Signs of the Apocalypse

No one else seems to be noticing the following, so as usual it's left up to me to point out the latest (of course, for at least the next week) signs that we're all doomed—DOOMED!

I know I'm a tad older than those I'm about to criticize, but did you ever think I might be RIGHT? Huh?

When 20-somethings fetishize coffee, pens, Converse, food, cats, etc., are not these signs of the coming APOCALYPSE? I ask you. Forget all that zombie shit, that's nothing more than so-called creative types emulating what's popular. (But Bill, didn't some guy in England PAY you to write two zombie novellas? I mean, c'mon! What are you, a friggin' hypocrite?)

Answer: No. I am not a hypocrite—friggin' or otherwise. I am a person who must eat, whether I like that or not. And I once stood beside Tom Savini (special-effects wizard for DAWN OF THE DEAD, DAY OF THE DEAD, and many others) for like 5 hours at Randall Park Mall in Ohio while he waited for fans to show up (in 1983) to buy his book. I've earned my Z stripes—as has Tom. My friend John just stood there muttering like Butthead: "Huh huh huh, huh huh huh, this is cool..." Savini and his poor wife kept shooting glances at their expensive watches. John said: "Have you ever, like—huh huh huh—seen actual, like, DEAD people?"

Bless him (or damn him), John was ignorant (or just too high) of the fact that Savini was a combat photographer in Vietnam, so had definitely—huh huh huh—seen real dead people. Hence the shocking realism of his effects work.

Frankly, the only zombies that matter are "busy" ruining—I mean running—our country. All else is mere entertainment. Think about that.

Here's what really scares me. Visit any Instagram page maintained by a young person, and witness the eerily similar cats, shoes, food, My Amazing Bedroom, etc., and tell me the APOCALYPSE is not at hand. I double-dog dare you. Triple-dog, even.

And hipsters. DON'T GET ME STARTED. Too late. A true "hipster" (in the Jack Kerouac, Ginsberg sense) would never refer to themselves as "hipsters," nor give a rat's ass about whether they were wearing the correct Converse, etc., taking pictures of their every coffee sip. Kerouac and crew would've wanted to kill you had you the poor reasoning to send them Polaroids of such mundane things. Trust me.

Have you discovered a fossil? Caught a genuine UFO on your cell phone? Perhaps documented some loser hopping over the White House fence? If so, those images belong on Instagram. Not your cat Mr. Stinky Head upside-down on the couch, nor your Taco Bell lunch, or even your BFF pointing at his paint-spattered Converse while sipping Starbucks' latest Instagramaccino double-espresso mint twirler.

Just don't. I'm too tired.

Those zombie stories aren't gonna write themselves.

Whoa. What's that I'm hearing out there?

HEY! You damned kids—GET OUTTA MY YARD!

JOHNNY FLASH now in trade paperback! No, really!

Johnny Flash

JOHNNY FLASH: Free Novella Excerpt! It's Fun!

JOHNNY FLASH

WILLIAM J. GRABOWSKI

Oblivion Press

2014

JOHNNY FLASH

Copyright © 2014 by William J. Grabowski

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-0-9749628-8-7

"God's away, God's away, God's away on business..."

                                                                                           —Tom Waits

Chapter 1

Johnny Flash stood slicing tofu for Korean barbecue when Palmer burst into the kitchen. “Johnny—oh Christ! Man—where's Moody, huh? Where?”

   Johnny dropped his vanadium Global, glared at the other. “Fuckin-A, man—almost amputated my fuckin hand. Calm the fuck down.”

   Gray Palmer hugged himself as if freezing, despite the kitchen's predawn heat. “Sorry, sorry, it's just...I need Moody.”

   Johnny ripped a paper towel from the roll above the sink, dried his hands. God. Was Palmer crying? “Okay, I'll get him. He's in the back on inventory, so—”

   “Good, good, that's good.”

   Palmer looked as if he'd just dodged al Qaeda.

   “Yeah, Gray. Relax, willya? What's up? Wait—I probably don't wanna know. I got tofu to marinate.”

   Johnny trotted past the other and his wide, shifty eyes. Jeez! Rehab—table for one....

   Passing the restrooms Johnny could see Just Moody's lanky silhouette beside the walk-in cooler. He held a Spanish onion inches from his nose. “Johnny, you think these reds are better than Pittsburgh's? Hey. What's wrong?”

   “Hell if I know. Your favorite ufological author is haunting my kitchen and shitting nail-guns. Needs to see you like last year, apparently.” He flicked a tofu shred from his shirt, became abruptly aware of two aromas: bacon, and musky rot...old mushrooms?

   Goddamn Billy would hear about that when he clocked in at seven!

