The SoapBoxers

Martin watched the apple core sail high into the air before landing with a satisfying plop in the water.  He lay on his back, basking in the warm afternoon sun and listening to the sounds of classic rock music escaping from the transistor radio.  He listened to the girls chatting as they finished the last bits of the picnic lunch.  Talk of college dominated the conversation, with the three teens set to begin their university education in the fall.

“Aw, girls, can’t we talk about something other than college, college, college?  It will be time to hit the books before long.”

“Sorry, Marty,” chirped Samantha.  “We’re just so excited.  Imagine all the fun we’ll have!  Parties, concerts, football games …”

“Not to mention classes,” replied.  “You are planning to attend the occasional class, right, Sam?”

“Of course,” she giggled.  “Education comes first.”

“Well, maybe not first,” chimed in Michelle.  “Partying is pretty important.  But it’s definitely a solid number two.”

“You girls need to make sure that you put some energy into your coursework so that you don’t flunk out first semester.”

“Yes, mother,” they replied in chorus, laughing at Martin’s expense.

Martin began to utter a sharp retort but caught himself just in time.  It was best not to engage in a battle of wits with these girls.  They could very effectively tag-team with each other and make mincemeat of him with their insults.  Better to just change the subject and move on.

“You think we can catch the Cardinals game up here?” he asked.

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” replied Michelle.  “We’re so far away from civilization that you could probably pick up Canadian stations.”

Martin began to fiddle with the dial on the old radio.  After a minute, he caught the strains of a baseball game – but it was the Cubs game.  After another moment of fiddling with the dial and he could faintly hear the Cardinals game.  Albert Pujols had drawn yet another walk, bringing Matt Holliday to the plate.

“C’mon, Happy,” shouted Samantha.  “Park it in Big Mac Land.”

They were engrossed in the game and didn’t hear the oncoming vehicle.

“Oh, shit,” yelled Michelle.  “TRAIN!”

Martin’s heart caught in his throat.  He could see the locomotive in the distance, moving toward them.  They jumped to their feet and began to run across the trestle toward the safety of the opposite side of the river.

When Martin reached the other side, he turned back and saw Michelle quickly approaching and Samantha lagging behind.  He watched the train for a moment and calculated the closing speed.  It would be a close race, but it seemed that the train was going to beat Samantha to the other side.

“Jump, Sam, jump!” he yelled.

Samantha ignored his advice and continued to sprint toward the shore, with the beastly train in her wake.  It was a thirty foot drop to the water below, and she couldn’t swim.  If she could just dig down for an extra bit of speed, she could get to the other side.  Sam’s adrenaline gave her a burst of speed, and the locomotive had begun to slow ever so slightly as the engineer saw her and applied the brakes.

Martin and Michelle held their breath for a long minute.  Yes, it definitely seemed that Samantha could beat the train to the other side.  Then it happened.  Sam stumbled slightly.  She quickly regained her balance and continued her race toward the shore.  The stumble had cost her a precious couple of seconds.  A moment later, the train smashed into her and flung her lifeless body off the trestle and into the muddy river below.

Byron Walton sat on an uncomfortable folding chair near the back of the small bookstore.  The card table in front of him held a dozen copies of his book and a laminated copy of his biography.

Even in this independent bookstore in this small Midwestern city, his presence attracted very little attention.  Byron was beginning to doubt the wisdom of embarking on this self-financed book tour, against the advice of both his agent and his publisher.

After six days on the road, Byron had sold exactly eight copies of his book.  Far from being a big money maker, this trip was actually costing him money.  Byron sighed and wondered if he would manage to sell a book today. 

By late afternoon, Byron had sold exactly one copy – to the girl working behind the counter.  Byron thought that she probably bought the book out of pity for him.  On the bright side, Byron had finished the New York Time crossword and several Sudoku puzzles.  Closing time was quickly approaching, and Byron put the unsold books bag in his duffel bag and folded up the card table and chair.  He was chatting for a minute with Ashley, the girl behind the counter, when a last minute customer popped into the store.

“Am I took late for the book signing?” asked the tall, middle-aged man.

