The SoapBoxers

This is the second part of a three part story.

“I’m sure you and Andrea would talk business, so it’s a deductible expense for me,” Murray said with a conspiratorial wink.

Murray took a sip of coffee and turned the topic of the conversation back to business.

“As you know, Mr. Smythe, Wallaby is a privately held company. We develop computer components. We sell the components to the big manufacturers, who use the components in their computers.”

Smythe nodded as Murray continued. “We have strong relationships with a couple of foreign companies who do the actual manufacturing. Unfortunately, those companies are experiencing some major financial trouble right now.”

Murray continued his tale of woe. “If we can’t get the companies to deliver, we could find ourselves unable to meet the deadlines for the computer companies. That could put us in a world of hurt. In fact, it could threaten the viability of the company.”

“Can’t you simply shift the manufacturing to a different company?” asked Smythe.

“Not at this stage in the game, unfortunately. We wouldn’t have the time to find another supplier, sign contracts, and have them get ready for production. Time is simply too short.

“Then why do you need me?” asked the venture capitalist.

“One option that we have come up with is to simply buy those companies. This would give us complete control and allow us to meet our deadlines.”

“And you want my money.”

“Well, yes,” admitted Murray.

“How much?”

“We could acquire the companies for about three million in cash, in addition to assuming about a million and a half in debt.”

Murray spent the rest of the morning talking about the history of the company and sharing details about the products that the company produced. The company had started in Murray’s garage and slowly become a presence in the industry.

After a long lunch, they returned to the office and Murray placed a call to one of the suppliers. Although the man on the other end assured Murray that everything was going fine, Smythe could tell by the strain in his voice that this was not the case.

After the call, Murray brought up some news articles about the supplier’s parent company. The company was indeed teetering on the brink of collapse.

“We wouldn’t be buying the entire company, of course,” explained Murray, “but just the one subsidiary.”

“You’ve definitely given me a lot to think about, Murray,” responded Smythe. “I’d like to knock off early and head back to the hotel. We can continue this tomorrow.”

“Certainly.”

On the way out, Smythe made plans to meet Andrea Noonan at the hotel bar before dinner.

The next morning, Andrea was filling her husband’s ears with complaints.

“He was flirting with me all night. He even gave me a goodnight kiss.”

“I hope you flirted back,” replied Silas Murray.

“I most certainly did not. I’m tired of these cons, Silas. I don’t like being the bait in a honey trap.”

“This is a big one, babe. We could score a million bucks from this Smythe guy. He’s a rube – buying the bullshit hook, line, and sinker. That kind of money should buy at least some mild flirting.”

Andrea was stunned at what her husband was telling her to do.

“And what if he wants to carry it further than flirting?”

“Just remember how big of a score this is. We definitely don’t want a goodnight kiss to be a deal breaker! This could be the deal that sends us to retirement in Costa Rica.”

Andrea was angered at Silas’ suggestion that she use her body to further their financial goals – but did look forward to the prospect of retiring to a warm climate in the near future. One big score and they could leave the con games in the past.

It seemed that Leonard Smythe had enjoyed his evening, in spite of the cool reception from Andrea.

“I think Ms. Noonan likes me,” he confided in Silas.

Silas Murray breathed a sigh of relief – Smythe was still under Andrea’s spell, oblivious to the fact that she disliked him.

“Andrea was just telling me how much she enjoyed spending the evening with you. She is looking forward to another night on the town tonight.”

The first part of a three part story.  Stay tuned for the rest of the story over the weekend.

Leonard Smythe was greeted by a receptionist as he walked into the corporate offices of Wallaby Industries.

“I’m here to see Silas Murray. He is expecting me – Leonard Smythe.”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Smythe. Just one moment.” The receptionist grabbed the phone and made a couple of quick phone calls.

“I’m afraid that Mr. Murray is still in conference,” explained the apologetic woman. “I’m going to have our VP of Sales take you back to his office.”

A moment later, a perky redhead poked her head through the door of the reception area.

“Mr. Smythe? Hello, I’m Andrea Noonan, head of sales. Silas should be finished with his teleconference shortly. Please come with me back to his office.”

Smythe couldn’t help thinking what a great choice Wallaby had made for their VP of Sales. Ms. Noonan was quite the looker. She was tall, had an athletic build, and carried herself with an air of confidence.

“The place doesn’t usually look this dead,” explained Noonan. “There’s a big industry conference in Vegas this week, and almost everyone is there. We’re operating with a skeleton crew.”

