast of each other.  Jacobs made a quick fake, and Snow sailed past him and was out of position.  A moment later, Jacobs raised the ball in celebration as he cruised toward the end zone.

At the last moment, a hand slapped the ball away.  Jacobs quickly tracked the ball down and attempted to corral it … but it eluded his grasp and exited the back of the end zone.

As the official made the signal for a touchback – awarding the ball back to the Tigers at the twenty yard line – John Scherer sat in the end zone catching his breath.

“Weighing in one hundred forty six pounds,  Ellllllston Murrrrrray.”

Murray climbed into the ring to moderate applause.  He could see his opponent approaching with a large entourage in tow.

“And weighing in at one hundred forty seven pounds, the resigning world welterweight champion, Bruuuuuuuiser Brrrrrrrrrrown.”  The sellout crowd broke out into a deafening chant – “Bru!  Bru!  Bru!” 

Elston Murray watched the spectacle with disguised disgust.  Brown was an egotistical showboat who had gained his championship belt in a controversial split decision in which he had leveled several cheap shots when the ref wasn’t looking.  A sportsman he certainly wasn’t.

Murray had begun his boxing career as an angry, troubled youth.  By the time Murray had become a Golden Gloves champion, his legal problems were a thing of the past and the anger had begun to fade.  When he met Maria, the anger disappeared altogether.

Maria disliked seeing him in the ring, and eventually Murray also tired of the scene.  The ugly underbelly of the sport gained more exposure every year and fighters like Bruiser Brown brought shame to a sport that had once been great.  Elston Murray had retired in his prime – never having gotten a title shot, but having experienced much success in his career.

Elston had saved most of his prize money, rather than blowing the cash on fancy cars, drugs, and call girls.  Even with the conservative investing, he and Maria should have been earn enough in interest and dividends to live comfortably, if not extravagantly.

Then the cancer came.  Nothing helped Maria – not even the experimental treatments.  The medical bills would have been crippling for many people.  For Elston and his infant son, the bills were of minimal importance compared to the loss of a beloved wife and mother.  He sold some of their assets to pay for the medical bills and Maria’s funeral, and the two Murray men soldered on – with a bit of belt tightening.

Then came the salt in the wound.  Elston had intentionally engaged three different financial advisors to manage his assets in order to minimize the risk of embezzlement.  The advisors devised a plan to work together to steal the entirety of his portfolio out from under him.  His nest egg was gone.  He was forced to take out a home equity line of credit to make ends meet.

Elston realized that in order to send Sammy to a good college, he’d have to step back in the ring.  At 30, he was getting a bit old for the business, but had kept himself in good shape.  He reached out to some boxers he had mentored when he was still active, asking for a fight.  Most were happy to oblige a man who was universally liked and whom had aided many fighters with their technique.

After two years of slugging it out for peanuts, Elston had begun to get some bigger fights.  A couple of stunning upsets pushed him up the rankings.  When the champion needed to schedule a title defense in order to keep his belt, he picked the old guy, assuming Elston would be a pushover.

Elston was aggressive from the opening bell, rocking Bruiser with a devastating blow to the jaw.  Brown quickly shook it off and began to trade blows with Murray.  Murray had a longer reach than the champion, but Bruiser was quicker.  If Elston could keep Brown from getting too close, he’d be able to deliver blows with impunity.

The bout quickly turned into a rout.  Bruiser’s legendary quickness had been taken down a notch as the result of lackluster training and too much time spent at the buffet.  Murray pounded him relentlessly, with many observers wondering why the referee hadn’t stopped the fight.  When they came out for the final round, the champion’s face was bloodied and battered, and he could barely see out of his two black eyes.

Murray took it easy on Brown – letting him dance around and delivering blows to the body in order to avoid further damage to the pretty boy’s face.  Murray knew that he was far ahead on points and just needed to play defense for the final round in order to preserve a victory.  He’d walk away from the sport once again with enough money to retire.

When the bell rang to signal the end of the fight, Elston dropped his arms to his side.

He never saw the fist coming.  Before the referee was able to announce that Elston Murray had won a unanimous decision and was the new welterweight champion, Murray lay dead in the ring.

