Happy Birthday, Mr. Tesla!

 

Speaking of Garages, he did his part.

The Lure of the Garage

Chapter Two - There's No Place Like Home

   Home was Minnesota, the land of ice and snow.  Or, as the state tourism board optimistically put it, the place "where many are called, but few are frozen.”  And though it was only early November when Max arrived, the snow had already begun to pile up.

   Max had not been home in six years, not since he returned for his father's funeral.  At that sad time, he took a night flight in from Wyoming; his boots still caked with dirt.  The funeral had been uncomfortable for him, not only because he knew he would miss his father and had felt the loss go straight to his heart, but because everyone - before, during, and after - had looked at him with eyes full of expectation.  That's how he saw it.  The only son, the (now) head of the family, the next inventor.  Even his mother seemed to look at him in a new way.  It was as if not only his father had died, but also a part of himself.

   This had confused Max.  He was having enough trouble accepting the fact that his father was dead, without having to assume a new kind of identity that he hadn't prepared himself for.  He had always felt himself capable of understanding only one thing at a time, and in the proper order, even though this was totally untrue.  It was one of the reasons he was in Wyoming.

   After all the talking was through and everyone had left, his mother had said quietly, "Your father was a good man and had a big heart.  He was always proud of you and loved you and he hoped that you, too, would become an inventor."

   Max nodded and sighed and began to look toward the door.

   "There's always a place for you here.  The garage has everything you need." 

   She hesitated. 

   "I'd even make bread pudding for you, from time to time."

   Max smiled, but said nothing.  He looked at his mother with love, both for her and her bread pudding.

   His mother looked away for a moment and, then, straightened up. 

   "Well, you're a big boy now and you'll know what it is you need to do.  The door is always open." 

   She reached into her pocket and removed an envelope.  She touched his arm gently as she handed it to him. 

   "Your father left this letter for you.  See you at dinner."

   He went to his room and removed the single sheet of paper from the plain envelope which bore his name, written in his father's round hand.  Max thought of the cryptic postcards his father used to send him, all written in that crude  handwriting and containing some obscure message.  It had never been - "Having a wonderful time.  Wish you were here."  It had been more likely -

    Or –

   But now his father was gone.  Max took a deep breath.

  The letter read:

                                                                                 Late Monday night

         My Dear Max,

         I am expecting many more fruitful years, but I am thinking of this now and      

so, while the iron is hot... 

        I have had my time and, except for getting involved with the Navy, I think I have been able to use it well.  You are my only son and, though a father likes to wish what he thinks best on the one he cares most about, a wise father knows that his son has a mind of his own.  A life of his own.

        A wise father would say, "If wrestling muddy animals in Wyoming is what makes you happy, then I am glad for you.  Go wrestle them to the best of your ability."

        Unwisely, I say to you that I have observed a gift in you for invention and that for you to do anything else would be an entire waste of your time and talents.  Your grandfather would be amazed at your potential and would immediately claim responsibility.  I, too, am amazed, but am not so presumptuous.

        When you read this I will be dead, but my love will be with you always.  The garage is now yours to do with as you think best.  Do what you want, but a life in which one creates for the benefit of others is not a bad one.  Do not destroy any of my papers.  You may someday find them useful.  Take care of your mother and stay away from sweets.

       Your loving father,                 

                                                                                                                                        

   Max was moved by his father's words.  The house was quiet and, as he sat there, he seemed to be able to feel his father's spirit hovering in the hallway outside his door.  He felt, also, the somewhat heavier spirit of his grandfather making his way downstairs for dinner.  These feelings disturbed him and, absently, he searched in his pocket for a mint.

   At dinner, he made no mention of the letter.  He could tell that his mother was trying her best not to, but all the same, was giving him that look of expectation he dreaded.  As he pushed his beets around on the plate, he told her of his decision to return to Wyoming.  She had smiled thinly and nodded, and then rose to get the dessert from the oven.  He knew what that dessert was, but still he didn't, he couldn't, change his mind.

   That was six years ago and during those six years he had written faithfully and in detail to his mother.  He had tried hard to forget his father's words.  He had eaten a lot of sweets and many things had happened.  He had often thought, with a hint of regret, despite the weather, that his life in Minnesota was firmly in the past.  But now, he realized that something very much like destiny was following him and he changed his mind.  Returning home would either put the demons of invention to rest or encourage them in a way he didn't really want to contemplate.  He was on his way home.  He didn't know what to expect, but at least he knew how to get there.

