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Cuppy
January 31st, 2012, 09:00 PM
Language warning. This also contains racial slurs.

Episode One.

“Hello.. Duane…” I heard a voice say as I lay in bed. I turned my head to look for this uninvited guest, slowly I scanned the room, prepared to beg for my life. My eyes fell up a slim, white man, wearing a suit that looked like it was from the 70s. “I’ve been waiting to speak with you now for… awhile…” He said. The words dripped from his mouth like syrup, pooling on his tongue as he thought of the order they came in, then let them drip out in an inconsistent pattern. It was unnerving to say the least…

As he was going on with his monotonous speech, I was commanding my mouth to start making demands. Like why he broke in my house, who he was, and why his suit was so small. I could see the whole butcher shop. As the grogginess cleared, my mouth finally obeyed. “Who the hell are you?”

He looked at me with surprise on his face. Apparently, while I was wrestling with words, he was still talking. Slowly, a smirk crawled along his face, “Call me, Mr. E… The E stands for enigma.”

You’ve got to be kidding. I thought to myself.

“No, I’m not.” He said, seemingly in response to my thought.

“Well, Mr. E. How about you tell me how you got in.” I said, with false courage

“I’ve always… been around… you simply never… noticed…” He said this with an arrogant tone, apparently pleased with himself. “I think I should… Take my leave…” I gave him a dirty look, somehow expressing disappointment in him. “Don’t beat yourself up… It’s only been…” he seemed to pause to do the math in his head. “23 years…”

Then he disappeared. I fell back on my small mountain of flat pillows. I glanced to my left, to the alarm clock. It was 5:30 in the morning. I decided to get up. I had to get to work in two hours anyway. “No chance of sleep anyway.” I said to no one. I continued bitching at myself until I got to work. At the time I worked at a gas station called Marathon. It had the shittiest management in the world, Mr. Schneider. He was a 15 year old who got off from bossing people around. He normally called people fags and told them to get to work, regardless of whether or not you already were. He lived in what he thought was secret fear of his father. A stubborn, calculating, bear of a man who would take his son out back and squish his head if he knew what he was doing. Schneider Jr. was one of those kids who thought he had the biggest dick in the room. And everyone hated him for it

I pulled into the parking lot behind the building. The sun was barely up. I sat in my car for awhile eating a breakfast burrito. It had gutted itself in the microwave so I had to wrap paper towels around it to keep the filling in. I finished it after a few minutes trying to eat it without making a mess, but I ended up with a large brown stain on the leg of my pants. I didn’t care, it was another for the collection.

I finally opened the store. I set everything up, even though no one but anything but cigarettes and newspaper. Then I just sat at the counter. I worked a long day today so I was just bored as hell. I sat there, staring at the floor for about 3 hours. “Just wish there was someone to actually talk to when I’m here.”

“I sometimes wished for…. Company when I watched you too…” I must jumped away from where Mr. E. was now standing, I think that must have been a world record. I quickly tried to recompose myself, trying to make it look like I wasn’t terrified of him

“Why are you following me?” I said, my heart was now trying to punch its way out of my chest.

“You act like we’ve just met… You have seen me before.. When Steve was hit by the train.” He replied so smugly that I was about to kill him. I didn’t remember Steve being killed. I’d apparently wandered home in shock. No one knew what happened. “I’ve always been there to keep you from being killed, Duane. Think of me as a lifeguard.” He said this as if he truly cared for me.

“A lifeguard sent by who?” I asked, curious in earnest now.

“Yo, who the fuck you talkin’ to!” Jr. was here. Apparently he was supposed to be gangta. It was painfully obvious that he grew up by a cornfield. “Did I give you permission to speak, nigga?” I’m not sure why he called me this, neither of us was black, so he would just be giving people another reason to kill him.

“No, Mr. Schneider….” I mumbled. It was humiliating taking orders from this shrimp. He could barely walk because of all the gold chains dangling from his neck.

“So who were you talking to?” He had the courtesy to slow his speech down so I could understand.

“I’m not sure.”

He turned away in disgust then seemed to remember something, “Forgot my daily tax for letting you work here.” He reached into the cash register and grabbed a fistful of money. “Catch you later, my nigga.” He walked out of the store. I knew he would probably spend it on pot. He managed t hide it from his dad pretty well. Or maybe he was in on it. I don’t care.

“There’s an old hammer in the back room. Rearrange that little shit’s face.” Mr. E. had suddenly returned, his voice a vicious growl in my ear. “You can make it look like a drug dealer did it. You know they will eventually…” This was too tempting so I just went back to doing mindless work.

Eventually my personal lifeguard got bored and disappeared. I had to call someone. Anyone. This was too weird. I waited until business was slow (which it always was.), then called Brent. He was in the band I had, along with some other guys from high school. We mostly wrote songs about people attempting to fade us, or the misadventures of a yoga instructor/superhero. We were the best band in the world.