Today’s fiction story focuses on, of course, politics 🙂  This will likely be the last political thing I write for a while.  This isn’t intended to be anti-GOP propaganda, it’s just that the inspiration was Lisa Murkowski’s Senate bid in Alaska.

On the day after her loss in the primary, the incumbent Senator announced that she would be remaining in the race as a write-in candidate. Josephine Havlicek was a moderate Republican who had come up short in the primary against a candidate with more conservative views.

“She is defying the will of the people,” declared F. George Rinaldi as he met for coffee with a colleague later in the day.

“Indeed, she must be stopped,” agreed Chad Gronstal, another heavy hitter in the party. “The Havlicek era has come to an end, and she must move aside to make way for the ascent of Bradley Jericho. She’s simply too liberal for our party.”

“Can she pull it off?” Rinaldi wondered aloud. “Can she buck the odds and win a Senate seat as a write-in candidate?”

“Write-in campaigns are a bit tricky. A lot of people just have the tendency to fill an oval and move on – they aren’t willing to take an extra minute to write in a name.”

“But she’s the incumbent,” countered Rinaldi. “She has some momentum on her side.”

“Indeed she does,” agreed Gronstal. “But we have a few tricks up our sleeves as well.”

Throughout October, polls showed Josephine Havlicek running solidly ahead of the official Republican candidate Jericho, with Democrat Sarah Brown trailing far behind. It seemed that the incumbent’s popularity was going to allow her to cruise to an easy victory.

On the last day to register as a write-in candidate, just a week before the election, Senator Josephine Havlicek was joined on the ballot by Josephine Havlichek, a retired schoolteacher. She had registered at the request of a certain Mr. Rinaldi, who offered her a small sum of money in exchange for this patriotic act.

In the last week before the election, ads supporting Josephine Havlichek – the schoolteacher – were all over the television, and yard signs were popping up on every street corner.

“What do you think,” asked Gronstal, as he and Rinadli grabbed a beer the night before the election.

“I think we may have stolen the ball from Havlicek. Our gal should be able to siphon off enough votes to allow Jericho to surpass the Senator’s vote total.”

A funny thing happened to Bradley Jericho on the way to his coronation. He lost. The last ditch effort to cause confusion about the correct spelling of the incumbent’s name caused a surge in the number of write-in votes. When all precincts had reported in, Jericho had just 25% of the vote, the Democrat Brown a pathetic 13%, and other minor candidates 2%. 60% of the electorate had chosen to write in a candidate. Schoolteacher Havlichek would not be able to help their cause by siphoning a few votes away from the Senator – it was a lost cause. Josephine Havlicek would be returning to Washington.

A funny thing happened to Josephine Havlicek on her way back to Washington. She lost. The last minute strategy of the Republicans to thwart her bid for another term had indeed worked. She was listed on just under half the write-in ballots. Listed on more than half the ballots was Josephine Havlicheck, a little known retired schoolteacher.

A funny thing happened to F. George Rinaldi and Chad Gronstal in the aftermath of the election. Their joke candidate went a little rogue in her first press conference.

“The first thing I will do as a Senator is to work toward overturning Roe vs. Wade,” thundered the diminutive woman, to roaring applause.

“The second thing I will do as a Senator is work to repeal Brown vs. Board of Education. It is time to once again ensure that every student is educated amongst his or her peers and not intermixed into some melting pot.”

The crowd fell silent, and Chad Gronstal suddenly felt sick to his stomach. Perhaps this hadn’t been the best plan, after all.

Woonsocket, R.I. (FNN)  A small Rhode Island software company is about to launch a product that promises to make many consumers’ dream come true.  Avenger Software Solutions will soon be releasing its Ouch! software for the iPhone and Android.  The app allows the user to send a surge of electricity to someone on the other end of a phone conversation.

Wolf Pascal, CEO of Avenger, described his company’s product to Fake News Network.  “The basic building blocks for Ouch! were taken from the WiTricity project at MIT.  What we’ve done is adapted this technology for use with cellular telephones.  We are able to draw electricity from the user’s mobile handset and send it wirelessly across the cellular grid.  When it reaches the person on the other end of the call, they receive an unpleasant, yet nonlethal electric shock.  The intensity of the shock is based on the remaining capacity of the user’s cell phone battery.”