Byron was speechless for a minute and then recovered his composure.  “Nnnno, Mr. President.  You’re not too late.”

The President of the United States beamed a smile at Byron and Ashley.  “I apologize for stopping in so close to closing time.   I had a couple of town hall meetings to attend, and time got away from me a bit.  I hope I’m not making you stay late.”

“That’s perfectly alright,” responded Ashley.  “I have to finish up some paperwork anyway.  Take as much time as you need.”

“My wife read your book and absolutely loved it,” said the president, turning back to Byron.  “I must say that I agreed with her after I had chance to read it.  I’d like to buy two copies.  Can you make them out to Bob and Brooke?”

“I’ll be happy to give you a couple of copies, Mr. President.  I couldn’t possible charge you for them.”

“Oh, hogwash.  I can certainly afford the price.”  He pulled a wallet from his pocket and pulled out three twenty dollar bills.  “In fact, keep the change.”

Byron decided to stop looking a gift horse in the mouth.  He took the money offered to him by the most powerful man in the world.  Byron signed two copies of the book and handed them to the president.

“I noticed that you don’t have a foreword for the book.  I’d be very much interested in writing one, if you’d like.  I couldn’t do it while I’m still in office, of course, but I’ll be a private citizen again in a couple of months.”

“That would be, uh, great,” replied an awestruck Byron.  Certainly a glowing recommendation from the president would cause a spike in sales.  He was sure that he’d sell at least two copies of his book at every stop on the next book tour.

“I’m starving,” commented the president.  “Is there a good pizza place around here?”

“Sure,” replied Ashley.  “Mickey’s Pizza Parlor is a few blocks from here.  You just take main street two blocks and then …”

“How ‘bout you guys hop in and join us for dinner, instead.  I’m not very good with directions.”

This is a special Sunday edition of Fiction Friday.  Sadly, a real-life local crime was the inspiration for this story.

Jason Rodriguez grabbed the insulated bag and jumped out of the Chevy Malibu. He was halfway to the house when several people jumped out of the bushes. Jason counted seven men, all apparently in their late teens or early twenties.

“Those are my pizzas,” one of the men growled.

“You’re Mark Briggs?” asked Jason, double-checking the name on the box.

“Yeah, Briggs, that’s me,” came the reply, followed by a guffaw.

“OK, that will be $10.70.”

“I don’t think you understand. You’ll leave the pizzas with us and get outta here. That way nobody gets hurt.”

At that moment, Jason noticed the switchblade knife in the guy’s hand. He set the pizzas on the sidewalk and waited for the gang to make the next move. To his surprise, they grabbed the pizzas and ran off in the opposite direction.

Jason decided to get out of the neighborhood before the guys came back, looking for more trouble.

When he returned to the Pizza Palace, he reported the crime to his boss.

“Are you OK?” asked Chris – always a guy to look out for his employees.

“Yeah, I’m fine. But they stole the pizzas!”

“Hey, at least they have refined palates,” laughed Chris. “How much money did they get this time?”

“No money. They just took the pizzas.”

“You’ve got to be kidding. They risked jail for a couple of pizzas?”

“Yeah, I guess so,” replied Jason.

“I’m going to have the cops come by and take a report. Go back to my office and wait for them. When they leave, go ahead and take off early.”

A moment later, Chris popped his head into the office to let him know that the cops were in the middle of something, and it would be a little while before they could get there to take the police report.

Forty-five minutes later, the cops arrived. Jason could tell that they were also trying to suppress a small smile at the stupidity of the criminals. When Jason finished with his story, one of the officers suggested that he could downtown when it was convenient.

“We’d like to have you sit with our artist tomorrow, so that we can get a composite of the guys,” he explained.

“Actually,” replied Jason, “I had a bit of time before you arrived, so I took the opportunity to do a few sketches.”  Jason flipped his sketchpad to the first of the portraits and handed the pad to the officer.

The officer quickly flipped through the pad. This time, he didn’t try to suppress his amusement.

“You’ve got some talent, kid.” He handed the pad to his partner. “Recognize any of these guys, Marv?”