   “Great,” Moody said, “like I have time. Take this”—Johnny plucked the onion from empty space—“and check out the others. All of it, actually. Don't forget to marinate the tofu.”

   “You got it.”

   Moody shambled down the dim hall toward his best friend.

***

When Moody saw his twitchy pal Gray, complicated feelings tweaked his 67-year-old nerves. He'd seen Gray angry, depressed, drunk, stoned, stressed over poor sales, but never like this.

   “The hell, buddy,” Moody said, stepping toward the coffee-maker, “Johnny says you're sort of—”

   “He's right! Can we talk in your office?”

   “Good question—hahaha. Sure, sure we can. How bout a cup?”

   Palmer twitched. "Coffee? God, no. Last thing I need. This is bad...we have to consider this, please.”

   “No problem. Let's head on back.”

   Moody snatched a Monster from the employee fridge, and led Palmer down the hall toward Johnny's thumping, cursing review of the week's produce delivery.

   Moody's joke of an office (until recently a "prep kitchen" he couldn't afford), 14 feet left of the humming walk-in and “lounge,” bled out odors of a neglected bacon sandwich and decades of cooking.

   “Take a load off,” he said, waving at a folding chair leaning against the desk.

   Palmer did this. “Thanks. Whew...” Found sudden interest in his wet shoes.

   Moody eyed the aging sandwich warily, eased back in his leather chair, creaky as his spine. “Sooo...what time did you start drinking—or, more likely, smoking?”

   Palmer sat abruptly straight, clenched jaw pulsing. “Hey, pal, I'm as sober as the Pope.”

   “I doubt it.”

   “That I'm sober?”

   “No, that the Pope is.”

   They both laughed. Two guys sharing a joke.

   Moody popped his energy-drink, took an extended, deliberate taste. Clunked down the can beside his breakfast. “Okay, out with it. Why are you like this? I'm milking my own damned clock here."

   The other hugely sighed, gazed at the abstract Tabasco poster behind Moody. “Yeah...see, you're gonna have to suspend the old disbelief, okay?”

   “You know it. Don't forget, I've read your books—even the good ones.”

   Palmer nodded. “Ha-fucking-ha. Thank you, sir. Well, I was threatened not one hour ago by someone who either is one of the Men in Black, or someone trying—and succeeding—to mimic one.”

   Moody's mouth dropped open—he couldn't help it. “Jesus Christ. What're you talking about? Use short sentences.” His poker-face and its hard angles hid unspeakable dread. No one, not even Palmer, must see this.

   Palmer tried a brave smile, which made him look even more desperate. “Knew I could count on you to be objective.”

   Moody huffed. “And observant. What happened to your neck? And why aren't you wearing a coat? It's November in southwest Pennsylvania. Don't tell me you walked here.”

   “Ran. Talk about long sentences. Moody, look, I...I had to get out of the house. No gun, no nothing. That freak threatened me, man!”

   Moody took another fizzy sip, wished for a shnoot of Billy McKee's absinthe. Too bad he wasn't here yet. “Okay. Now I'm really worried. Tell me about this guy. Everything.”

***

Gray Palmer had been at it since two in the afternoon: answering emails sparked by the recent publication of his latest book, Cold War UFOs Over America. In truth, he feared publishing the slick trade paperback ($12.95, Gray Sky Press, 277 pages). For this, unlike his 11 previous, chronicled the “ultra-covert” machinations behind the great UFO flap that besieged Seven Pines and Westmoreland County from 1967 to 1968, events still seething with controversy, ruin, and even death. Gray had been 12; a real wise-ass, nosy as hell, and crazy-smart. Pretty much like he was now.

   A few ticks short of four-thirty ayem, he stood, backed away from his work-station and stretched—vertebrae popped. Man, he needed to brew another pot of Tanzanian peaberry. This was no beer night—too bad. His brain felt as if strapped to a rocket-sled. Ah hell, maybe a few later to take the edge off.

   Stepping across the study (actually, a long book-walled living-room) toward the kitchen, Palmer heard something odd. “You gotta be kidding me.”

   Halting, he listened.

   Someone knocked on the front door.

   “No...” He turned, squinted and—with a rush of fear—could see a blurred shadow at the door's glass inset. Who could it be? At this hour, no one Palmer wanted here.

   Get a grip, he told himself. Center.

   He swallowed hard, clenched his teeth, and stepped toward the door. Goddamned coffee!

   Whoever stood on the porch knocked once more—aggressively.

   “All right,” Palmer managed, “all right for crap-sake, I'm on my way. Christ...”

   Best to get it over with.

   He gazed at the floor; would not look at the door's inset. He feared to see something there, glaring in at him.

   Palmer gripped the knob, turned it and opened the door.