Smythe looked around and counted exactly five employees at their desks. The rest of the desks lay in disarray. Framed photos, soda cans, and printers dotted the landscape. Wallaby wasn’t the biggest company in the world, but it was indeed running a skeleton crew. Taking Murray, Noonan, and the receptionist into account, there were eight Wallaby employees in the building.

“Must be a very important conference,” he remarked.

“Oh, yes,” replied Noonan with a smile. “This conference will probably drive about half our annual sales.”

“I’m surprised that the CEO isn’t there.”

“Well, Mr. Murray knows that you are a very busy man and tried to work around your schedule. I suspect that he’ll be taking a flight to Sin City later in the week.”

Smythe nodded. Indeed, he was an important man for Wallaby Industries. As a venture capitalist, he was accustomed to have people bend over backwards to accommodate his schedule.

Andrea Noonan was observing Smythe carefully to try to determine if the man was seeing past the charade. So far, so good. The desks had been professionally staged by Silas, and he had hired some out of work actors to fill a few of the seats.

Silas Murray popped out of his office as they approached. Murray was a well dressed man in his mid thirties and gave Leonard Smythe’s hand a hearty shake.

“I’ve been looking forward to meeting with you, Mr, Smythe. Did you have a good flight?”

“It’s always a good flight when you’re in first class, Mr. Murray.”

Murray laughed at the witty remark. “Very true. Please, call me Silas.”

Smythe nodded to acknowledge the request, but did not make a reciprocal offer.

“Andrea, could you get us some coffee?” asked Murray as he ushered Smythe into his office.

“Normally, she’d bite my head off for a request like that. The VP of Sales does not fetch coffee – even for the CEO.” Murray laughed. “But we’re really short staffed this week, so everyone is wearing a few hats.”

Andrea Noonan returned with two steaming mugs of coffee and set them down on the table. Four sets of eyes watched her leave the room.

“I hope you don’t mind,” said Murray, breaking Smythe from his trance, “but I planned your evening for you. Ms. Noonan will be showing you around town.”

The other man smiled broadly before responding.

“I think I would be agreeable to that.”

To be continued.

For the last year, a serial killer had been slaughtering stranded motorists on the night of the full moon.  The Marauder had carved up twelve victims.  A motorist stumbling across the body of his fourth victim had glanced up and noticed a maroon car escaping into the distance.  This tiny scrap of information was the only clue to the identity of the killer.

From his home three states away, Dallas Roberts had been closely following the activities of the Marauder.  Dallas was unhappy with his own life.  He had failed to make any sort of mark upon the world.  He had failed in his career and failed in love.  On this night, he was determined to become famous.  He had driven six hundred miles to be in place for his destiny.

Roberts was parked on the side of the road with his hazard lights on.  The clock inside the car showed that the time was 1:45 AM.  Dallas was sure that his wait would be short – the Marauder always attacked between 1:57 and 3:48 AM.  Tonight, he would achieve fame – becoming the thirteenth victim of the Moonlight Marauder.

Dallas was shaken from his thoughts by lights in his rear view mirror – a vehicle was pulling up behind him on the shoulder.

A moment later, a form appeared next to his window.

“Need some help?”  Dallas looked up and saw a tall, blonde woman in her early twenties.

“Got a flat,” he explained.  “I’m waiting for a friend to get here.  Can’t very well change the flat with this broken wing,” he explained, showing off the arm sling that he was using as a prop.

“No need for you to wait.  Pop the trunk and I’ll change it for you.”

This woman was ruining Dallas’ perfectly laid plans – but he couldn’t think of a good way to get rid of her.  Dallas popped the trunk and jumped out of the car.

The woman effortlessly grabbed the spare tire and jack.  She loosened the lug nuts on the tire and quickly jacked up the car.

After changing the tire, she grabbed a flashlight from her back pocket and inspected the tire.

“Wow.  You’ve got a big chunk of metal in this tire.  I’m afraid you’re going to need a new tire, sport.”

Dallas was well aware of the magnitude of the damage to the tire.  After all, the damage was his own handiwork – to ensure that that Marauder wouldn’t sense a staged scene and pass him up as a victim.

“Name’s Megan White.”  The woman held out a dirty hand for Dallas to shake.

“Dallas Roberts,” he said, shaking the extended hand.

“What sort of work are you in, Dallas?”