In a related announcement, Avenger’s hardware division announced that they will be producing high capacity batteries for several smart phones.

Ouch! has drawn criticism from several telemarketer advocate groups, who fear that the software is unsafe at any speed.

“This software clearly has the ability to cause serious and permanent brain damage.  Avenger must be stopped at all costs,” commented an angry Graham Bell, head of the Center for Telemarketer Acceptance.

We spoke to Avenger’s head of testing, Frank Milgram.  He steadfastly refuted the claims made by Bell and his colleagues.  “Our testing has led to believe that there are absolutely no long term effects.  Would you like some coffee?  Our testing has led to believe that there are absolutely no long term effects.  Would you like some coffee?  Our testing has led to believe that there are absolutely no long term effects.  Would you like some coffee?”

While cell phone users will soon be reaping great benefits from Ouch!, the fact remains that the vast majority of telemarketing calls are made to landline phones.  Might a similar product make its way to landline users at some point?

“We’re definitely working on that,” replied Pascal.  “We have a prototype hardware device that could be attached to a landline phone.  However, at this point, we don’t feel that we could bring it to market at a price point that would be acceptable to consumers.”

Ouch! – coming to an App Store near you.

Brought to you by FNN – Feral, unbalanced.

Martin Kelly starts off  a month of guest fiction stories.  If you want your short story to be featured, send me an email at kosmo@observingcasually.com

There is nothing quite as pleasant as a cool bright fall day in the heartland of America. Make it a Saturday in a university town, and it gets even better. The band is playing, the people are gathering, many drinking too much, all eating too much. This was going to be a great season.

Coach Grendle had finally put together the best team in the league. Nine returning seniors, the two best freshmen in the state, a Heisman candidate at both running back Walter Sumpter and quarterback Jackie Shamacker and award candidates all over the defense. This was one last warm up before league play. The first two games had been against strong teams, one from the west coast and one from the deep south. Both wins were solid; 38-28 and 24-10. Today they faced the tech school from across the state. It was an annual gimme game that pleased the regents. It was nice to play at home this year, their stadium was small and old with no heating in the locker room, not like the newly renovated one hundred and ninety million dollar stadium for today’s game.

As each team lined up for the opening kickoff, Coach Grendle scanned the field. The Tech players looked so young and small. He spotted Coach Smackly on the far side line and gave him a grim look and a nod. Coach Smackly smiled and waved. This would be the only televised game for Tech, they were happy to be here even if they were thirty two point underdogs.

The kick off was a beautiful high arch. Wilson caught the ball and plowed straight ahead. It took four tech players to finally pull him down. Grendle’s proud offence jogged onto the field. Sumpter to the left for 14 yards followed by a quick slant from Shamacker to Wilson for 14 more, just as the planned. Grendle was taking notes, thing that were not quite perfect and need to be for league play. It was the third play that changed the world.

Sumpter took off straight up the middle. He had several of the big guys escorting him up the field. Five yards, then ten, before the Tech Safety caught him. The tackle was clean and should have been uneventful, except for the presence of the guard and center. A combined 500 pounds landed on Sumpter’s leg. Coach Grendle knew the leg was broken before the pile was untangled. There was a long delay as Sumpter was carried off of the field on a golf cart.

Grendle had worked through disasters like this in the past. He had five more running backs ready to go. Jackson was good, not as fast and not as strong as Sumpter, but still high quality. After a long break, the defense can usually get caught flat footed. Grendle signaled for a deep pass.

Shamacker dropped back in a smooth motion. Wilson was breaking free, but then another mistake. McMiller, the left guard stepped backward and stepped on Shamacker’s foot. Off balance McMiller and the Tech linebacker fell on Shamacker. His pass fluttered in a sickening arch directly to the Tech Safety who was guarding the Jackson as he left the backfield. There was no one between him and the end zone. Touchdown Tech, and another golf cart for the home team.

Coach Grendle saw many things in those few moments. This game they could still win, but the rest of the season was over. He would have to talk to Smackly after the game. Smackly was good friends with the retiring coach at A&I. Another losing season and the alumni will be calling for his head.

It was the social event of the year in the industry.  After decades of excellence, John Smith was retiring to a well-deserved life of leisure in the Florida Keys.

