Happenstance and Horror all in one

 

The Knife

He stood at the counter at the back of the store early Saturday morning dressed in army fatigues, work boots with splatters of dried blood, and a cap pulled low over his eyes. It was the posture and stance she recognized from the night before; he had  changed his clothes but she was sure it was him.

It had been quite a party. Izzy didn't think anyone would be up or very mobile at seven o'clock Saturday morning after such a late night. Wonder what he is up to, she thought. She abandoned her purpose of searching for new pruners and headed directly to the back of the store.

"Good morning, Eddie! I am surprised to see you out and about so early this morning. Wasn't that a great party?"

Eduard looked blankly at her. It was a face he didn't know or recall or even want to know. He didn't comment but rather looked straight ahead to the display of knives and blades behind the counter. He hated when people called him 'Eddie'. Eddie was synonymous with Fast Eddie, Fun Eddie, Good Time Eddie. He was no Eddie.

Izzy wasn't one to give up and once again tried to involve Eddie in conversation. "I had such a good time last night. You sure were the life of the party! What is your connection to the group?"

Eduard turned towards Izzy and her annoying banter but his eyes were glazed over as if he didn't see her. Luckily for Eduard, the clerk came along and asked, "who was here first?"

"Eddie was!" Izzy answered with too much familiarity. She wasn't looking for anything in that department but wasn't ready to move on until Eddie paid her a little attention.

"What can I do for you?” the clerk asked Eduard.

Eduard took a few steps away from Izzy and quietly spoke to the clerk in a near whisper, "I’m looking for a new skull knife: sharp, strong and able to cut through the thickest skull."

"Ahh, I see. A handled knife? A blade for a hacksaw might work?"

"No, a knife with a handle and the strongest blade you have," Eduard replied as quietly as he could. "Maybe you could discreetly bag it and leave it at the front counter. I’ll pay on the way out."

Izzy took a few steps closer to Eddie so she could hear the conversation better. The curiosity was killing her. She had just met him the night before and it seemed to be her lucky day to run into him just hours later. 

While the clerk went to grab the keys for the locked cabinet, Izzy turned to Eddie again and tried to engage him in conversation. "So do you live around here? I haven't crossed paths with you before and this is a pretty small town. Do you hang out with the group a lot? Sure was lucky to meet you!"

The endless chatter was getting on Eduard's nerves. He had thought if he went to the hardware store when it opened, he would avoid running into anyone he knew. She wasn't about to give up, he knew that. Call it tenacious, persistent or nosey, she was just like the others and wasn't about to take no for an answer.

Eduard turned to Izzy and asked, "what are you doing tonight? Would you like to see some of my projects?"

"Sure!! What do I have to lose?" She eagerly accepted the invitation.

Some women are just thick between the ears Eduard thought as he scribbled an address on a slip of paper and handed it to her.

 

Humour - The Skeptic and the Cynic

 

The Skeptic and the Cynic walked into a bar.

“It’s dark in here,” said the Cynic. “Probably trying to save a few bucks on lighting.”

“I don’t know about that, Mr. C,” the Skeptic replied. “It was pretty bright outside. Perhaps our eyes will adjust.”

“I doubt it, Mr. S.”

“Of course you do, Mr. C, I wouldn’t expect otherwise.”

“I don’t think we’re going to find what we’re after in here,” said the Cynic.

“Maybe not. It was Gary who suggested the Golden Clam and he is usually wrong about such things.”

“He probably has a part ownership in the place.”

Gus the bartender, the always chipper Gus, called from his place behind the bar. “This way, gents. Welcome to the Golden Clam. What’ll it be? We have the finest beers in the county.”

“Sure you do,” said the Skeptic.

“And at the finest prices, too, I’ll wager,” added Mr. C.

“I think you’ll find our prices are fair,” Gus replied. “People wouldn’t come here if we overcharged.”

“Well, there’s nobody here now, except for us,” said Mr. S., happy to somewhat make his point. “Besides, people will do what they’re told to do.”

“Well, that’s an odd way to look at it, friend. Tell you what. How be you have a glass of beer on the house? Kind of a welcome for first time customers.”