I pulled the phone out and speed dialed Brent. He was probably still asleep. I knew something was wrong when he answered on the first ring. “Hey, Duane! I was about to call you.”

“Really? This early?” I was genuinely surprised that he was even awake.

“Yeah, because my house…. Well weird stuff is happening… there are these guys, these men in black… They want to get in the house, I don’t know why…” He was obviously freaked out about these mysterious men in black, so I didn‘t immediately call bullshit. “And there‘s this shit that‘s written on the walls. I don‘t know what it means, but it scares the fuck out of me to look at it.” He started crying. Something bad was going on. I quickly thought about whether I actually wanted to go. Then I remembered that Schneider would be back, and with greater numbers. I ended up sprinting to my car, trying to remember Brent’s address.

He lived out in the country, by some haunted forest where he would get mushrooms with some of his friends. Brent did a lot of drugs, never addictive ones, he managed to somehow be careful. Mostly pot and mushrooms, but he occasionally bought LSD, but hadn‘t used it in months. He kept saying he quit. He used to take them before every concert but when his playing suffered we had to record him playing to convince him to stop.

My Lifeguard didn’t come back for the entire car trip, surprisingly. I had almost expected him to come along so he could make smug faces at me. After a 20 minute drive I pulled into Brent’s driveway. The entire property was surrounded by forest, and much of that was given to Brent when his parents moved away. He must have had rich parents or something, because the house was practically a mansion. Like a log cabin castle. I got out and walked toward the door and noticed a piece of paper on it. A citation from the cops saying that his garbage blew onto someone’s property and they blamed him. “Men in black, my ass.” I grumbled, Brent must have seen the cops while he was on a bad trip and assumed they were jack booted thugs, here to dissect him under suspicion of being a UFO.

I opened the door and walked in, calling Brent every few steps, didn’t want to surprise him. No answer. I went upstairs, my heart trying to deafen me. “Why are you scared? He’s just a drugged up freak who has shown he can kill you with his bare hands?” Mr. E appeared behind me, I flinched, assuming he was going to kill me. Then a thought occurred to me, why wasn’t he bound by the laws of physics?

“I know what you’re thinking, I don’t have to obey physics if I don’t exist physically.” The mind reading was getting old, but I knew he was onto something. “I can pop in and out of your consciousness the same way you can log on and off a website. I am there one minute. Gone the next.” He was freaking me out now.

“But how is that fucking possible!” I barked at him, more mad than anything.

“Who are you talking to?” A hoarse voice called from the bedroom. Brent couldn’t hear him either. I walked further into the bedroom and found him on the far side of the bed, almost underneath it. The entire room was a mess, clothes strewn around the floor, the full length mirror next to the closet was smashed. And in the closet, the bar for hangars had been taken out and was nowhere to be found. Then I looked at the wall in the closet. There was a small mural, drawn in vivid colors. It seemed to have different panels. The first depicted Greys first arriving on Earth, showing technology to cavemen. The second showed a fanged demon thing eating men whole while the Greys watched from a distance. The third looked like it was drawn in charcoal. It showed humans being hauled off to a spacecraft in chains, men wearing dark suits, apparently taking orders from the Greys, the demon was standing over the whole thing looking cartoonishly evil. It scared the shit out of me.

Cuppy
January 31st, 2012, 09:00 PM
Episode Two

“dude? Who were you talking to?” Brent said as he slid out from under the bed. He looked unnaturally tired. His voice was hoarse and he has a black eye. there must have been a struggle.
“What? No, I was talking to… My uncle… He does magic tricks.” There was no way he would buy this.

“Oh, cool. So, can I stay at your place?” It made me nervous how casual he was about this. Someone had just broken in his house, drew some crazy crap on the wall, beat him up then disappeared and he was fine with it. I didn’t understand Brent.

“Who drew the picture in the closet?” I honestly didn’t care about whatever he could ask me. I was still staring at the picture, I knew I was staring at it for way too long, but I didn’t have the willpower to look away. What could it mean? Who drew it? Brent? The men in black? Jewish bankers? Yog-Sothoth? I forced myself to look away. The picture was creeping me out and I had stuff to take care of. “What?”

“I need to stay at your house, man. I can’t stay here. There’s like, something in the water.” He trailed off with a list of possible causes. I stopped listening, knowing he had to stay at my house. He had nowhere to go and we’d known each other since high school, staying at my house wasn’t a big deal.

The annoying ring tone I had for my phone started blaring, breaking my self imposed silence. I picked it up without looking at the number. A nervous, hoarse voice was coming from the other line. He was talking way too close to the phone. “Your friend, Brent, he’s telling the truth.”