“Good Lord,” replied the younger officer, “Any of them? Heck, I recognize all of them. Clarence Billings lives in that area. Let’s start there.”

Ten minutes later, the officers interrupted a game of Old Maid at Clarence Billings’ house.

“Here we go, Bob.” Officer Marv pulled a pizza box from the trash. He turned to Billings. “You’re getting soft, Clarence. You leave this kind of evidence laying around?”

“So what. It’s a pizza box. We got hungry and ordered a pizza. Is that a crime?”

“There’s only one problem, Clarence. This pizza was supposed to be delivered to Mark Briggs.” Marv pointed to the sticker that contained the information about the delivery. “Being in possession of this particular box does create a bit of a problem for you.”

“You guys are all coming with us,” ordered Bob. “You’re being arrested for robbery and general stupidity.”

The tattered banner fluttered in the breeze.  It was faded by years of exposure to the sun, but still trumpeted its message to the world: CLUB CHAMPIONSHIP TODAY.

You could have cut the tension with a spork.  The 72 hole competition was going to come down to the very final hole.

Three time defending club champion Prescott Morris had played a flawless tournament, carding birdie after birdie.  In contrast, upstart Roger Blass had experienced an eventful tournament.  Blass’ card featured an impressive array of eagles along with a large number of bogeys.  Nary a hole went by that didn’t involve Blass blasting out of a hazard or draining an absurdly long putt.  Sometimes, he combined both in the same hole.

Morris was beginning to feel the pressure.  He had a one stroke lead on the final hole.  He had a lengthy conversation with his caddy before finally selecting his club.  His trusty Ping putter would be used for this shot – perhaps the most important shot in the history of Hillside Country Club.

Morris adjusted his purple and green plaid pants.  He tugged on his cap nervously.  Morris walked off the distance to the hole once again.  He studied the slope of the green.  At last, Prescott Morris felt that he had a good read for the shot.

Morris gave the ball a firm, measured tap.  The white sphere spurted toward the hole.  As it approached the hole, it appeared that Morris had hit the ball too hard.  The ball hit the back edge of the cup and popped up into the air.  The crowd held its collective breath.  The ball dropped harmlessly into the hole.  The pro-Morris faction of the crowd clapped politely.  Morris’ putt allowed him to save par on the hole, and retain his one stroke lead.

As Blass stepped into the tee box, his fans broke into frenzied shouting.  Blass was the underdog, a champion of those who clawed for everything they got in life.  Roger Blass had begun his career as a night watchman at the local bean factory.  Decades later, he owned not only the bean factory, but seven other plants.  He was the perfect example of the self-made man.

Blass basked in the glow for a moment before acknowledging the crowd with a nod.  Blass knew that his golf game was inferior to that of Prescott Morris.  He had compensated by adopting a feast or famine approach to the tournament.  The strategy was high risk, high reward.  Blass knew that he had been blessed with more than his fair share of good luck during the tournament.  He needed to take advantage and close out the 18^th hole strong.  He needed an unlikely eagle to win or a birdie to tie and force a playoff.  Par simply wouldn’t be good enough.

Blass had found himself in the shadow of the billionaire oil baron for far too many years.  Morris drove a Rolls Royce while Blass had to settle for a Lexus.  Morris lived in a sprawling estate at the top of the hill while Blass had to settle for a 9500 square foot home with a somewhat smaller pool.  He finally had the chance to knock Morris off his high horse.

Blass  took a moment to gauge the wind.  He carefully selected a club and readied himself for the shot.  He took a moment to steady his nerves, then swung the club.  As Blass followed through, a drunk fan yelled “GET IN THE HOLE!”.  As the ball approached the green, it slid between the paddles of the windmill and dropped into the hole for an eagle.  Roger Blass had toppled the establishment and was the newest club champion.

As the taxi sped away, Wyatt Jonson stared in awe of the stadium looming in front of him.  He felt that he was on hallowed ground in the shadow of the great shrine to the game.  Wyatt slowly came out of his reverie and walked toward the player entrance.