“Your cheapest brand, I suppose,” said Mr. C.

“Not at all, not at all,” Gus replied. “The beer I had in mind comes all the way from France.”

“France isn’t known for its beer. It’s known for its wine,” said Mr. S.

“Well, how about a glass of wine then?” Gus said, cheerfully.

The Skeptic and the Cynic grunted in agreement, reluctantly.

“So,” said Gus as he poured out two glasses of Chablis. “What brings you to this part of town?”

“We’re looking for work,” said Mr. S.

“Really?” Gus said, “what do you do?”

“I’m an electrician and he’s a plumber,” said Mr. S.

“Is that right?” said Gus, delivering the wine. “I could have used you today. Two of the overhead lights went on me. I tried to fix them myself, you know to save a few bucks, but I think I’ve really messed it up.”

“Told you so,” said Mr. C.

“When you’re right, you’re right, Mr. C,” said Mr. S, raising his glass. “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” said Mr. C.

“Everybody thinks they can do my work,” said Mr. S. “and everybody messes it up. Then they call me.”

“Well,” Gus said, “I guess I could use you now. What do you say?”

“I suppose I could take a look,” said Mr. S. “Do you have a step ladder?”

“Coming right up,” said Gus and left for the back room.

“Better get some cash up front,” said Mr. C. “He’ll probably try to rip you off.”

“You could be right, Mr. C.” said Mr. S. “But I think I’ll take a look at it first anyway. You could be wrong.”

“I doubt it.”

Gus returned with the ladder and put it up under one of the blown out lights. Mr. S got up on the ladder and removed the face plate of the lamp. Just as he was about to reach inside, a loud truck horn blasted on the street.  Startled, Mr. S began to lose his balance and grabbed for the lamp housing to brace himself. There was a bright, blue flash and Mr. S fell to the ground.

Gus ran over and put his head to the chest of the stricken Mr. S. “Oh my god!” he cried out. “He’s dead!”

“Well, look at it this way,” said Mr. C., staring up at the lamp that had for some reason come back on. “Now you won’t have to pay him.”

Mr. C looked down at his dead friend. “Told you so,” he said.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A touch of horror, happenstance and humour

 

GRANNY HAD A SECRET

     Granny didn’t believe in mere coincidence or dumb luck. She had an unwavering conviction that God had an unbreakable plan, and everything that happened — good or bad — was simply part of that divine design. She never questioned her steadfast faith, she simply said with her slow southern drawl, “God ain’t gonna give me nuttin’ I can’t handle.”

     My memories of her, naturally, are those of an old woman. She stood just five feet tall in her clunky orthopaedic shoes, and not to be unkind, I have to say she was about as wide as she was tall. Alongside her fierce, unshakable religious devotion, she possessed a shocking physical strength that could silence a barroom and humble any man who dared underestimate her.

     Her life had been steeped in sorrow. Her first husband was tragically shot by a careless hunter who mistook him for a bear in the dark dense forest behind their house. Her second husband drowned in a nearby lake when their fragile boat capsized  while out for a Sunday picnic. Though Granny struggled, she reached the shore. His body was cruelly lost to the depths and never recovered. Her third husband—my mother’s father—had mysteriously vanished without a trace shortly after my mother’s birth, leaving behind unanswered questions and an insurance policy that wouldn’t be paid out. Fortunately, Granny was taken care of by the policies of the first two husbands. Money was never an issue, and that, she believed, was all in God’s plan.

     Granny accepted each heartrending loss with unbreakable, rock-solid faith. Friends and family admired her indestructible stoicism, her remarkable ability to carry on despite the relentless tragedies. No one questioned the eerie pattern of death and disappearance that seemed to follow her.

     When age and time finally caught up with her, she moved in with my mother and me. Her home, where she had spent her entire life, had to be cleared out. And that is how I found myself, one hot July afternoon, tucked away in her dim, dusty attic, sifting through ancient, musty boxes, completely unaware that what I was about to discover would forever rewrite everything I thought I knew about her.