 

Happy Birthday, Mr. Tesla!

Speaking of garages, he did his part.

The Lure of the Garage

The Lure of the Garage

by

Ted Ringer

Chapter One - The Call of the Wild

   He stood at the end of a long line of inventors.  This line consisted of himself, his father, and his father before him, or as we say in modern usage, his grandfather.  This may not seem like a long line, but it involved over 100 years of trying to make something from nothing and, at the same time, keep food on the table.  His father and grandfather had done just that and had done it with both style and success.  Until he came along, the line had been quite straight but not necessarily narrow.

   His grandfather, Charles Maxwell Colvin, or Charles, the First, as he liked to be called, had been a loud, overweight man with large whiskers.  He had invented, among other things, a kind of tube that vastly improved radio reception.  He always referred to this invention as "The Miracle."  This one invention had made it possible for his family to live in luxury.  It also allowed his grandson, the present inventor, to spend his childhood nights tuning in the important games from Chicago or rock and roll from Oklahoma City or news from Des Moines.  His grandfather, had he lived, would probably have shuddered at the content of these programs, but it had been the device and its mechanics and not its ultimate uses that had sparked his interest.

   The son of Charles, the First, Charles Maxwell Colvin, Jr., had been called C.J.  He hated being referred to as Junior.  He was a more quiet man, perhaps subdued by his father's volume, and had, among his many creations, developed a sonar-based improvement during the war that the Navy snapped up and ordered into the classified mists.  He was not enamored of the military, especially after this experience, and he spent the rest of his life working on items he thought might truly benefit mankind at large.  Items such as comfortable hair curlers or a fountain pen that would write at any angle or, his favorite, a special nail polish for classical guitarists.

   Both forebears had died while working.  His grandfather, from a blow to the head, caused by a low beam of considerable thickness.  He had encountered this as he responded to a bell, an invention of which he was quite proud, that signaled dinner.  They found him on the floor of his workroom amidst half-finished projects.  For once, he didn't look hungry.  The father of our present day inventor had died of an apparent heart attack, possibly occasioned by a discovery no one could understand.  His last words had been "I think I've got it!"  These deaths, in the line of duty, had a profound impact on Charles Maxwell Colvin III, known as, Max.  They scared him.

   Max, the invention of his creative father and patient mother, had, without actually deciding such a course, steered himself away from inventing.  As a student, he was receptive, though unfocused, and possessed enough curiosity to be considered dangerous by his teachers, but, once out of school, he tried hard to place himself beyond the range of what his father had called, "the Lure of the Garage" - that being the place where all this inventing supposedly took place.

   As a result, he had done ranch work in Wyoming.  He had driven large trucks in Colorado.  He had worked as a printer in Wisconsin.  These had been wonderful experiences for him, but ultimately they proved to be disasters.  In Wyoming, in response to what was referred to there as ‘ornery critters’, he created a system of metal fencing that caught on big time.  In Colorado, at a desperate moment, he made a kind of tire chain out of plastic soda pop holders that, with a few modifications, went on to become standard equipment on mountain passes.  And, in Wisconsin, after he found himself threatening a printing press with a hammer, he came to his senses and devised a paper feeder that made the hammer unnecessary.

   No matter what he did or where he went, it seemed he couldn't escape his heritage of inventing.  It asserted itself at moments of crisis.  It whispered to him as he showered in the morning.  It suggested improvements as he crossed at the streetlight.  It shouted at him as he balanced his checkbook. 

 

   He never intended to come up with these things.  He had never worked in the methodical way of inventors to improve things; it never occurred to him.  They simply popped out in response to a need and, as they did, Max feared that he was hearing that call of the garage he had been trying all his life to leave behind.

   It worried him.  He kept moving from place to place, but it did no good.  He was afraid to lie down at night because his dreams were filled with discoveries he would rather forget.  A doorknocker that tap danced.  A non-clogging drain.  Unbreakable shoelaces.  This kind of thing, this obsession with making, had killed his father and had indirectly brought about his grandfather's death and he wanted no part of it.