   A grinning man in a dark suit stood there, green eyes cunning and cold. “Greetings Gray Palmer, we have much to talk about.”

   Palmer cried out, immediately regretting it. But something—everything—was wrong here. “No we don't,” he muttered as if through a ball of phlegm. “Who are you and what the hell do you want?” He stepped backward into the living-room, stomach roiling.

   The stupidly weak porch-light tinted the stranger's dark hair blue. “I am crazy-big fan of Cold War UFO book you write, yes.”

   He grinned and grinned.

   Palmer's heart hammered his ribs. “Sure—sure you are, pal. It's four in the morning...”

   “Thank you Gray Palmer, yes.”

   Palmer had to say something, anything, distracting enough to get the door shut and bolted. "What is that?" he said. “The accent. You Russian, or just trying to sound like one? Don't get too many around here. Mostly Polacks, and in fact—"

   The other rushed in, clutched Palmer's throat with a hand like iced iron. “Yes, I am here for facts.”

   Hot breath foul with cigarettes fogged Palmer's face. He was going to die. Freezing air gushed through the room.

   All at once Palmer was released—fell gasping into a bookshelf, sending reference tomes crashing to the floor.

   Paralyzed with fright, he said, “What the fuck? Huh? What the fuck? What was that for?”

   The other grinned. “Oh, just because.”

   Palmer somehow got to his feet. Moody...goddammit Moody set this up. Unbelievable. What a superb gag!

   Now Palmer grinned. “Okay, comrade. You've earned your twenty or however-many bucks Moody paid you. He did pay you, right? Or is this pro bono work for some acting class in Pittsburgh?”

   The other smirked. “Who is Moody, yes?”

   “Uhhh, yeah. Friend of mine. Say, how bout a cup of the ol cafferoony?”

   Something smashed into Palmer's chest—knocked him into his computer chair. After a few numb seconds, he realized the stranger had shoved him there, and now stood glaring down. “Tell me Gray Palmer, where is document?”

   Countless visions flashed through Palmer's mind. Shit. He means it. “Document? I don't understand, you—”

   The grin returned, and the maniac aimed a black handgun at Palmer's groin. “Oh, I understand, just not enough. It's all on the Google. Someone leaked, yes. All about UFOs here in sixties. Rumors of spies, industrial and science secrets of pussy-head Americans like you, blame on us.”

   Palmer felt a desperate urge to urinate. “You, you saw this on the Net?”

   The gun held still, as if clamped in a laser-sighted vise. “Of course. With link to your book. Nice. The one-stop-shopping, yes. In ten seconds you will die.”

   Palmer's mouth dropped open and he shifted his gaze over the other's shoulder. “Johnny! What're you doing here?”

   The gun whipped toward the door, long enough for Palmer to fast-ball his steel pyramid paperweight at the uninvited visitor's close-cropped skull.

STEPHEN KING REJECTED (but not really) BY THADDEUS Q. MIRE!

Here's a rejection-letter gag I wrote for Writer's Digest magazine's "Reject A Hit" column. Share with friends, family, potential employers, or that serial killery-looking guy on your sidewalk sniffing his fingers. It's fun!

FAIRHAVEN PRESS

27 October 1974

Dear Mr. King:

Thank you, I suppose, for letting us look at your manuscript, ‘Salem’s Lot. If anything, it put me off red meat and heavy tomato-based sauces. I dropped the 10 pounds I’d gained after retrieving my appetite in the wake of your previous submission. I wonder whether you’ve ever considered the health-book market. Your work, combined with Primal Scream therapy, may very well prove beneficial. 
   Additionally, does the world really need another supernatural-horror novel? Aren’t Rosemary’s Baby and The Exorcist enough? Too, I can’t see anyone finding interest in vampires. Look what they did to Bram Stoker’s career. Your manuscript, if published, would not do much for Maine tourism—I’ll wager that never snuck up and tapped your shoulder.

   Vampires concealing themselves under trailer homes? Vampire housewives? Blood-sucking children? Must everyone in your book be a victim? I ask you, Mr. King, what’s next? A haunted house? Why stop there? Indeed, a man of your ambition ought to build us a haunted hotel. In fact, I might favor that one. I will say that I found your MS frightening and original. Unfortunately, the original material wasn’t frightening and the frightening material wasn’t original. God, I’m feeling bitter. Must be some sort of iron deficiency.

   In closing, forgive me, sir, but vampires shmampires—I’m off to lunch.

Sincerely,

Thaddeus Q. Mire

Fairhaven Press

Humpty Dumpty Falls to Death in Theme Park

The badly fragmented body of beloved nursery rhyme hero Humpty Dumpty was found in Turner, Oregon’s Enchanted Forest theme park, reported KOIN6 News. Unnamed witnesses claim two men—still at large—attempted to scale Humpty's famed wall and ended up bringing it and Dumpty down. Portland forensics would not comment.