“Who’re you?” snapped the burly man guarding the player entrance.

“Wyatt Jonson, the new third baseman.”

“I ain’t got no Jonson on my sheet.  I gotta make a call.”  The guard took the toothpick out of his mouth, grabbed the phone, and punched in a number.  After a moment of grumbled conversation, he turned back to Wyatt.

“Need to see your license.”

Wyatt pulled out his South Dakota driver’s license and handed it to the guard.

The guard glanced at the photo on the ID, then back at Wyatt to verify that the photo matched.

“OK, kid, you’re good to go.  Welcome to the show.”

A few minutes later, Wyatt had found his way to the manager’s office.  Mac McGee was tied up on a phone call, facing away from the door.  Wyatt stood silently by the door, waiting for the call to end.  When Mac hung up the phone, Wyatt knocked on the door.

“What the ^*&^*&?” exclaimed the startled manager, spilling his coffee on the cluttered desk.

“I’m so sorry.  I didn’t mean to surprise you like that.  I’m Wyatt Jonson.”

Mac’s face changed into a smile.  “You realize that you didn’t need to report until tomorrow, right?  Geez, kid, how did you manage to get here so quickly?”

“My dad’s best friend happens to live in Springfield and has a private plane.  I was able to circumvent the whole airport hassle.  I wanted to get here as soon as possible.”

Mac laughed.  “I appreciate your enthusiasm, kid.  Have the pilot send a bill to the team.”  The manager glanced at his watch.  “We weren’t planning to have you available until tomorrow, but you’re probably the best option we have right now.  We’re getting pretty close to game time.  Go take a few hacks in the batting cage.”

Wyatt was quickly hustled down to the batting cage where he took some nervous swings.  His big league debut was just minutes away, and giant butterflies were flying around in his stomach.  Fifteen minutes later, he was escorted back to the dugout.

“There’s your locker, kid,” said the equipment manager, nodding at a stall.  Wyatt rushed to changed into his uniform.

“Something wrong, kid?” asked the equipment manager, noticing the frown on Wyatt’s face.

“My name’s wrong.  It’s J-O-N-S-O-N.”  The equipment manager glanced at the jersey, which had the name JOHNSON emblazoned on the back.

“Oh, man.  I’m sorry.  We don’t have time to get it fixed right now, but we’ll have it done for tomorrow’s game.”

Wyatt nodded.  He reminded himself that this was a minor detail, and that the important thing was that he would be on the field tonight.

Moments later, Wyatt was on the field as the Star Spangled Banner was played.  After the final note faded away, he drifted toward his shortstop position.

“Play ball,” came the shout from the umpire.

The batter dug in and turned to face the mound.  Reigning Cy Young winner Twister Larson unleashed a 95 mph fastball.  The batter swung and hit a ground ball between second and third base.  Wyatt hurried toward the ball, gloved it, set himself, and made a strong and accurate throw to first base.  So far, so good, he thought.

Another hitter stepped into the batter’s box, and Larson rocked and fired again.  A few pitches later, the batter was making the long, slow walk back to the dugout.  The final batter of the inning lifted a harmless fly ball to right field.

Wyatt returned to the dugout and started to take a seat on the bench.

“You’re leading off, rook,” came the voice of Mac McGee.  Wyatt turned and went to the bat rack.  He realized that he hadn’t brought any bats with him.

“What are ya looking for? “ asked Rake Sauders.  The three time batting champ smiled broadly.  “I have a rather extensive collection of wood.”

“Uh, 34 inches and 32 ounces.”

“Ah, here we go,” replied Rake, pulling a Louisville Slugger from the rack.  “Consider it a housewarming gift.”

Wyatt nodded his thanks and headed toward the plate.

“Aren’t you up past your bedtime, kid?”

Wyatt ignored the chatter from the catcher and settled into the box.  He realized that the opposing pitcher was Lefty Vays.  Vays threw in the high 90s with mediocre control and a nasty disposition.  This was not going to be a fun at bat.

The ball arrived at the plate much too quickly, and the ump quickly registered a strike.  Wyatt had faced some guys in the minors who threw in the high 90s.  That pitch had to be at least 102.