 

   He tried hypnosis, he sought out non-materialistic religions, he considered the Foreign Legion but, in the end, he found that all driveways led to that innocent-looking hotbed of activity.  The lure of the garage had proven itself too strong for him.  His genes had spoken.  His past had shaken hands with his present.  He was going home.

Fit To love - Part 4

I was in the best shape of my life and I had already had coffee with a beautiful girl. Not bad for three weeks of hard work. And, yet…  I ached with love.

Does that sound desperate? Okay. But I had waited this long and, if it took a little longer, so what? 

I worked hard for the next few days. The sweat flew! I strained with the incredible weight of the world, and of my dreams. 

I began to think I was taking this a little too seriously, if not a bit too dramatically. Was I wrong? No. Just delirious.

My iPod was full of inspirational messages and affirmations. I’m da one! Here I’m is. You can’t always get what you want. But if you… 

I kept my eyeballs peeled for an opportunity. The right time. The right girl. The right song. Do you love me? Now, that I can … 

Watch me now. Uhh! There’s a lot to be said for exercise. No matter what. Right now, my endorphins were swimming with the whales.

It began to seem like I had been at this gym forever. And, yet, it had only been a month. $25! Okay, $26.75. Now, that’s a deal. 

Silent TVs hung from the ceiling. Lots of them. I got the news. I learned how to sauté. I was getting caught up on the 80s! The 90s! 

Politics became just a bunch of guys moving their mouths, saying nothing. It seemed like everyone else was a cop or dissecting a body.

On one screen, to keep us in line, I suppose, were two very hot babes and a hunky guy, exercising near a beach in Mexico. Or, Hawaii. Or…

Love was burning a hole in my pocket. Wait, that doesn’t sound right. But it was overpowering. It was as if…

As if, Little Richard had just appeared on top of the piano. As if, Caesar had just split Gaul into four pieces.  As if, General Sherman had just set fire to the Dairy Queen on the other side of town. As if, 6 were 9. As if, grits were groceries. 

This love was a love with no object. A love with no subject. A burning hunk of love. A groovy kind of love. No present and no past.

There was a love inside of me, desperate to get out. Desperate to get out and have some fun. Desperate, but not in a weird way. 

I’m an optimist. I took stock. Young, handsome, and hopeful. It would take more than this to discourage me. Loyal, brave, clean, kind… 

Cheerful, courteous, friendly, helpful, obedient, reverent, and trustworthy. Does that sound too good to be true? Okay, forget obedient.

You might think that in a context like this, love was happening to everyone, all the time. You’d be wrong. That only happens in fiction. 

For the rest of us, love is usually going down one street, while we’re going up the other. It’s going home, when we just got here. 

Hope abounds, but reality is like dirt. Easy to come by, but hard to wash off. With that in mind, I headed for the showers.

Fit To Love - Part 3

 

This posting is a continuation of a novel, Fit To Love, that I am writing on Twitter.  It’s here, in case you are not a Twitterer.  Many are not.  On Twitter, each entry can be only 140 characters in length, including spaces.  This is a structure that requires a different kind of writing than any other.  Hmmm… 

As our last installment ended, our hero had been working out, developing himself into a man whose muscles called out to the softer parts of a woman and drew her to him like a magnet.  Or, so he thought.   So far, he has struck out at each encounter, but he is hopeful and determined.

The first three entries are in the Twitter format to give you a feel for this unique medium.

Heck, I didn’t want to be like that. I saw myself as debonair, suave, sophisticated, and a prince among men. Oh, who was I kidding? 7:36 AM Aug 15th, 2009 via twhirl

I WAS debonair, suave, sophisticated, and some kind of royalty. And, yet, just a guy. A guy who longed for a girl. I mean, woman. 7:59 AM Aug 16th, 2009 via twhirl

Exercise, for whatever purpose, is a noble thing. No matter your intentions, your heart will always benefit. Mine was pounding. 8:08 AM Aug 17th, 2009 via twhirl

It seemed everywhere I looked, each possibility was working out. At the treadmill. At the rowing machine. With the dumbbells.  

This was encouraging. Grandpa, a dumbbell himself, had always said, keeping everlastingly at it brought success.  He might not have had this in mind.

He would have thought I was crazy – he always did – but so what? This was wisdom in action.

I refined my search for love. I developed a set of principles. I decided I would not stand for failure. Love would conquer all. 

The next few times, at the club, I worked on myself, so to speak. In particular, my abs, which were more keg, than six-pack. 