     One weathered box contained a treasure trove of brittle newspaper clippings and yellowed letters, dog-eared diaries and faded photographs. The letters were carefully wrapped in old, threadbare, blue gingham fabric and tied with a frayed yellow ribbon. The newspaper clippings and photographs were filed inside manila envelopes neatly labelled with the year they were created. Each of the diaries was bound shut with a rough piece of twine, as if to keep their secrets tightly locked away from the world.

     I opened the oldest envelope marked #1 1940. It included photos of the first husband and newspaper stories of his horrific death. The bear hunter was never found. The second envelope marked #2 1946, contained articles about the second husband, the desperate search for his body, the good fortune that Granny had survived and photos of the happy couple on their wedding day. In the third envelope marked #3 July 1950—Tennessee, I discovered clippings about an unidentified homeless man found battered and bruised lying dead by the railroad tracks.  In the absence of evidence, local police determined he was a hobo who lost his grip while riding the midnight train.

     The letters, so neatly wrapped in gingham, answered any questions I had. They were all written by the same hand, my own grandfather, who was living in Tennessee.  The first letter demanded a large sum of money, payment to keep quiet about what he knew. Each successive letter became more threatening, but it appeared old Granny never gave in.  His final letters turned desperate. He was living on the street and was willing to accept just a fraction of his original demand. In the last letter he instructed her to meet him near the tracks at Depot Park in Bell Buckle Tennessee. If she brought the money, he promised he would leave her alone. Her secrets would be safe. He was there the night before the homeless man’s body was found.

     I trembled as I opened the diaries. One for each year from 1940 to 1950. The truth, revealed by Granny’s admission, that she was the murderer of each man. And somehow she believed it was all God’s plan.

     With the contents returned to the box I carried it down the attic stairs, unsure exactly what I would do. At the bottom of the stairs, sitting in her rocking chair, Granny was waiting. “Don’t interfere with God’s plan,” she warned as she pointed a rifle directly at me. But her fingers, bent with arthritis, couldn’t pull the trigger. I calmly walked towards her, balancing the box carefully as I reached into my pocket for a cigarette lighter.

     The box began to smoulder and by the time I dropped it in her lap it was flaming. She was screaming as I walked out of the house, confident God's will was done.

Horror - The Murder House

             Everyone called it the murder house, but Julianne was fairly confident there had never been a murder there.  Instead, she insisted that the house got its name because of the murder of crows that tended to accumulate on the house’s gables.  Nevertheless, when the house went on the market there was little interest, other than teenage boys who broke in to draw chalk outlines on the dirty hardwood floors.  Julianne was greatly interested the murder house.  She had driven past it regularly all her life, and the large, looming old mansion had always sparked her imagination.  Now all that stood between her and the mysterious but perfectly harmless murder house was the large sum of money she’d need for a downpayment and the extensive renovations to make it habitable.

            Julianne had some of her own money, but not enough.  Her mother had always promised to help her buy a house one day, but her mother had died before Julianne had finished university.  Julianne’s mother’s money had gone to her husband, so now it was Julianne’s stepfather Lex who she had to negotiate with.  Lex had no children besides his stepdaughter, so was not opposed on principal to providing a large financial gift to Julianne.  Though a large financial gift to be used to buy the murder house was something else entirely.

            “Terrible things will happen if you buy that house!”  Lex had insisted.  Julianne challenged him to find any news reports covering murders at the house, but Lex trusted the collective memory of the town more than what had or hadn’t been printed in the newspaper.  Julianne did everything she could to change his mind and show him she was serious about owning the murder house.  She dragged her realtor, the famed Mandy ‘The Dealer’ Deeley, out for tour after tour of the house, once even at night just to prove how unhaunted it was.  She took pictures of every possibly suspicious nook and cranny.  She got quotes from contractors and drew up plans for a new layout.  Every day she took a detour on her way home from work to look at the house and toss bread to the crows.  If they were the fabled murder in the murder house name, Julianne figured it would be best to be on their good side.