Wyatt prepared himself for the fastball and took a mighty swing at the next pitch.  It was a changeup moving at about 85 mph and Wyatt was hopelessly in front of it.  He managed to make contact on the next pitch, fouling it weakly into the stands behind the plate.

Wyatt prepared for the 1-2 pitch.  The wild pitch got away from Vays and struck Wyatt in the ribs.  The umpire awarded Wyatt first base and busied himself sweeping home plate to give Wyatt some time to recover.

When Wyatt got to first base, he immediately got the sign to steal.  He took off on Vays’ first motion and slid into second well ahead of the throw from the catcher.  He smiled as he stood at second base and shook off the dust.  His ribs seemed to hurt a bit less.

Rake Saunders lived up to his nickname and hammered the next pitch off the wall in center field.  Wyatt raced around third base and streaked toward home plate.  He slid into home, but the throw went into second to keep Saunders from advancing.

Wyatt was greeted warmly by his teammates when he returned to the dugout.

Mac McGee smiled up at him.  “Hey kid, why don’t you take a load off and sit down for a minute.”

Wyatt was beaming as he took a seat on the bench – the first chance he’d had to sit down since he had jumped out of the taxi.

If you haven’t read the first part of the story, you’ll definitely want to read it first (it’s here).

Miranda paced back and forth and the stage and wrung her hands, obviously unsure of what to do next. Finally, she spoke again.

“Well, folks, I guess the show must go on. The next part of the act calls for me to push the box back together and have Sarah pop out of he box unharmed. I’m afraid it is too late for Sarah, but we can at least honor her memory by finishing the trick.”

Miranda moved slowly toward the two halves of the box. She pushed them together and halfheartedly uttered some magic words. She barely glanced at the box as she opened the door.

Miranda had already turned her back to the box and was walking toward the front of the stage when, to the amazement of everyone in the theater, Sarah popped out of the box and onto the stage. The crowd went absolutely wild – Miranda and Sarah received several curtain calls before finally retreating backstage.

After the crowd had left for the evening, there was a meeting in a back room at the Riverview Theatre. In attendance were Marcus, Miranda, and the three male members of the entourage.

Marcus immediately tried to take control of the meeting.

“I don’t know what you’re trying to prove with your stunt tonight – “ he began.

“Oh, shut up,” responded Miranda. “You don’t call the shots any more. I’m in charge.”

“How do you come to that illogical conclusion?”

“I’ve put up with a lot from you over the years. The verbal abuse, the condescension, and now the affair. You have no friends in this room. It’s the end of the line for you.”

Marcus laughed. “The end of the line? What are you going to do – kill me?”

“Oh, even better than that,” replied Miranda. “I know how fascinated you are with the Amazon. I’ve decided to give you the gift of a long vacation there.”

Marcus was now ever more confused. “And this is some sort of punishment?”

“It’s a rather remote spot. In fact, it’s my belief that this area has never experienced human contact.”

Marcus was still a bit slow to understand.

Miranda explained further. “Did I mention that this is a trip for two? We’re going to drop you and your mistress into the middle of the rainforest. If you and Sarah ever want to see other human beings, you’d be well advised to start breeding like those stupid rabbits you use in your tricks. Maybe you can start an entire race of sub humans.”

The next day, a plane flew over the Amazon and pushed Marcus and Sarah out the door. Their parachutes slowed their descent until finally they disappeared below the canopy of the rain forest and were never heard from again.

Weeks later, Marcus’ PR firm sent out a press release informing the media that Marcus the Magnificent would be taking a long sabbatical to re-discover himself. In the interim, his wife would be taking over his show. The media and the public had become jaded to Marcus’ antics over the years, and this news was barely a blip on the radar.

Thousands of miles away, one of the greatest magicians in the world was failing at some of the most basic tasks of a hunter and gatherer. The raw meat made him nauseous, but he had not yet mastered the ancient art of creating fire.

If you noticed the theme of scorned women taking revenge carrying over from last week’s story, The Proxy, don’t worry – it’s not the sole theme of my stories.  The two stories simply originated from the same brainstorming session.