“Unemployed at the moment, I’m afraid.  I’m a web developer when I can get work.”

“Oh?  What sort of web development?”

“Mostly PHP, but I dabble in Java from time to time.”

“Give me a call in the morning.  I run a small web consulting company, and we’re a bit short staffed on the PHP side of the house.  I wouldn’t mind seeing more of you,” she said as she smiled broadly and gave Dallas a wink.  Megan pulled a business card out of her pocket and handed it to him.

Dallas’ heart jumped in his chest.  Was she flirting with him?  He would definitely take her up on the offer.  He’d love to have the opportunity to start earning money again, and he thought he’d enjoy working with the smart, athletic, attractive woman.

“Keep safe,” she shouted, as she got back in her truck.  “The Moonlight Marauder has been known to strike in these parts.”

Dallas had a smile on his face as he jumped back into his car.  He pulled back onto the interstate and started looking for a motel that was open at this time of the night.  The few places he passed had “NO VACANCY” signs buzzing atop the inns.

Twenty minutes later, Dallas noticed a vibration and then felt a tire blow out.  He pulled to the side of the road and ditched the useless sling.  As he popped the trunk to grab the spare tire, he came to the realization that Megan had put on the spare to replace the perfectly good tire that he had carved up.

As Dallas pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and wandered around trying to find a signal, the sound of scattering gravel told him that another car was approaching.

“Help you, son?” asked a tall, grandfatherly man.  Dallas glanced up and noticed that that the car parked behind him on the shoulder was a maroon Taurus.  When his eyes shifted back to the right, he saw the light of the moon glinting off the blade of the Moonlight Marauder’s knife.

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 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.

Gerald Champeaux hid his annoyance at the appearance of a hot cocoa mustache on the upper lip of the man seated across from him. His companion was oblivious to the foamy appendage. Gerald could scarcely believe that Jimmy Bagley was a competent professional. He forced himself to push the doubts to the back of his mind. Bagley had an excellent reputation.

“So, what you want,” said Bagley, wiping his lip as he finally became aware of the mustache, “is for me to steal stuff from your own house? For the insurance money?”

“Exactly,” replied Champeaux. “It’s really a profit deal. I have unfortunately become quite addicted to Texas Hold’em lately and have accumulated some sizable losses lately. A nice insurance settlement would allow me to hide our financial situation from my wife. A fringe benefit is that I’d be getting rid of some absurdly ugly pieces of art that she has purchased over the years.”

“OK, so what’s in it for me?”

“We’ll split the proceeds of the sales, 50-50. Some of the items are very identifiable, and may not be able to be sold for several years. Many of the others should be able to be quickly sold. I can give you the names of some dealers who have questionable ethics and are perfectly willing to buy stolen merchandise. You close the deal and keep half the money for your troubles.”

Bagley grabbed the sheet of paper from the table. “So, what sort of money are we talking about?”

“I think a conservative estimate would be a million dollars.”

Bagley whistled. “I’d make half a mill just for ripping you off? Wow.”

“For ripping me off and setting up the sales. And, of course, for your discretion,” corrected Champeaux.

“Ah, yes, discretion is the better part of vigor.”

“Valor,” corrected Champeaux.

“Huh?”

“Discretion is the better part of valor, not the better part of vigor.”

“Yeah? I always heard it the other way. Oh well, ten of one, half dozen of another.”

Champeaux rolled his eyes at the smaller man’s maligning of the English language. Focus, Gerald, focus. You don’t need to like this man, you simply need to use him.

“OK,” asked Champeaux, “what details do you need?”

“I’ll need to know about your security system, and also the layout of your home and the location of these items.”

Champeaux was prepared for these questions. He gave Bagley the details of his home security system, including flaws in the system that would allow a burglar to easily defeat the system. He verbally walked Bagley through the house. He described each room in turn, and described which of the items would be located in that room.

Four nights later, Jimmy Bagley descended upon the Champeaux home. Gerald and his wife would be out for the evening, having dinner and watching a play at the theater.

Bagley quickly picked the lock and slipped into the house. He quickly disabled the security system and began the work of stealing. He decided to use the living room as a staging area. He would pile everything in the middle of the living room before taking everything out to his Explorer.

Jimmy quickly took three painting off the wall and set them on the floor. It took him a moment to find that statue that Champeaux had described. Jimmy agreed with Champeaux – in spite of its value to collectors, it was hideously ugly.