            When Julianne got the dreaded call from Mandy Deeley that there was another party interested in the murder house, she became even more frantic.  She drove immediately to Lex’s house to try to impart the urgency of the situation to him.

“Calm down, Julianne.  There are so many nicer houses on the market, why don’t you look at them?” he beseeched.  He was laying on the couch and looked rather tired, but Julianne didn’t have time to laze around with him.  Instead, she went to the house, where she loitered in front of it, hoping to see whoever it was dared to try to snatch the murder house from her.  By dusk they hadn’t shown up – Julianne hoped they were only a marketing ploy by the murder house’s realtor.

 

The next morning Lex called Julianne.  At first she felt hopeful, but he just asked her to drive him to the walk-in clinic to get something looked at.

“I’m meeting with a broker about the murder house this morning,” Julianne informed him shortly.  Lex’s sigh was more like a wheeze.

“I’m not discussing this now,” he said.

“Fine.  Then I’ll drive you later on.”  Julianne hung up the phone and got in her car.

Julianne spent most of the day on a wild goose chase, trying to find someone who would lend her enough for the house.  Once she thought she’d had a breakthrough with a private lender that was willing to do an interest-only loan, but then they’d asked for the address of the property in question.

“I didn’t think there were many houses on that road,” they’d said, suddenly wary for reasons unrelated to Julianne’s financial situation.  They left the room, and when they came back, they thanked Julianne for her time and hustled her out of the office.  In between appointments, Julianne drove to the house just to look at it, and mentally promise it that one day soon it would be hers.  Lex kept calling her, but Julianne ignored the calls.  He’d made it clear he was an enemy of the murder house.  She was about to give up for the day and go see what Lex wanted when she got a call from Mandy – the other interested party would be viewing the house again that evening.

Julianne sped across town and parked down the street from the murder house.  She slowly made her way towards the house, pretending she was merely out for an evening walk.  Her timing was immaculate – a young couple was leaving the house just as Julianne approached.

“Hi there!  Looking to buy?” Julianne greeted the couple cheerfully.

“Yes, with a bit of love we reckon it could be quite beautiful,” the woman replied.  “Do you live around here?”

“Yeah, just down there,” said Julianne, gesturing vaguely down the dead-end street where she had parked her car.  “You must be brave to take on the murder house,” she added.  The couple exchange an uneasy glance.

“Our realtor said it was because of the crows.  I don’t mind birds,” the woman said, eyeing the birds on the roof that were studying her back in silence.

“Oh, I’m sure they told you that.  But I’ve lived here all my life, and there’s terrible things that have happened because of that house that never made the papers,” Julianne said knowingly.

“Nonsense,” said the man firmly.

“I’d tell you to ask the owner, but I’m sure you know that it’s an estate sale.  All I know is, every time the house changes hands, there’s death,” Julianne finished ominously.  Deciding she’d done all she could, she headed home for the night.

 

The next day Julianne had to work, but she checked her phone at every break, waiting for news from Mandy.  At lunch she had a new voicemail.  She listened with eagerness and trepidation, ending with relief when it was revealed that the couple had chosen not to put in an offer.  Julianne was about to put her phone away when the next voicemail started.  It was Lex from yesterday, his voice weak and his words jumbled.  Julianne felt a stab of guilt at forgetting about him.  She called, but he didn’t answer.  She’d stop by after work.

The murder house was almost on the way to Lex’s, so she made a quick detour.  She threw bread to the crows, who seemed more agitated than usual.  One kept coming right up to Julianne, cawing loudly, then hopping a few feet away, watching her intensely.  After a few rounds of this Julianne got the idea to follow the crow.  The crow gave a squawk and a flap of his wings, then continued hopping.  Julianne followed him to the weeds along the side of the house that she supposed used to be a garden.  The crow rooted around in the foliage for a moment before giving a muffled caw of triumph.  Julianne took a step closer just as the crow flung something shiny at her feet.  Laughing, Julianne stooped to pick it up.  She had heard about crows giving gifts to people they liked, so she supposed all of her bread hadn’t been in vain.