Editor’s note: I’d like to welcome all my friends from Man Vs. Debt to The Soap Boxers.  Sit down in a comfy chair, kick off your shoes, and enjoy today’s story.

The third rabbit hopped out of the hat, looked around for a moment, and then quickly joined his friends. The three rabbits hopped off the stage, into the hands of the assistants.

“Those suckers multiply faster than a math teacher,” boomed the voice from the middle of the stage. The large crowd responded to the bad joke with a combination of laughter and good-natured boos.

Marcus the Magnificent was on his game on this hot August night. He was playing at the Fairview Theatre – his normal venue. The massive theatre was filled to the rafters with adoring fans.

The master showman guided the crowd through his act, starting with small tricks and gradually building to two big illusions at the end of the evening.

As the evening came to a close, Marcus called his assistant, Miranda, to the stage. He had Miranda step into a box, closed the door, and told the audience that he would make the women vanish.

“Look now – the lovely Miss Miranda has completely disappeared!” With that, Marcus yanked on the door of the box. To his surprise, he was greeted by an enormous plume of smoke, and then he felt himself falling. This was most certainly not a part of the act.

When the smoke disappeared, Miss Miranda was standing on the stage, but the magician was nowhere to be seen. The crowd was puzzled at this turn of events.

Miss Miranda quickly took the reins. She stepped back toward the box and peered inside.

“Marcus?” she called. “Marcus? Where have you gone?”

Miranda turned back to the crowd. “I’m afraid that Marcus the Magnificent must have used the wrong magic words – as he himself has disappeared! Perhaps we should continue with the act and try to make him reappear.”

The crowd murmured as Miranda closed the door of the box.

“Great magic box, I command you – bring Marcus back to us!” There was another plume of smoke. A moment later, Miranda yanked open the door to the box.

“Marcus, step forth!” she shouted.

But Marcus did not step forth. Miranda was still alone on the stage.

“I apologize for the inconvenience, folks. This has never happened before. I’m really not sure where to go from here. Should I send you home for the night – or do you want to stay and watch me perform a few tricks I have learned from Marcus?”

“Stay, stay, stay!” shouted the crowd.

“OK, OK,” she acquiesced. “The show must go on! I’m afraid I’m not very familiar with the schedule for tonight’s show. Johnny, can you bring me Marcus’ notes for this performance?”

Marcus’ assistant Johnny crossed the stage and handed several sheets of paper to Miranda. She took a moment to glance through the itinerary for the evening. She pondered aloud, allowing the crowd to hear her thoughts.

“Boring, boring, too hard for me, boring, stupid rabbit trick … ah, here we go. This is a trick I can perform.”

Miranda strode to the center of the stage.

“Ladies and gentleman, the next trick has amazed and astounded crowds for decades. In front of your very eyes tonight, I will saw a woman in half.”

As the crowed focused on Miranda and waited for her to perform the best illusion of the entire evening, Marcus the Magnificent began to regain his consciousness. To his great surprised, he found himself bound, gagged, and in the captivity of three rather mean looking men.

Miranda finished sawing through the box and pushed the two halves of the box away from her. The crowd could clearly see the woman’s head sticking out of the top half of the box and her feet sticking out the bottom half of the box.

The crowd gasped when the spotlight focused on a small pool of blood on the stage.

“Oh dear,” cried out Miranda. “I’m afraid this is the first time I have tried this trick with an actual person. Perhaps I should have practiced it first.”

How will this story turn out?  Come back tomorrow to read the conclusion!  (Or just subscribe via RSS or email to catch all future editions of The Soap Boxers)

The van screeched to a halt.  The rear doors flew open, and a half dozen girls jumped out.  They quickly seized their prey, carried him back to the van, and threw him inside.  A moment later, the nondescript white van raced off.

Chip Morgan was laying in the back on the van, in complete shock.  A moment later, he had been jogging around the lake, listening to some tunes on his iPod.  He couldn’t begin to fathom why he had been abducted.  Chip wondered if it was really such a bad thing to be kidnapped by a gang of attractive girls.