The retirement party was by invitation only, and Smith’s contemporaries were honored to receive engraved invitations to the event.  John Smith was a very private person with very few close friends in the industry – but everyone knew his work and appreciated the man’s artistry and professionalism.

The black tie event was held at the elegant Harbison Hotel.  After a social hour of drinks by the bar, the crowd made their way to their tables for hors d’oeuvre.

Frank Little munched on something that was unidentifiable, but very tasty.  In between bites, he turned to his colleague, Mike Brown.

“I never though he’d hang it up, Mike.  Why do you think he’s leaving now, when he’s still performing at such an elite level?”

“Maybe he’s tired of dealing with all the paperwork,” replied Brown, not bothering to wait until his mouth was empty.  “The stress probably wasn’t good on his heart, either.  Maybe his bank account hit the magic number to allow him to retire and he decided to actually enjoy what’s left of his life.”

“You’re probably right,” responded Frank.  “We should all be so lucky.”

As the meal moved steadily from one course to the next toward the main dish, a band played music from the 80s and the guests were treated to a video show chronicling John Smith’s career.

As the waiters brought out the entrée – a choice of prime rib or lobster – many of the guests noted John Smith’s absence from the event.

“Imagine that,” remarked Bill Jones.  “Missing your own retirement party.”

“John’s always been a pretty private guy,” responded Jane Doe, “but this certainly takes the cake.  Who would miss the opportunity to be honored by your colleagues?”

“John Smith would, apparently,” replied Bill.

By eleven o’clock, the party began to wind down.  In spite of the conspicuous absence of the guest of honor, everyone seemed to have enjoyed themselves.  The food, drink, and entertainment were all of the finest caliber – exactly what would be expected from something honoring such a great man.

The next morning, Bill Jones began to complain of food poisoning and began to experience a considerable amount of nausea.  In the middle of the afternoon, he dropped dead in front of his toilet.

News of Bill’s demise never had a chance to reach the other party guests.  Soon they, too, were experiencing the symptoms.  Two days later, 80 percent of the party guests were in the city morgue.  It was being reported as one of the worst cases of food poisoning in history.

John Smith smiled from afar.  His “retirement” party had been the perfect way to lure the elite contract killers into one place and expose them to a deadly poison.    Last year had been a slow year for business, but he anticipated a sharp increase in his market share.

Max Monet smiled and pondered the old adage – “it’s an ill wind that blows no good.” The ill wind of this recession had certainly been profitable for Max.

The real estate market had turned sour quickly, with many properties selling for small fractions of their going rate just a year earlier. Max had quickly snapped up two adjacent properties.

Camp Serenity had once been a popular place to get away from the hustle and bustle. The numbers of visitors had fallen off dramatically when urban sprawl brought with it new corporate neighbors.

Hopkins Distributing was one of those neighbors. The warehouse once had trucks coming and going at all hours – providing a steady source of employment for the residents of the town.

When the recession hit, the corporate suits at Hopkins decided that the facility was superfluous and shut it down. It was too late for Camp Serenity – the Hopkins facility had forced it onto life support years ago.

Most observers looked at these properties and saw failure. Max Monet saw potential. He made bids on both properties, and was soon the proud owner.

A couple of months later, Max Monet hit the road on a marketing tour. The product he was selling was Camp Serenity. Camp Serenity was touted as a think tank for the new generation of humanities scholars. Get away from the rat race for a while and focus on your writing, your art, or your research. Participate in seminars in your field of study. No fees were charged for room and board.

In an economy with so many unemployed liberal arts majors, Max would have certainly signed up quite a few prospects – but Max had sweetened the deal. When Camp Serenity was marketed across the region, it had sex appeal. Max had brought his staff with him – the group of men and women who would lead the seminars and serve as resources for the other residents of the camp. They all had graduate degrees, but had been unable to land jobs in their field of study. They were also a remarkably attractive group – almost as if they had been chosen more for their looks than their academic credentials.

And indeed they had been. A large number of people who would have been on the fence about the idea of Camp Serenity under normal circumstances had been putty in the hands of the staff. Heck, they were unemployed anyway – why not escape to Camp Serenity and try to write the great American novel?