She thanked the crow with more bread before taking a closer look at the present.  It was a gold chain with a heavy gold locket attached.  It looked dirty and old, and it took some effort to open.  Inside was what probably had once been a picture, but now was merely a dirty and faded piece of paper.  Julianne weighed the locket in her hand.  She didn’t know much about gold, but it had to be worth a tidy sum.  She thought back to her own jewelry box at home.  Her mother had adored gold jewelry, and had left quite a few fine pieces to Julianne.  Julianne hadn’t given them much thought since her mother died; she wasn’t one to wear such fancy accessories.  But now, between the necklace in her hand and the gold in her jewelry box, Julianne began to wonder how much it was all worth, and if it would be enough.

 

After an evening of research, Julianne was back at the mortgage broker’s early the next morning.  She presented her revised downpayment number to the broker, who hemmed and hawed some more.

“Get another twenty-five grand off the purchase price and we’ll talk,” he finally concluded.  Julianne scowled, left a message for Mandy, then headed to work.

That evening, Julianne sat tensely in the realtor office while Mandy called the murder house’s realtor.  Julianne listened to Mandy’s side of the conversation while her heart hammered.  She was so close.

“Mmhmm.  Mmhmm.  Ah.  Yes.  Okay.  Goodbye.”  Mandy finally put down the phone.  Julianne looked at her expectantly.

“They’ll go down ten thousand,” she said.  Julianne dropped her head into her hands.

“I’m sorry, but I really don’t think I can get any more.  You don’t think you could get your stepfather to make up the difference?” Mandy asked.  Julianne shook her head.

“I don’t think so, I haven’t even heard from him…” she trailed off as she realized she had never stopped in a Lex’s.  “Well, I’d better go see him anyway,” she said with a dejected sigh.

Julianne pulled into Lex’s driveway.  She could see the flicker of the television through the front curtains.  She knocked on the door, but there was no answer.  She knocked three more times.  Impatient, she tried the door and found it unlocked.  Julianne knew Lex considered it an insult to the trustworthiness of his neighbours to lock his door while he was home.  Julianne called his name as she entered the house, letting the light of the TV guide her into the living room.  Lex was laying on the couch, much as he had the last time she had seen him.  What was it he had wanted Julianne to take him to the walk-in for?  Julianne crossed the room, crouched down beside him, and touched her fingers to his neck.  Whatever it was, it had been fatal.

           

The next morning Julianne called Mandy.

            “I have the money for the murder house.”

            “Excellent!  But really, you don’t have to keep calling it the murder house.  I’m sure it’s not going to be dangerous at all for you,” Mandy reasoned.

            “No, not for me,” Julianne agreed.

 

Horror - Sucker Punch

 

 

Clyde (The Phantom) Gotterman had been a cruiser-weight fighter all his amateur and professional career.  He’d hovered around the 190 pound mark so was a little light for the class, but he was quick as hell. However, he had two problems that held him back from championship bouts. One was that although, for a right-handed boxer, he had a pretty good right hook, his left jab was seriously weak and that whole arm could really only be used to parry blows and land the occasional clip on someone’s chin. If he was lucky.

The second problem was that the cruiser-weight division was packed as hell, and the ladder was steep and tough. His manager, Corky Milhouse, was less than enthusiastic about his client Clyde because he knew that he would probably never get a shot at anything other than being a stepping stone for other better fighters. Clyde didn’t mind Corky much although he disliked Corky’s unpleasant habit of lining up fights between two fighters that he owned. This led to tension in the gym especially in a division packed with so much talent. Still, Corky was the only manager Clyde could get so there you go.

Clyde hadn’t heard from Corky for quite a while and had decided to go down to the office the next day and demand a match, but was beaten to the punch, as it were, when Corky showed up at his apartment door with a bottle of whisky.

“Howdy, Phantom,” a cheerful and ruddy faced Corky said.

“Well, hi, Corky. Slumming? What you doing in this part of town?” Clyde replied.

“Got something I want to talk to you about Clyde. Can I come in?”

“Sure, I guess. I was gonna come and see you tomorrow anyway.”