Nursery Rhyme legend Dumpty, well known for his lavish dinner parties and a recently launched big-and-tall clothing line for men, had his share of enemies (coldly chronicled in Dazed magazine). Was this a homicide? Ironic fate? Worse, Enchanted Forest insiders hinted in wooden tones that Dumpty’s drinking had escalated in the wake of the disturbing Snow White scandal. Could Dumpty have conceivably jumped?

Humpty Dumpty's 84-year-old creator, Roger Tofte, had a philosophical take on the loss of his beloved sculpture: "It's going to take quite a few hours just to start from scratch again and try to duplicate what I had...so I hope I have some creative juices left."

Literary Classics Made Easy 101

In the spirit of Twitter's draining all meaning from our collective humanity, and saving us all from the demands on our time, I give you Literary Classics Made Easy 101. Brief blurbs of books in 140 characters—or fewer!

The Great Gatsby, by F. Scott Fitzgerald: Over-privileged man confronts death, knocks back a few drinks, and sees a green light from a pier.

Youngblood Hawke, by Herman Wouk: Fledgling writer learns that one must write to be considered a writer.

A Tale of Two Cities, by Charles Dickens: Never—but never—think you're better than the French. Ever.

Madame Bovary, by Gustave Flaubert: Doctors' wives are better off pinching Vicodin than looking for meaning in provincial life.

The Red Badge of Courage, by Stephen Crane: If drafted into war, never piss off Ambrose Bierce.

The Old Man and the Sea, by Ernest Hemingway:  Don't let the primordial, vicious marlin of life defeat you. I mean it.

Walden: or, Life in the Woods, by Henry David Thoreau: Pre-Starbucks screed on the hazards of living 2 miles from other people.

The Brothers Karamazov, by Fyodor Dostoyevsky: Anyone who spent two years looking for God simply hasn't heard the comedic stylings of Yakov Smirnoff. Word.

Journey to the End of the Night, by Louis Ferdinand-Celine: The Kurt Cobain of serious literature. Didn't kill himself. Nor should you. Seriously pissed.

Naked Lunch, by William S. Burroughs: The hard-ass American Celine. Lovecraftian creatures symbolize the horrors of addiction. Good way to avoid showing up for Finals.

Lolita, by Vladimir Nabokov: Aging narcissist ogles young girl. Exhausts expense account. Guys, just say no.

As I Lay Dying, by William Faulkner: Avoid descending into Hades before reading this. Prefigures mistreatment of power-plant workers.

A Room of One's Own, by Virginia Woolf: An essay, sure. Women, never lock your libraries, no matter how many times Norman Mailer comes at you with a knife.

Zombie, by Joyce Carol Oates: Like having Jeffrey Dahmer finger your underwear drawer. Really.

The Orange Eats Creeps, by Grace Krilanovich: Not on any college curriculum, but should be. Joyce Carol Oates hallucinating after sipping Ajax. A compliment.

You may well ask why I last-listed women. Good question, because it shows—even in me, who should know better—the overbearing influence of male literature. What about Djuna Barnes? Jane Bowles? Anne Rice, and J.K. Rowling? I'm not sure, because I do admire them. You ought to confront your English professor about this teaching of male American and European authors—seriously. A simple fact since my Kent State days in the 1970s. I hope this sorry state has changed.

Why I Cry Every Day...

1. When opening a jar of hot pepper rings involves vise-grips, hot water, and using my rubber mouse pad for superhuman grip, what am I going to do when I'm 70?

2. Is there any 6-year-old on Earth who can't ace Metallica's "Master of Puppets" on Guitar Hero?

3. Because your disturbing big-headed cat, Mister Fluffy Frog, has 712 friends on his Facebook page.

4. The foul-mouthed city workers who empty my garbage cans apparently think people who live 10 blocks away need my lids.

5. The ass-goblin who walks his dog at 5 AM and lets it shit on the street in front of my house results in me being summoned to small-claims court because a cigaretty old lady I've never met noticed my ball-cap is blue--just like his.

6. Local news team nobody gives a rat's ass about interrupts Person of Interest every 7 minutes with: "Severe weather coming our way? We'll let you know on News at Eleven."

7. When my failure to correctly enter nd8rhj3-jgfn-ngr4n after 54 attempts vaporizes a favorable website comment I spent 30 minutes writing--with research.

8. That guy and his shitting dog are back! Where are my shoes?

9. Too exhausted to toss out the spider in my water glass. Woke up after a nap and drank it.

10. The well-intentioned but ill-educated Walmart associate in Electronics directs me to Grocery where I might find The Milagro Beanfield War.

11. They're out of hot pepper rings.