Chip entertained that thought for about a half second.  One of the girls flipped him roughly onto his back.  Another shoved her knee into his back, causing enough pain to subdue him while other girls securely tied his hands behind him.  His ankles were bound to each other to complete the job.

At this point, Chip began to realize that this probably wasn’t just a harmless sorority prank. 

Several minutes later, the van turned off the highway onto a gravel road.  Chip bounced around in the back of the van, and he was able to feel every bump in the road. The interior of the van was complete silence – not a word had been uttered since he had been abducted.

After his body has endured much abuse, the van pulled to a stop.  Chip was yanked roughly out of the van and forced to march forward.  In his hobbled state, Chip was unable to move very quickly, and his captors were quite impatient.  Chip fell onto his face twice as the girls urged him to move faster.

When he was finally told to stop, Chip took a moment to absorb his surroundings.  There were perhaps two hundred girls in a circle around him, each wielding a flaming torch which allowed the empty field to be bathed in light.  Ahead of him was small wooden stage, and in the middle of the stage was a low table.

The girl on the stage made a motion with her hand, and the dull roar of the crowd dissipated into complete silence.

“He has arrived.  It is time for the ceremony to begin.  Bring forth the man.”

Chip was forced to ascend the stairs.  When he arrived on the stage, his binds were removed for a moment.  Then the girls fastened him securely to the table at the center of the stage.

When Chip was secured, the leader of the group approached him and spoke loudly, so that the entire crowd could hear her.

“For thousands of years, men have viewed women as mere sex objects.  Today is the day of reckoning for men.  Man, I give you the kiss of death.”

At this, she moved very close to Chip and kissed him firmly on the mouth.  An increasingly confused Chip allowed himself to enjoy the pleasure of the moment.  When she pulled away, Chip was shocked to realize that he was bleeding. 

Before he could make any sense of the proceedings, the next girl approached him and gave him the kiss of death – making a quick slice with a scalpel as she kissed him.  Then the next girl, and another, and another.  Chip quickly realized that the kisses were intended as a mockery of men’s treatment of women as sex objects.

After the final girl made her cut, she followed the others in procession out of the field.  Chip was left alone with his thoughts, dripping from the hundreds of cuts on his body.

After the girls had left, the location once again reverted to nature.  A short while later, the wolves began to approach and the buzzards circled overhead.

Troy Peterson secured the two gas cans into the trunk of the car and slammed the trunk lid.  A few minutes later, he was on the road.  The hunt had commenced.

Troy pointed his Impala in the direction of – well, of nowhere in particular, actually.  He just drove.  Mile after mile of interstate zoomed by.  Troy locked the cruise control in at 65 miles per hour and listened to the radio as faster cars zoomed by him in the left hand lane.  On this day, Troy could not risk a speeding ticket.

A bit after dusk, Troy pulled off the interstate and quickly found himself on a deserted road.  He refueled the gas tank with one of the cans, urinated in the ditch, and then jumped back in the car to continue his journey.  As he drove, he grabbed one of the ham sandwiches he had packaged for the trip.  He wolfed down the sandwich and chased it down with a can of Pepsi.

At 10 PM, Troy parked his car outside a large grocery store.  He grabbed his Cubs hat and pulled it down over his face.  He also grabbed another very important item from the car.

Troy began to walk away from the grocery store, deeper into the heart of the neighborhood.  At this time of night, there was very little activity.

After twenty minutes of walking the streets, he saw a light come on.  A door opened, and a young woman stepped out of her house.  She turned onto the sidewalk and began to walk directly toward Troy.  It appeared that she, too, was out for a walk on this peaceful evening.

As the woman approached Troy, she gave him a friendly smile.  Troy responded by pulling his gun and firing two shots into her head.  The woman was dead before she hit the ground.

Troy immediately began to run.  Soon, he was several blocks away from the crime scene and slowed his pace to a walk.  He returned to the parking lot, got back into the car, and pointed the Impala toward home.  He made another pit stop on the way home, once again filling the tank an emptying his bladder.