“That’s grand!” Corky said and pushed past Clyde into the apartment. Corky had never been to Clyde’s apartment and Clyde could tell by the look on his face that he was less than impressed. Clyde went over and swiped some magazines off the easy chair in the corner.

“Have a seat,” he said. “What’s up? You got me a match?”

“Not as such, no,” Corky said, settling down into the frayed armchair. “You got some glasses?”

“I guess so,” said Clyde and went to get a couple of tumblers from the kitchen, “What’s this about Corky? You dumping me?”

“No, no. Nothing of the kind my boy. I have come with a proposition for you. But let’s have a snort first.”

“All right,” said Clyde returning from the kitchen.  He put the two glasses down on the coffee table and sat down on the frayed couch. Corky opened the bottle and splashed two shots into the glasses.

“Slante!” said Corky and quickly downed his shot and poured another. Clyde sipped at his. He was in training. Why he didn’t quite know.

“Okay,” said Clyde, “let’s hear it.”

“Okay,” said Corky, serious now. “Here it is. Do you remember that weirdo scientist from the university that came to the gym that day last fall?”

“The egghead? Sure. You never did say what he wanted.”

“Aw he just rattled on about this new kind of steroid that he’d come up with while he was researching new ways of improving muscle tone in folks with atrophied limbs. But what he came up with, or so he claims, is a sort of super-steroid. It improves muscle mass and tone almost instantaneously.”

“What are you talking about. Nothing can do that,” said Clyde.

“Well, he claims it does. But here’s the catch. It only lasts for about an hour.”

“Then what?”

“Then you go back to the way you were.”

“How’s that?”

“Yeah, for about an hour you’re superhuman, and then you go back to whatever you were like before. Same weight, everything.

“Okay, whatever. What’s this got to do with me?”

“Here, have another shot Clyde,” said Corky pouring them out two more.

“Come on Corky, spill.”

“Okay, here it is. The egghead, Dr. Julian, wants someone to try it out on. He can’t go to his regular group of volunteers because, strictly speaking, it isn’t quite legal. So, I thought of you. Maybe, just maybe, we can set something up so that you take the potion on a night I set up, you win the fight and bingo, your career can re-hatch.”

“Aw, go on,” said Clyde.

“No, seriously. One thing, though. You’d have to put on a few pounds and fight heavyweight.”

“Why do I have to do that?”

“Because there’s just too many palookas in the Cruiserweight. I’d never get you a reasonable bout. You know, to justify the risk.”

“The risk?”

“Well, every new scientific advance comes with certain risks.”

“Like what?”

“Well, there might be… unexpected reactions or something like that. What do you say?”

Clyde thought to himself for a minute as he sipped on his drink. What had he got to lose? He wasn’t going anywhere the way things were and it wouldn’t be hard to bulk up a bit. He downed his drink.

“Okay, Corky. I’ll give it go.”

“Ah, excellent, my lad!” Corky shouted. “That’s the stuff. It’s all the way to the top now. You can count on it.” Corky got up and walked to the door. “I’ll get it all set, and we’ll get you into a class fight. Yes sir, a class fight!” And with that he was gone.

***

About three months later a crowd was gathering at the Junction Hall in Cincinnati to watch the much anticipated match between the up-and-comer Clyde The Phantom Gotterman and Morgan Delaney, third in line for the heavyweight crown.

Clyde was in his dressing room, nervous as hell because he knew that Delaney was a good fast fighter and also because of the possible ‘unexpected reactions’ to the drug. It had been decided that he wouldn’t use it until the night of the fight because they didn’t want to let the cat out of the bag and have someone tip off the authorities. But Dr. Julian had said that it had been tested several times on some apes and there were no specific issues. Still Clyde was worried.

Corky entered the dressing room with the doctor who was carrying a small black bag.

“Well, this is it, my boy. The big night. How do you feel?” said Corky.

“Okay, I guess,” Clyde replied. “You sure this is going to work, doc? I don’t want to get my bell rung tonight. This guy is tough.”

“I assure you, Mr. Gotterman,” said the doctor in his thick German accent. “You have nothing to worry about. Mr. Delaney won’t know what hit him!”