“What? Who is this?” I said, suddenly alert

“While I was watching his house, several men broke in. There was a struggle, but they managed to drug him. They made it look like he got high and did it himself. The guys who did this are the bad guys.”

“How do you know this? Who are you?”

“I’m a friend, call me Mark. I have to make sure that you don’t get yourself killed.”

“What does it matter to you? Is this the CIA or some shit? Why do you need me?”

“You will get more information when you need it, so relax. All you need to know is that I can see you. Now get in your car and go home. Don’t look back. the house will be back to normal next time your friend goes home.” He hung up before I could ask anything else.

Brent was still really groggy so I had to help him up and to get him to lean on me on the way out. I drove straight home, not bothering to return to work. I knew I might as well have been fired. Brent fell asleep and he was a heavier sleeper than a corpse, so I dragged him inside, sweating and swearing on the way. I dragged him to the couch and dropped him so his legs were hanging off. I sat down for a few minutes. Then got up to make myself a sandwich. I used about a pound of peanut butter so I poured a beer to wash it down. In the living room on the couch, Brent was still asleep but beginning to stir. I decided to let him sleep. He’d need it if we were going to play a show tomorrow. (The band was, as of then, unnamed. So I‘ll try out some new names until I get a good one… How about “Gorilla Guerillas?”) I played bass, Brent was guitar. Then there was Barry, lead vocals. And Poncho, a foreign exchange student from Spain. He was sort of a roadie, but he played some kick ass maracas. Being the drummer for “Wood Plop” was dangerous. They always seemed to go insane or die from freak accidents. Or be ritualistically slaughtered.

Terry, Barry’s brother was the first drummer we had. He was killed by a drug dealer. The cops stormed the place for unrelated reasons and they found the guy’s body have dissolved in a tub of hydrofluoric acid.

Matthew Broderick III was some guy who played a gig with us the week after Terry’s death. He was found the next morning dead. He slit his wrists for unknown reasons, no suicide note or anything.

Now our last drummer, Herman was supposedly at his house. 6 miles away.

The police told us that 3 men broke in and killed Herman. Then used his body for some sort of ritual. And just last week they pinned it on a couple of Goth kids. I don’t wanna talk about it.

When it came to drumming, Professor Thug and the Bug crew was finished.

Brent woke up about twenty minutes later. He was still pretty groggy, but he wasn’t babbling like a madman. “So what did you think of that picture in the closet?” He seemed to be bragging about it.

“I don’t know. Honestly, I think you did it.”

“How the hell would I have burned that shit into the wall? The only thing I have that can burn is a Zippo.”

“Okay, so maybe it wasn’t you…” It was embarrassing to admit that Brent was right.

Oh wait, those are well known for their wide range of artistic use, sorry I drew that shit!”

“I get it!” I barked at him. Now my mind was racing through the possibilities. “Maybe you had a bad trip and did that stuff yourself.” You know he didn’t…

“I haven’t had any acid or shrooms in a week.” He said, holding the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.

“Is it possible you had like, a delayed reaction or something?”

“Delayed reaction?” He was annoyed at the fact that I thought he did it. He got up and walked to the fridge. “I’m starving, you got anything to eat?” Without waiting for an answer he opened the fridge and reached for some old noodles. Then opened the Tupperware and ate them with his hands.

“You want me to heat that up for you?”

“Naw, I like them this way.” He said through a mouth full of spaghetti. “So anyway, I think it was the men in black. I’ve seen these guys around town before, and they’re real X-Files material.” He seemed to be chewing his meal as he talked. There was a sudden casualty to the way he talked about G-men breaking into his house and ransacking the place.

“I got a weird call today… From a guy calling himself ‘Mark’.”

“and?” Brent replied as he dropped another fist full of spaghetti into his mouth.

“Well, he said you were right about the men in black…” I said with some shame.

“Wait, how do you know this guy?”

“I don’t.” Now Brent was getting weirded out.

“Then how did he know you?”

“I don’t know.”

“And how would he know what happened”

“He said he was watching the house, and these guys broke in, drugged you, messed up the house, and drew that picture in the closet.” I decided it would be best to leave out the part where he said he would fix everything in the house. After all, this would all be over and forgotten by next week. And every year or so me and Brent would mention the time where his house was haunted and we would all laugh and down another round of beer. This didn’t happen.
“RING!” My cell phone.

“Hello?”

“It’s Barry, is Brent with you?” I instantly recognized the Chris Rock voice.

“Yeah. I had to pick him up from his house. Weird stuff’s going on.” I told him the whole story. Once again with the exception of Mark saying he would clean the place up.

“That’s crazy, but I can’t get a hold of Poncho.” He was obviously disinterested.