Sure, I saw there were gorgeous women everywhere. But I was doing everything I could to prevent the kind of rejection I had gotten so far. 

I tried to keep my head down and my mind focused. One, two, three. One, two, three. That’s how elementary, it’s gonna be.

Simplicity was the key. Keep breathing. Don’t stop. Till you get enough. Ok, I wasn’t swearing, but these tunes were making me crazy. 

As I gazed at the mirror, I could see the progress I was making. I could also see a blond, with long legs, on the bike behind me.  

She was pedaling, but getting nowhere. Perhaps the time was right. I felt good. I would go over there and end her loneliness.

I walked nearer and gave a small wave. She looked at me and pedaled faster. Was I scary or something? What could I do? I smiled.

She skidded to a stop, leaned forward, and asked, ‘Was I going too fast?‘ Who was the flirt here? “No, but don’t let it happen again.” 

She tried not to smile. Wow, I was good! “Maybe we could ride together sometime? Or, get a cup of coffee?” Smooth devil. 

Our plan was to meet at Vic’s the next morning, before our workouts. I couldn’t sleep the night before. I had been practicing coffee.

I splashed on, “Eau de Love”, and pulled up my collar. I brushed my teeth and turned my eyebrows on extra cool. I headed out. 

The sun! Morning! I felt like a million bucks. Coffee was now as important to me as it was to normal people. Wow! Let the love begin. 

She was beautiful. She was a treat for sore eyes. No, a feast. Her complexion was creamy. Her hair was like frosting. I was hungry. 

Hungry for love. She smelled like coffee. No, that must have been what we ordered. That, and a couple of muffins.

The first thing she said was, Hi. It was like music. She kept talking and I was floating, like Pepe Le Pew, upon the sound of her voice.

I tried to tell her of my feelings. Of my endless, so far, search for love. She talked on, as if I wasn’t even there. She took a breath. 

I jumped in, but she blinked her eyes and asked for another muffin. I got it. She smiled and began again. I gazed at her, silent and sad.

I guess that, back at the gym, she had been exercising too hard to talk and now had returned to her regular M.O. OMG! Was she 4 real? 

After about 45 minutes, she looked at me, a little startled. Like I was someone she hadn’t yet been introduced to. Well, we did just meet.

 

House MD - Vampire Killer

 

 

“What’s House going to think of this?”

“His process is always going to be a mystery to me.  And, I really don’t care.”

Foreman went back to his reading.  It looked suspiciously like a comic book.

People had been dropping like flies all week, not that that was unusual.  To quote House, “There’re always more where they came from.”   

He was expected back any minute.  Dr. House had been on a forced vacation.  Orders from Cuddy.  No one knew where he was or how to get in touch with him, they only knew he wasn’t at the beach.  It was February and House hated the water.  “It’s wet,” he once famously explained.

“Did someone die in here?  I don’t recognize any signs of life.”  House stood in the door, leaning on his cane.  He had three additional days of beard and a scowl on his face. 

Foreman actually sat up – not a sign of respect, he was just reaching for a soda - and said facetiously, “Welcome back.”  He started to fill House in on the latest run of disease. 

“Just give me the good ones.”

Foreman looked over at Chase and began to relate how there had been four patients with unusual symptoms.  “Heavy loss of blood, puncture marks, and enlarged lymph nodes.”

House didn’t move.  “How enlarged?”

“Out of the ordinary.  Two of them died.”

“From node fat?  You guys are getting careless.”

Foreman took a deep breath, trying to control his temper.  He was already exasperated and House had just gotten back. 

Just then, Cuddy came up behind House, said “My office.” She turned and walked away.  House rolled his eyes and swung around, leaving the two doctors shaking their heads.

House closed the door to her office and said, ”I missed you, Sweetie.”

Cuddy ignored this and slapped a file down onto the desk for House to inspect.   He winked at her and leaned toward the file.  After a second, he sat down hard, in the chair.  He absently rubbed his bad leg.  He reached into his pocket, took out a small plastic pill bottle and emptied it into his mouth.

“Stop that!”

“Cuddy, this is serious.”

“Dead usually is.”

House shrugged.  “Maybe.” 

He turned and went to his office to think.