Bagley walked down a short hallway to the master bedroom. He opened the door and was surprised to see Champeaux inside the room. He only had an instant to wonder why Champeaux was at home instead of establishing an alibi for the time of the robbery. Then he saw the Glock in Champeax’s right hand and was more confused.

Gerald Chapeaux pulled the trigger and felt the thrill of killing another man.

Champeaux waited for Bagley to die before grabbing the phone.

“What is your emergency?” asked the voice on the other end of the line.

“There’s been a break-in at my home. I shot the burglar. I think he may be dead.”

Tony Rollins cracked a smile as he bit into the cheap fast food taco. The flimsy shell broke into pieces and hot sauce spilled out onto Tony’s hands. Tony brushed off this small misadventure. Nothing could spoil his mood today. Tony was just one small jump away from retirement.

Tony, at 40, was a bit young for retirement. In fact, it would come as a big surprise to many, since he had never been one to save a lot of money. He typically lived paycheck to paycheck, and when he did save up a few dollars, he quickly frittered it away on high end electronics or expensive vacations.

Then, six months ago, Tony bumped into Damon Cole and his fortunes took a turn for the better. Damon’s claim was worth, at most, seventy thousand dollars. The property, however, was massively over-insured, with millions of dollars in coverage. During a long lunch at a local strip club, a plan was hatched to bleed the insurance company of eight million dollars.

With Tony’s boss on temporary disability due to a freak skydiving accident, he had a short window in which to execute the plan. Late at night, when the office was quiet and no one was stirring (not even a mouse) Tony generated the paperwork for the claim, fabricating estimates from contractors as necessary. He approved the claim and forged his boss’ approval as well. Tony carefully backdated the documents to indicate that his boss had approved the claim two days before he shattered his leg in the accident.

The claims had sailed through the processing center and Damon had received a check for $7,946,312.42. Damon had wired half the money to an account that Tony had recently opened at a financial institution in Geneva. This morning, Tony had confirmed the receipt of his share of the money – $3,973,156.21 – with his Swiss banker, Gerhard Hunziker.

When Tony disappeared, people would notice. Before long, his boss would return to the office and discover the fraudulent claim. By then, Tony would be long gone. He had no doubt that law enforcement would be after him hot and heavy.

They would certainly jump to the correct assumption that he had left the country and headed south. Tony was sure that they would first look in Panama, where his co-workers had heard him talk of friends. When he wasn’t found in Panama, the authorities would fan out into the rest of central and south America. Everyone in the office had seen him intensely studying Spanish. At the time, his explanation had been that knowledge of Spanish would allow him to work more effectively on claims involving people who spoke limited English. This made perfect sense, and Tony’s reputation as a genuine nice guy lent it even more credibility.

Soon after his disappearance, his co-workers and authorities would realize that this was just an excuse – and that the real reason for learning Spanish was so that he would be able to blend in more easily in his new country.

Tony smiled with the knowledge that they would be barking up the wrong tree. He would be settling in Brazil – where the natives spoke Portuguese and not Spanish.

This is the conclusion of the story that was started yesterday.  Please be warned – this story is a marked departure from yesterday and is intended for mature audiences only!

Note: this story was written before Thursday football games were played and do not reflect the outcome of the real games.

Erin gently shook Kevin to wake him.

“Kevin! It’s time to get started.”

Kevin hopped up from his easy chair and walked to the closet. He returned with ropes. He bound Tom’s hands and feet together while Erin secured Kate in a similar fashion.

Erin returned to the kitchen and pushed aside a fake wall, exposing two large hidden compartments. She pushed open the two large doors before joining Kevin back in the living room. Kevin had sliced off Tom’s clothing, leaving the man as naked as when he entered the world. As Kevin hefted Tom’s body and took the first few halting steps toward the kitchen, Erin grabbed the knife and cut Kate’s clothing so that it could also be easily removed. A minute later, Kevin returned, grabbed Kate’s still-slumbering form, and made another trip to the kitchen.

Kevin slid Kate onto the grate and closed the door, locking it into place. He hit the button to activate the wash cycle. Tom and Kate were bathed with pulses of water, cleansing their skin perfectly. Kevin hit the button to activate the next cycle.