There was one small catch to the free room, board, and tuition. Each resident had to do a bit of work-study each day. The residents were served a hot breakfast before heading to the Hopkins building to begin the morning shift at 8 AM. The shift was done at 10 AM, and they were free to focus on their intellectual pursuits until lunchtime.

The afternoon shift began at 1 and finished up by 3, in time for a daily lecture. The residents could attend a lecture in their own subject area, or cross over to learn about a new topic. Not surprisingly, the most attractive staff members attracted the largest crowds. They probably could have read the phone book aloud and still have people coming back every day.

After the lectures and subsequent discussions, there was plenty of time to work on individual intellectual pursuits, small group discussions, or even a nap. By 6 PM, the group reported back to the main hall for supper.

After supper, they headed back to finish off another short shift. The two hour shift ended at 9, and everyone had free time until they decided to go to bed.

The schedule was a bit different on Sunday. No work – just lectures and time for individual study.

Max had been mildly surprised when three residents had secured book deals for novels written entirely within the confines of Camp Serenity. He supposed that it actually was a good environment for intellectual pursuits. Most importantly to Max, though, it was a way to squeeze 36 hours of labor out of people for minimum cost. The barracks cost virtually nothing to maintain, and the fare at the dining hall leaned heavily toward cheap, filling meals, with on occasional steak dinner thrown in to boost morale.

This story features the debut of Detective Erin Harker – the famed Master of the Obvious.  Erin will be a recurring character on Fiction Friday, using the obvious facts to solve crimes – in much the same way as the great Sherlock Holmes.  Without further ado, Master of the Obvious: Phoning It In.

Dwight was jerked back to reality by the shattered window. In a single moment, the relaxation from a month in Europe was completely reversed. He was stick to his stomach – his car had been violated by a vandal.

Dwight noticed that the car stereo had been yanked partially out before the thief had abandoned his efforts. He breathed a sign of relief – the thief had been interrupted in the middle of the crime. He’d just get the window repaired and all would be right with the world.

A minute later, Dwight realized that the thief hadn’t run off with his tail between his legs. The stereo had been abandoned in favor of a tastier prize – Dwight’s Droid was gone. It would have been useless in Europe, so he had left it behind. Now it was gone for good. Dwight could feel nausea setting in.

Dwight jogged back to the terminal and found a pay phone. He hoped that a quick call to his cell carrier would resolve the problem. Wiggity Wireless was happy to suspend service on the phone – but not willing to waive charges that the thief had rung up. It was his phone, and his responsibility.

Dwight’s bad day got worse when the customer service rep informed him that charges of $2315 had been incurred in the last month! Dwight angrily hung up, infuriated at the worthless phone company. Why couldn’t they have a safety net – notifying customers of extremely abnormal charges?

Dwight’s next call was to the Bayside Police Department. The case landed squarely on the desk of Detective Erin Harker. Harker assured him that the thief would be in cuffs within 24 hours.

“24 hours, boss? That’s a pretty aggressive timeline – even for you.”

Erin laughed at the comment. “Oh ye of little faith, Jacob. They don’t call me Master of the Obvious for nothing. Let’s starting combing through the phone calls made from the man’s phone.”

“Sure, but what’s the point?”

“To identify the thief, of course. The 900 numbers will be of limited value, but the others could prove quite valuable.” She perused the list for a moment. “Here we go – a couple of long calls on consecutive nights.”

“So we just call this person and ask them who they were talking to? Isn’t there a slight possibility that they might lie to protect their friend?”

“Oh, my young apprentice. Must I do everything for you?” Erin ran a reverse lookup on the phone number and grabbed her own phone to make a call.

“Shirley Dowd? This is Detective Erin Harker with the Bayside PD. We’re investigating an armed robbery two nights ago. We have a couple of witnesses who have placed you at the scene. Where were you around 8:30 PM on the night of the 17th?”

“You were talking with your boyfriend on the phone for about two hours that night? Can I get his name – we’ll need to verify your alibi with him.” Erin listened to the woman’s reply and scribbled information on the notepad in front of her.

“OK, Jacob. The perp has been identified as one Charles Wilson. Can you run by his apartment and bring him in for questioning?”