He closed the door and pulled the curtains.  He stared into the darkness.  He had hoped to never see a case like this.   But the file had said it all.  His mind traveled back to the scene of his accident.  The accident that was the cause of everything – his limp, his addiction, his attitude.  Well, maybe not his attitude, he had always been bent out of shape.

He had always said it was a motorcycle accident that had injured his leg, but there, in the darkness, he relived that moment the way it had really happened.  He was hiking in the Poconos, alone, the way he liked it.  It was getting dark and he was on his way back to his motorcycle (that part was true), when he heard a noise just off the trail.  He stopped and called out.  After a moment, he began walking again, and then two shadows appeared a few yards in front of him. 

One was man, he knew enough anatomy for that identification, and the other was a small dog.  The man was in black and the dog was a small mutt of some kind, also black.  He came closer and saw to his horror that both man and dog had eyes that were red and almost glowing and that they were breathing heavily.  On closer inspection, he saw that their mouths were stained with blood.

For a second, House considered the symptoms, but before he could reach any conclusion, the dog leapt for him and sunk his long incisors into House’s right leg.  Everything sped up then and all of them were screaming.

With a kick, House sent the dog flying and ran past the man toward his bike.  Luckily, it was pointed in the right direction and the engine started immediately.  House raced away, the blood gushing from his leg and covering the motorcycle. 

He rushed to the hospital, was treated, but never told anyone the real story.  He never had.  He tried to forget it and had almost convinced himself that he had actually been in an accident. 

Years passed, but now, faced with medical evidence that only he was crazy enough to recognize, he realized he had to do something to put an end to it.  He knew the truth and knew he couldn’t deny it any longer.  He had to stop this, before it grew into a deadly pandemic.  He was no longer just House MD, he must now become, House – Vampire Killer.

John Wayne - Demon Hunter

 

“I’ll tell you this, but don’t make too much of it.”

He cocked his head my way and, for a moment, squinted imposingly at me.  He turned then and looked away from the campfire, out into the darkness.  I had admired this man my entire life.  He was an icon.  A cowboy.  A soldier.  A hard-bitten, hard drinking, survivor of many battles and betrayals.  He always got his man and he always got even.

We had finished the interview that afternoon and I was going back to New York the next morning. 

 I assumed it was just a story.

“Well, kid, it sounds like one, but … “ He began coughing.  This went on for a while and I thought about the distance to the nearest town. 

He stopped at last and took a slug from the bottle we were passing back and forth.

He nodded his thanks. 

“We were in Europe filming The Longest Day.   It was wet as hell and wasn’t getting any better.  We couldn’t shoot and were just hanging around waiting.  At this point, we had been drunk for a couple of days.  This scrawny little kid came up and started pulling on my sleeve.  His English was terrible, but we got the idea that he needed our help. 

“He took me and Bob Mitchum to a little house.  A shack, really, and a woman, good looking, too, who spoke a little better than he did, told us a wild tale about some guy who lived in their village, a big shot.  Had a big house and all.

“The kid said his dad had gone to see this guy and never returned.  Bob and I rolled our eyes and told him he’d probably be back soon.  The kid and the woman were really worked up and convinced us to go see this guy.  What the hell, we thought.  We weren’t doing anything anyway.  Maybe we could help?

“By the time we got to the big house, it was dark and the weather had gotten worse, if that was possible.  We knocked at this huge door that looked as if it had been there forever.”

He started coughing again and I wondered if he was really sick or doing this for effect.  He took another swig.  He was quiet, immobile, as if he were looking into the past.

“And… “ I prompted.

“Well, we were kept waiting there, while the butler, or whatever he was, went to get the guy.  He finally appeared and looked like Halloween, only scarier.   Cape, black hair, the whole thing.  Bob started laughing and said, ‘Count, we’re very glad to meet you.’  He was a tall guy and bowed toward us and smiled.  His teeth looked huge and sharp.   His gums were blood red.  The boy and his mother hid behind us.

“Well, as I said, I was pretty looped, but this guy scared me plenty and I wanted to get the hell out of there.   I blurted out, ‘What about his dad?’

“The count, or whatever he was, drew himself up and his smile turned nasty.  He raised his arms and was holding the cape out at his sides, like he was going to take off or something.

“Bob, in that smooth manner and deep voice he had, slowly buttered him up and we made our apologies and left.  I felt like a little girl, but we almost ran back to the village.   That’s the way the whole thing started.”

“Jesus!”