Troy returned home just in time to stop by Denny’s for breakfast.  He visited the bathroom first, scrubbing off the residue of any gasoline smell that remained.  His hands now smelled of soap.  Troy exited the bathroom and took his seat at a table nearly the window.  As he waited for the waitress to bring his grand slam, Troy greeted several friends, firmly establishing his whereabouts early that morning.

Hundreds of miles away, a woman lie in the morgue.  The police could find no obvious motive for her murder.  Nor would they ever find one.  She had been cut down in the prime on her life by a stranger looking for a cheap thrill.  The randomness of the attack and her killer’s effort to avoid a paper trail would make it virtually impossible to solve the crime.

Back at the Denny’s, Troy Peterson smiled to himself as he sipped his orange juice.  He loved his monthly field trips.

This week’s Fiction Friday comes to you a couple of days late.

Justin settled into his seat in the fourth row of the basketball arena. This was his favorite time of the year. The high school state basketball tournament was in town. It would be wall-to-wall basketball all week.

Justin wasn’t pulling for any particular team. He just enjoyed watching basketball, and you couldn’t argue with the value of tickets to the state tournament – you got a lot of bang for your buck.

Justin took long sip of his drink, and then turned to the man on his left. “Do you expect this to be a good game?” he asked.

“The line’s Harper by ten and a half,” came the curt reply.

“Line?” asked a confused Justin.

“Yeah, the line. You know, the point spread.”

“You can’t gamble on high school sports.”

The stranger laughed. “Certainly you can. You just have to work harder for the information.”

“What kind of information?”

“Well, you have all the basics, of course. The offensive sets and the defenses that each coach likes to run. The strengths and weaknesses of each player, injuries that might cause problems, that sort of thing. Any hack can cobble together that information. But if you’re going to make money betting on the kiddies, you need to take it to the next level.”

“And, what, exactly, is the next level?” asked Justin.

“Mostly, it’s the psychological state of these kids. They are so frail at this age. A girl breaks up with them, they go into a shooting funk. They get laid for the first time, maybe they go into a shooting funk after that – or maybe they go for forty points. Point is, the more you know about what’s bouncing around inside their heads, the more of an advantage you have against the hacks who are just using statistics and computer models. ELO-Chess models are so old fashioned.”

Justin was disturbed – and yet also intrigued. “And how, exactly, do you get this information?”

“Oh, that’s part’s the easiest thing in the world. You just scope out a spy in each school. The rumors bounce around a high school faster a virus. You find a kid who doesn’t have a lot of money and you slip him twenty bucks every once in a while. He spills his guts about everything that’s going on in the school.”

“I assume that you have a spy for this game?”

“Of course. A couple of them, actually. My kid on the Harper side is the student manager. Those kids make great spies. They can’t hack it as a player, so they sit on the bench and pretend they’re part of the team. Most of them have a lot of resentment toward the players.”

“Can you share your information on this game,” asked Justin “or is that privileged.”

“Hey, my bets are all down, so I’ll share. The best tidbit is about Turner, the point guard on Harper. It turns out that his girlfriend has been sleeping with several other players on the team. Suffice it to say that his passes might not be as crisp as you might otherwise expect. The spread might be Harper by ten and a half, but you’d be a fool to take Harper.”

The referee threw the ball into the air for the opening tip and Justin and his new acquaintance ceased their conversation.

Contrary to the expectations of the gambler, Turner was a one man highlight reel during the game. The point guard racked up thirty four points, twelve assists, and grabbed nine rebounds. Perhaps most impressive were the four shots blocked by the five foot five inch dynamo. It was, by all accounts, one of the most dominant performances in state tournament history.

At the far end of the bench, the student manager smiled externally and smiled a big belly laugh internally. After a season of taking money from the gambler, he had double crossed him. Turner and his girlfriend definitively had experienced an emotional week, but not for the reasons he had mentioned. Both students has been accepted into Stanford and would have the opportunity to stay together while also pursuing an education from a top school.  This lifted a huge weight from Turner’s shoulders and had allowed him to focus intently on the game.