“I think Poncho went home.” I really didn’t know where Poncho was. He was just a big fat guy who lifted amps. He would walk up on stage and play maracas sometimes, but we would never ask him to. He just assumed we needed a maraca player.

“Poncho? No, he got citizenship, man.” Brent chimed in. I think he actually hung out with Poncho for awhile. They were pretty good friends, too. “He’s living out in Philadelphia, he’s coming back next Summer.” He continued telling us things about Poncho, not seeming to care whether or not we were listening.

“So where’s the gig?” I asked Barry.

“Canceled.” He seemed to be suddenly serious. “Herman’s dead.” None of us were too torn up about it. Sheldon was a dick to say the least. He was a convicted criminal, and had more than a few sympathies with neo-Nazi groups across the country. The guy played at fucking Nordic fest!. If it wasn’t the Goth kids who did it, it would be someone else. What was strange to me about the crime (besides the Satanic nature) was the fact that it was supposed to be a bunch of Goth kids who did it. Sheldon was a mountain of a man. About 6’3”, he weighed about 270 pounds. He once demonstrated his strength by picking up the front of Barry’s truck.
Anyway, I doubt that 3 kids who could fit themselves into skinny jeans would be able to overpower this man, then keep him down long enough to do whatever they wanted.
I was tired from considering the implications of 3 muscular men who wore modified skinny jeans.

“Duane?” Barry’s voice came back into my world. “Duane? You still there?” I told him I was. “You want to go to my place tomorrow? My uncle’s staying at my house this week and he can set you up with a job.”
“How’d you know I was fired?”

“Jr.’s been doing a lot of talking. He came to the club and he started talking about how he fired you, and you started crying and begging him for the job back.”

“Yeah? Did he tell you the part where I offered to sex him up if he let me stay?” I didn’t care what Jr. had to say. I thought the whole thing was hilarious. His dad would probably offer me the job back, knowing I would work nearly any hours.

“That was the big climax!”

“Damn it! I was hoping he wouldn't say that part.”

“You wanna go there now?”

“Sure. Where else am I going to go? Later, man.” I hung up. Brent was still talking about how great Poncho was. “We’re going to the club, you wanna come?” He nodded. We went out into the crisp night air. We managed to talk about everything not involving conspiracies on the way.

Eliot_Twist
February 15th, 2012, 03:31 AM
This is quite interesting, I like your pacing and the sentences flow nicely.

The only issue I had was with Mr. E's dialogue. I understand you were trying to convey arrogance through many pauses, but the excessive use of '...' was quite tiring. I think a simple period would do, and the occasional action between sentences to convey his arrogance.

Here's a bit of what I mean:

Mr. E took a few steps around the room, pursing his lips as he took in the surroundings. “I’ve always been around" Mr. E paused to inspect a stain on a table. "you simply never noticed”. He lightly scratched at the stain and grimaced at the bit of material that came off and clung to his perfectly manicured fingernail. “I think I should take my leave” he said rather suddenly as if remembering urgent business. I gave him a dirty look, somehow expressing disappointment in him. “Don’t beat yourself up" he said with a sneer. "It’s only been…” he seemed to pause to do the math in his head. “23 years”.

There were also the odd bit of punctuation here and there, but otherwise you structured your sentences well.

Cuppy
February 15th, 2012, 05:41 AM
I know what you mean about Mr. E. I decided to give him less pauses. The I never quite know what to do with some punctuation marks so it will probably seem weird here and there.

Thanks for the feedback.

Unseen
March 2nd, 2012, 01:55 AM
I like the story. I honestly was upset when i had to stop reading.
Mr. E is a great character in my opinion. Although I do wish you had a better description for him. When you say '70s suit, I think a brightly colored checker pattern with stripes lol. Although leaving a short description does keep him more mysterious as a character and allow the reader to imagine what he looks like on their own. Either way you do it, I'll enjoy reading it.

But I enjoy the story very much. The mysteriousness of it interests me. Please continue writing.

Cuppy
March 2nd, 2012, 04:55 AM
I like the story. I honestly was upset when i had to stop reading.
Mr. E is a great character in my opinion. Although I do wish you had a better description for him. When you say '70s suit, I think a brightly colored checker pattern with stripes lol. Although leaving a short description does keep him more mysterious as a character and allow the reader to imagine what he looks like on their own. Either way you do it, I'll enjoy reading it.

But I enjoy the story very much. The mysteriousness of it interests me. Please continue writing.

Glad you like it. Unfortunately, I seem to be out of ideas. So if I can't think of any, I'll probably just forget about and put it down.

EDIT: Never mind, I ended up posting two more installments on my blog. http://talesthatareweird.blogspot.com/

tolleburg
March 22nd, 2012, 03:33 PM
Nice dialogue.....Great story..

Keep writing.