“Jesus is right.  Scared the hell out of me.  We talked about it all night and went back the next day, but the whole placed was closed up.  It was as if no one had ever been there. 

“Before we went back to the States, I promised both of them I’d try to find out what had happened.  That was the beginning of something that has been as important to me as my career and has been a part of my life ever since.  I’m not going to tell you anymore than that.  So, don’t even bother asking.”

“Are you kidding?  What a story!”

He looked at me, nailing me with his good eye. 

“Kid, it isn’t a story.  And, if anyone asks me about it, I’ll deny it.”

That’s the way we left it.  I thought about it all the way back to New York.   It was unbelievable and, maybe he was just putting me on, but it’s something I’ve never forgotten.  It’s haunted me ever since.

The Case of the Mysterious Kegger

The Hardy Boys - Teenage Demon Hunters

“Do you think that man looks a little strange?” whispered Joe Hardy, as he peeked from behind the curtain of the upstairs bedroom window.  “He looks disturbed.”

The man in question was walking away from their house and appeared hunched over, with the collar of his coat pulled high, near his face.

His brother suggested they go down and ask Aunt Gertrude, “She just talked with him.”

Joe took off and jumped down the stairs, two at a time.  He was blonde, seventeen, and impatient.  His brother, Frank, was a year older, dark-haired and much more mature, though Joe sometimes wanted to debate this point.  For the moment, they were both clueless. 

“Aunt Gertrude, what did that man want?”  Joe blurted out.

“That was no man, Joe.  That was your friend, Chet Morton, and I don’t mind saying he looked terrible.”

“Chet!?” the brothers asked in unison.

“From upstairs, I couldn’t even tell it was him.  He.  Him.  Whatever.”

“He did look strange.” Frank confirmed.

“Well, I didn’t let him in.  He was scaring me.  He was raving about something.  Something about blood and a lot of other disgusting stuff.”  Gertrude, a dark-haired woman, was the sister of Fenton Hardy, the boy’s father.  She lived with them and kept the house.  No one was sure what had happened to the boy’s mother and Fenton would never talk about it.

“Chet?  That doesn’t sound like him.”  Frank wore an expression of concern on his brow.

“I’m not sure it was.” said Aunt Gertrude.

“Gee, G, what do you mean?” Joe asked.

Gertrude just kept shaking her head and stared out the screen door.

The fellows packed a couple of sandwiches and headed out to Chet’s home, on the other side of town.  Bayport had been a quiet place, until the Hardy family moved in.   Had things just started happening or was it the fact that their father was a private detective and the boys had begun helping him, as amateur sleuths?

Chet’s parents were away for the weekend that had just started.  Chet must have been on the lookout for them and met them at the door.  The inside of the house was dark, with all the curtains pulled tight.  Chet didn’t open the screen door and was kind of hidden in the shadows.

Both Frank and Joe thought this was odd, but Chet had always been a little different.

“Hey, guys, come back after dark and let’s have a kegger.” He shut the door  quickly, without giving either of them a chance to speak.  The boys stared at each other.

Frank said, “What an odd thing for Chet to say.”

“Yeah, and he was acting really weird.  I wonder what’s gotten into him.  Aunt Gertrude was right.  He looks terrible.”

“Don’t tell Dad.  We’ll come back tonight and find out what’s wrong.”

The night was a blustery one.  Leaves were blowing by and Joe pulled his jacket closed.  There was barely a moon out and this put both the boys a bit on edge.  When they got to Chet’s, it looked deserted.  The whole house was dark. 

“This is creepy,” whined Joe.

“I guess he’s not home,” said Frank, with a note of relief in his voice.

Just then, the door opened a crack and they heard a voice like Chet’s say, “Come on in.”

They came closer to the darkened house.   They were going up the steps of the porch toward the open door, when they heard a moaning coming from the lilac bushes on the right.  Frank turned and rustled about, but couldn’t see anything.

Joe called, “Hey, Chet!”

It was silent for a moment and then they both heard a shout.  It sounded like Chet.  They rushed in and the door closed behind them, with a slam.  At the same time, in the darkness, a large shadow rushed at them and tackled Joe.  This wasn’t a practical joke on Chet’s part.  Something was really wrong.

Both boys struggled with the shadow and it seemed it was everywhere and possessed superhuman strength.  It was growling and breathing heavily, with breath that could have stopped a clock and them, except, at the moment, time was the least of their worries. 

