Date:         Tue, 6 Oct 1998 10:21:51 -0600 From: Robyn Herrington Subject:      [WRITERS] SUB: HALLOWEEN:  Kids Will Be Kids **************************************** Halloween contest: FICTION Word count 3,500 Two stories per person Send to ME rmherrin@ucalgary.ca, ascii or plain text Critiques to ME rmherrin@ucalgary.ca Dates: October 1st - 15th for submissions ******************************************* Kids will be kids Her eyes traveled indifferently over the expanse of tattered and bloodied flesh that had been tossed in a tangled heap on the debris littered floor. She wiped her greasy lips with the back of one plump hand and belched loudly, filling the air around her with the unpleasant aroma of cooked pork. Actually, it was a bit more than unpleasant if one allowed oneself to admit that it probably wasn't pork that one was smelling. One thick foot, a subtle crust of grime wreathing the ankle bone, prodded the body's shoulder with a pink tipped toe. It was an oddly delicate gesture. "Off with his head," she grunted and went back to demolishing a plateful of barbecued ribs. The little man that stood subserviently at her side at all times hesitated, cleared his throat and spoke timidly. "Uh, Madame, if I may...uh, remind you?" "Remind me, Turd?" The little man scarcely flinched at the moniker Madame had bestowed upon him shortly after he had come into her service. He could barely remember his given name. Sometimes, late at night, just as he was drifting to sleep, it would come to him and he'd float off with a rare smile on his lips. Predictably, when morning came he'd wrack his brain, but the name would never surface in the light of day. She could call him ShitMeister so long as his cabbage stayed attached to his neck. "You may want to reconsider decapitation in this case, Madame." The big head swung slowly around to face him. Stringy eggplant-tinted hair was plastered to its surface by a full week's worth of grease. Inky black eyes glowered at him from folds of pasty white flesh. Turd, aware that her anger at his audacity would no doubt earn him a sincere beating, quivered uncontrollably. He also knew that if he failed to remind her just exactly who the body was that lay at her feet, and her spontaneous wishes were carried out, he'd find himself right along side the poor bastard, waiting for the ax to fall. So to speak. "Your brother." Turd's voice was just audible over the thumping bass of Guns and Roses. Turd tried to imagine a place where the grass was green and the girls were pretty. Nope. Not possible. Paradise City did not exist. The piggy eyes glanced at the naked body on the floor, then back at Turd. "Hmph...ya don't say?" Turd nodded. He wished his legs would stop quaking. He wished the floor would open up and swallow him. He wished lightning would strike him deader than a doornail. Of course, none of those things happened--they never did, much to his regret--and he forced himself to answer in spite of the lump in his throat that was quite possibly his heart or one of any number of other organs in his pitiful body. "Yes, Madame, I'm afraid--" "Yeah, ya better be afraid, ya little peckerhead." She picked up a half-full liter bottle of Pepsi and finished it off in three large, loud gulps, the plastic bottle collapsing upon itself as she sucked the deep caramel colored liquid down her gullet. There was another resounding belch. "How the hell did you let this happen?" "An oversight on my part, Madame." It was in his best interest to take complete blame for the oversight, although in reality, as always, it was Madame who had made the gaffe. "Begging your pardon, Madame, but if you'd allow me to remove the body so that you could get on with your meal?" Madame shifted delicately on the upholstered chair, lifting one mountainous buttock. A great booming fart echoed through the dining hall. "Shaddup an' lemme think, Turd." Turd took a prudent step back, out of reach of any possible arcing swing of a fleshy arm, and bowed his head again. "As you wish, Madame." Madame grunted again. Eyes closed, she methodically chewed chunk after chunk of pale white meat. Dribbles of spit and barbecue sauce leaked out from between her lips to mingle with the sweat that coursed in rivulets from her forehead. Because she was perpetually cold, a fact that may have been intensified because she preferred not to dress unless she was receiving, the thermostat in Madame's wing of the castle was always set to ninety-five degrees. To say that it made wearing a full dress uniform of wool uncomfortable was an understatement. Turd, head bowed, standard procedure unless Madame was speaking, wondered what Madame would decide. It was fully possible that she would continue with the beheading in spite of his cautionary reminder. In that case, Turd knew that his hours were numbered. Once Madame had time to realize that she'd put her own brother to death, and that Turd knew it and allowed it to transpire, she would act swiftly. He'd be located and brought before her, quite possibly beaten to as much of a pulp as her brother was. (It depended on which of the Catchers actually found him, some of them took a lot more pleasure in their vocation than others.) Then she'd dispense of him just as quickly as she had the body that laid at her feet. Turd studied his feet and listened to the nauseating sounds of Madame as she dined. He had every intention of attempting to change her mind, in the most tactful manner of course, but it was always conceivable that she would not be swayed. Turd tried desperately to remember when Madame's last flux had occurred. With a small measure of relief he realized that her flow had ended last week. A point in his favor. On the other hand, she could quite possibly dismiss the whole incident, a decision Turd fervently hoped for. If that happened -- please God, please God, please God -- the brother would be thrown into the courtyard to fend for himself (or not, he didn't seem to be the healthiest of specimens at the moment) and life would continue per usual. One could always hope. A sudden, sharp rapping on the doors to the dining hall interrupted Turd's thoughts. Madame continued her meal as though she were deaf, but Turd scuttered to the door before whoever was on the other side could knock again. No sense in irritating her further. "Turn that goddam music down!" Belzer stormed into the room and straight to the stereo console. He punched the power button, effectively silencing Axl Rose, and turned to face the table. Madame continued to eat, though her demeanor was somewhat less imperious in her fatherís presence. "What have you done to Gozol?" Madame's eyes flickered to the heap of flesh on the floor then back to her plate. Her fat little hands were clasped, childlike, in her folds of her fleshy thighs. "I was just playin'." Her voice was petulant. "How many times have I told you not to terrorize your brothers and sisters?" Belzer nodded his head at the uniformed guards who stood at attention just outside the doors to the dining chamber. They hurried in and, grasping the body by its broken limbs, shuttled it out of the room. A small dark red pool of blood on the floor remained. "How many?" Belzer repeated. "But Daddy, I was only playing." Madame squirmed and whined in her chair. "Are you mad at me, Daddy?" Belzer sighed and shook his head. "No, Princess, I am disappointed in you." He paused. "Mother, however, is very angry with you. She is not up to another funeral so soon after your sister's." Eyes downcast, Madame nodded. "Tell Mommy I'm sorry. I wasn't going to kill him, Daddy, really. I was only playing." She twisted toward Turd, her eyes flashing. "Tell him, Turd. Tell Daddy I was only playing." She nodded encouragingly. "Tell him, Turd." "It is as she says, sir." Turd bowed toward the king. "Madame was only playing. You know what a little devil she can sometimes be." ================================================================ Robyn Herrington, Editor rmherrin@ucalgary.ca New Currents in Teaching and Learning InfoServe www.ucalgary.ca/~rmherrin University of Calgary Phone: 220-2561 Leadership lifts a person's vision to higher sites, raises a person's performace to higher standards and builds a personality beyond its normal limitations -- Peter Drucker =================================================================