“That’s if I get any punch in at all. He’s very fast.”

“Not as fast as you’re going to be sir. I guarantee that. Are you ready?

“I guess so,” said Clyde

The doctor opened his bag and took out a syringe and a vial of brownish liquid. He punctured the vial with syringe and drew about 20 ml into the glass.

“This is very exciting, isn’t it?" said the doctor.

“Just get it over with, will you?” said Clyde

The doctor smiled and pushed the needle into Clyde’s upper arm. Clyde didn’t feel anything for a couple of seconds but then he got a warm rush over his entire body. He yelped as he looked down at his legs. They were actually growing! The muscle mass was increasing at a ridiculous rate and when he looked at his arms, the same thing was happening. Then it stopped.

“Well,” said Clyde, “that was weird. And yeah, there’s a lot more mass, but not that much.”

“It’s not just mass,” said the doctor. “it’s also the dynamic tension that it has created within that mass. See that punching bag over there? Give it a go.”

Clyde got up and walked over to the bag and gave it a tap. Everything felt as usual.

“Give it good one,” said Corky. “Let’s see what you can do.”

Clyde pushed the bag away from him and when it came back, he gave it a jab. The bag went flying back into the cement wall and split in half, the maize filling running down onto the floor. It hung spilling for a second and then the rope broke and the whole bag ended up on top of the maize on the floor.

“Holy crap,” said Corky.

“Holy crap,” said Clyde.

“I knew it! I knew it would work!” cried the doctor.

***

Twenty minutes later, Clyde sat on his stool in the corner of the ring sizing up Morgan Delaney who was smiling at him evilly. Delaney ran the thumb of his mitt across his throat and Clyde realized that he wouldn’t have much time to get this done.

The announcer finished his introductions, and the bell rang out to the full-throated roar of the enthusiastic crowd. Round one had started.

The two fighters advanced towards each other and circled slowly, each waiting for the other to make the first move and commit themselves.  Clyde’s plan was to let Delaney make the first punch, parry it as best he could and then deliver his patented upper cut. Hopefully he could catch Delaney unawares, get the first hit in and with his new strength get a KO right away. He didn’t know how many of Delaney’s meat grinders he’d be able to take if he didn’t get him quick.

Clyde had guessed right. Delaney wasn’t waiting around. He came charging and took a wild swing at Clyde with his left hand and quickly brought his right hand in and caught Clyde in the stomach. Clyde staggered back and Delaney advanced, that same wicked smile on his face. Delaney took a lazy jab from Clyde’s weak left and almost laughed as he wound up for a killer overhand. But Clyde’s left hand was a blur as he parried the tremendous blow to one side. Okay, thought Clyde, this is it. And with a great shout, unleashed a lightning upper cut to Delaney’s face.

Then it was like slow motion as the crowd gasped and was silent as the light went out from Delaney’s eyes. There was a horrible tearing sound and a gush of blood as Delaney’s head separated from his shoulders and went flying into the crowd.

People were screaming and trying to get away from the spinning head as Delaney’s decapitated body flopped around on to the canvas like a hooked fish. Clyde stood there staring at his glove which was covered in blood. The glove had ripped down the middle, exposing his hand which had been smashed to a pulp from the blow. He screamed as his trainer came over and quickly wound his bloody hand with a towel and helped him to the corner. He vaguely made out Corky’s pale face before he passed out from shock and saw the medical team arrive in the ring and start to cover Delaney’s body.

***

Three weeks later in the hospital, Clyde was still recovering from the smashed hand and the shock, which was only just beginning to fade. He lay there, under the blankets, with the heart monitor beeping and the police officer sitting in the corner as usual, reading a newspaper.

“Well, they caught him,” said the officer.

“Caught who?” muttered Clyde.

“Corky Milhouse. They got that quack Julian, too.”

“Where?”

“Trying to get out of the country by plane. Milhouse was killed in a shoot out. Pulled a gun.  I didn’t see that coming.”

“Unexpected reaction, I guess,” said Clyde, rolling over.