They caught flashes of what looked like a monster, not Chet.  Whatever it was, it was stronger than both of them together and Frank made the sensible decision to leave.  He managed to trip the beast, grab Joe, and fled through the door.  They didn’t stop running until they got to Willow River road.

Trying to catch his breath, Joe gasped, “That was awful!  I hate Chet.  I’m never going back there.”

Frank, composed, even after the incident, said, “We have to go back.  Chet’s in trouble.”

“He tried to kill us!”

Frank looked Joe straight in the eyes, “He didn’t want to kill us.  He wanted to convert us.  He wanted to bite our necks. “

“You mean…”

Frank nodded somberly, “Yes, Chet is a vampire.  A demon.  A zombie.”

“Hey, I know you never liked him as much as I did, but …”

Without speaking, Frank continued to confront his brother.

Joe turned away and said, “Oh, no.  Not another one?”

Frank nodded again.  “We better get Aunt Gertrude to give us some garlic.”

 

The Site of the Bite

Ernest Hemingway, Demon Hunter

Ernest Hemingway was a humorless man.  But he was a clever one.  He wrote many stories.  Some were longer than others.  He liked to hunt and he killed what he liked.  This did not help his humor.  He was loved by many women, but could not love them back.  He romanticized many things and was a survivalist.  War was in his nature.  Truth was in his heart.  His beard was on his face.

Once, in Barcelona, he met a man.  They shared a few drinks.  They argued late into the night, which was a sure sign of Hemingway’s friendship.  In a haze of conviviality, the man leaned toward Hemingway, who thought he was about to be kissed.  Shocked, H stood up abruptly and upset the table with their drinks.  He didn’t see the sly smile on the man’s face, who went quickly out the door.

This incident, though treated as a joke by H’s buddies, bothered him more than it should have.  A sense of humor might have helped at this point.  But, as you know, that was like wishing for rain, in a dry country. 

Several days later, Hemingway saw this same man on the other side of a room, where he was attending a party.  Their eyes met and, this time, H saw that smile.  He confronted the man, who only said he wanted to get to know him better.  Hemingway said, “How much better?”  The man answered, “Let me show you a little trick.”

By this time, several partygoers were looking on.  The man moved his hands like a magician and following these, Hemingway was taken by surprise, as the man suddenly, but gently, leaned over and bit his neck.  H reflexively raised his hand to the site of the bite.  When he brought it down, everyone could see the blood.  He started to say something, in an immoderate tone, but the man had vanished.

H looked round, the victim of this urbane, but hideous creature.  H was red and furious.  He tried to make a joke to the people gathered there, but, of course, the joke fell flat.  He said, That Dracula son of a bitch! 

At the time, He didn’t know how close to the truth he was.  Though he gave no sign, he made a vow in that moment, to find and kill the man who had so completely scared and humiliated him.  This was how Hemingway, now haunted by this mysterious and, somehow, erotic encounter, became known not only as a celebrated writer, defined by his own ideas of masculinity, but also a dedicated and persistent Demon Hunter.  His nights would never be the same again.

Indeed, many years later, in Cuba, desperately tired of the campaign he had waged against the Demons for so long, and losing his will, he famously took his own life.  Hunters come and go, but the creatures of the night, eternally on the prowl and dashing, in their own way, continue to disturb and taunt mankind throughout the ages.

Lassie - Vampire Hunter

Timmy and Porky were out in the woods with Lassie in the lead.  She had been acting funny, lately.  They both had noticed it. 

Porky said, “Not funny, ha ha, but funny strange.”  Timmy nodded because he was Porky’s friend.

The last few days Lassie had been insistent about their rambling.  It was as if she were on a mission.  Strange, indeed.  Yesterday, after they broke for lunch, Lassie had frozen, paw up, pointing at something.  Timmy couldn’t figure it out.  She was a Collie. 

Today, the sun was beginning to set, but Lassie insisted they go a bit farther.  They weren’t familiar with this part of the woods and they were a little nervous.  To change the mood, Timmy told Porky the joke about the mechanic and the bus driver.  They cackled with abandon, even though they had both heard it before.  They knew it well and had even told it to each other over the last few days.   As Timmy said, if a joke is good, it’s good. 