Tom began to regain his consciousness a bit. He was certain that he was smelling a very strong scent of butter. Butter? Where was that smell coming from? Three seconds later, Tom felt his body be assaulted with streams of hot, liquid butter. What the hell? The wine was having a very strong effect on Tom, but he was slowly coming to the realization that something was very wrong. He realized that he was flat on his back, with his hands and feet tied together. He was trussed up like a pig! There was something in his mouth. He couldn’t place the flavor at first, but soon realized that it was an apple. He felt the room slowly start to heat up and came to the realization that he was being cooked alive!

Tom tried to scream, but was unable to dislodge the apple. He struggled against his bonds, but could make no progress. He was wedged tightly into the oven and had limited mobility. Before long, Tom had been overcome by the heat.

“Go watch the game,” said Erin, giving Kevin a kiss. “Things are under control in here. It will be several hours before supper is ready.”

Kevin plopped down in front of the TV just as the second half was beginning. The Packers had fallen behind 21-0 in the first half, but this was not to be a good day for Tom’s golden boy, Matthew Stafford. Stafford threw four interceptions in the second half, lost a fumble, and was sacked four times. Kevin laughed at the meltdown of the rookie quarterback. Tom really didn’t know shit about football.

After the Packers had win the first game of the day and the Cowboys had steamrolled to a win in the second game of the day, it was time for supper.

When Kevin got to the kitchen, Erin had his plate ready for him. A big helping of potatoes, corn, stuffing, and gravy, along with a big chunk of drumstick a la Tom. On her own plate, Erin had a smaller bit of Tom’s leg, as well as a bit of white meat from Kate.

“I always did think turkey was a bit overrated.”

Welcome to a special, holiday edition of Fiction Friday.  This is a two part story.  While today’s installment is pretty normal, many people are likely to find tomorrow’s conclusion disturbing.  You have been warned …

“Oh, Kate, you didn’t have to bring anything,” said Erin, as she gave her friend a kiss on the cheek.

“Oh, it’s just a pumpkin pie. You and Kevin prepared the rest of the food – this is just a token of our appreciation.”

“Well, we definitely appreciate it,” chimed in Kevin. “Pumpkin pie is my favorite. Let me grab your coats. Dinner is ready to be served.”

Kevin hung up the coats while Kate and Tom followed Erin to the kitchen. The smell of turkey, stuffing, corn, and potatoes wafted through the air.

“Everything smells so good. Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday of the year. What’s not a like about a national eating holiday?” laughed Tom.

Their hostess grabbed the carving knife. “What part of the turkey do you like, Tom?” she asked.

“I’m a leg man.” Tom held his plate out, and Erin slid a juicy drumstick onto it.

The four friends took their places around the table and began passing around bowls of food. Kevin took a large portion of mashed potatoes, topped the mound with stuffing and corn, and poured a river of gravy over the top. Tom grabbed two slices of Erin’s famous corn bread, and Kate served herself an extra large portion of the delicious cranberries. Erin herself appeared to play no favorite – she took equal portions of each dish – to the point of taking some of the white meat and some of the dark.

The foursome began their feast, and a pleasant silence enveloped the room, punctuated only by the sounds of chewing and an occasional burp. During the second helping, the eating began to slow a bit, and conversation resumed.

“Stafford’s going to light up the Packers,” proclaimed Tom, in between bites of turkey.

Kevin smiled politely. This was not the time to stoke and argument about the relative strengths of the Packers and Lions. Tom was a complete moron for believing that Detroit was on the same level with Green Bay. In the grand scheme of things, it really didn’t matter very much, though.

“He definitely had a good week against Cleveland. We’ll see if he can maintain that sort of momentum. Rookie quarterbacks can hit some bumps in the road.”

“This isn’t just any rookie,” exclaimed his friend. “This is Matthew effing Stafford, number one draft pick in the whole world.”

Erin interrupted Tom’s idol worship. “Does anyone have room for a slice of Kate’s pie?”

In spite of the large meal, everyone seemed to have just enough room for one slice of pumpkin pie. Tom loosened his belt a notch while Erin popped up from her chair. She returned to the table with the pumpkin pie, as well as a container of Cool Whip.

“Awesome,” said Tom. “There’s nothing better than pumpkin pie with Cool Whip.”

After everyone had finished their pie, Erin began to collect the dishes. Kate stood up the help her while the guys headed to the living room to watch football.

“It’s under control, Kate. I’ll handle the dishes. You can go watch the game.”

Kate put up a feeble protest before joined the men in front of the big screen TV. By the time that Kate had finished the dishes, all three were sound asleep, thanks to the turkey and wine.

TO BE CONTINUED …