This lighter moment didn’t last.  Lassie wasn’t laughing.  She was pointing again.  She was looking intently at the trees and sniffing the air.  It was growing darker and the boys were concerned that nothing seemed to look familiar.

“Timmy?”  Porky pointed at Lassie.  “She’s doing it again.  This is kind of creepy.”

“I know.  I don’t get it.” 

Timmy’s big eyes had a look of concern for his pal. 

Porky said, “We should go home.  I’m hungry.” 

But what he meant was that he was scared.

Timmy called to her.

“Lassie?  What’s going on?  Lassie…”

She gave him a look he couldn’t translate and turned quickly back to the woods.  She gave a low growl and then began to bark loudly.

“What is it girl?  A well?  A mine shaft?  Quicksand?”

Suddenly, they heard a scream.  It was in front of them, further up the trail.  Lassie bolted.

The boys ran toward it, trying to follow Lassie, even as the scream grew in desperation.  The hair on the back of their necks stood on end, like frightened soldiers.  They rounded a curve in the path that skirted a large boulder, and found a scene that would haunt them for the rest of their lives. 

A girl, not much older than they were, was in the rude grasp of a tall man in black.  He was shaking her and looked as if he was trying to kiss her.  With a shock, Timmy and Porky recognized her as Becky, the Olson girl, from the next farm over.  They thought kissing was gross, but obviously Becky was trying to get away from the tall stranger.  

Timmy drew himself up to his full height and yelled, “Let her go or I’ll…  I’ll…”

The stranger, without releasing the girl, turned toward the threesome and snarled at them.  Like an animal.  His eyes were glowing red and he had a scrawny beard.

“Or, what, you bean-sized blonde blob?  I‘ll deal with you two, after I’m done with her.  You look like tasty little morsels.” 

The man laughed and threw his head back, causing his top hat to fall off and into the bushes.  Timmy and Porky turned to each other and, at the same time, cried, “Abe!”

It was impossible, yet there he was.   No one else had ever had a face like that.   They were really scared now.

Lassie bared her teeth and did a little snarling of her own.  The man spat into the dust and, in the twilight, they saw him bend toward the girl.  As he did, his mouth opened unnaturally wide.  He looked like an animal with fangs extended, which dripped some kind of disgusting venom.  

That’s when they gasped with shock.  It wasn’t just Abe, strange as that was, but Abe was a vampire!  It was obvious. 

Porky said, “We just had President’s Day off.” 

They couldn’t move.

Lassie, who didn’t know much about history, but knew a lot of other things, leapt at this cruel and deranged man and sunk her own incisors into his arm. 

He let the girl go, as he fought for his life with the enraged Lassie.  Whorls of dust rose and all Timmy and Porky could see was the rolling bundle of dog and man. Every now and then, a raised paw appeared or a hairy fist or a big black boot.  The boys covered their ears, but it was no use.   They couldn’t block out the unearthly growling coming from this unnatural union.

At last, the dust settled and Lassie emerged victorious.  Not only had she subdued the man, who either was Abe Lincoln or a very talented re-enactor, but she had also tied him up with the tie he had previously worn around his neck. 

Becky was crying and Porky looked at Timmy, rolled his eyes, and mouthed the word, “Girls.”  But, truthfully, he felt like crying, too.  What would they have done without their best friend, who now stood over, well, stood next to, this tall creature of the night?

“Porky, you go on ahead and get Mom and have her call Mr. Olson.  Have her bring the gun and hurry.  I’ll walk with Becky and Lassie will take care of Abe.”

Porky said, “Why don’t you go and I’ll walk with Becky?”

“No, you.”

“No, you!”

Lassie looked back and forth at the boys and was about to bite one of them, herself, if they didn’t stop arguing, when Porky threw his hat to the ground and said, “Dog gone it, Timmy!”

He stopped himself and looked at Lassie. 

“Sorry, girl.  Okay, I’ll go.”

Timmy smiled and then said, “Thank God for Lassie.  What would we have done without you?”

Lassie turned back to Abe, pretending not to hear.  She knew she was just one of a larger brotherhood of Vampire Hunters, a brotherhood that had existed throughout time and throughout the world.  She couldn’t be sure, of course, but she thought she was probably the best-looking one of the whole bunch. 

Timmy interrupted her reverie, by saying, “Girl, it’s getting late.  We better get home for supper.”