|The Story||The Authors|
|She looked at the clock on the dash. It read 11:49. Eleven minutes she had to get all the way across town. Eleven minutes.|
|A ringing sound came from the floor of the passenger seat. She looked down but all she saw was a shoe. She stared hard, searching for the source of the ringing, and finally had to admit that the ringing was in fact coming from the shoe. "Ah, a shoe-phone!" she realized. "I've heard of these in the funny papers!" She turned the heel on its hidden pivot, and there was a vid-screen. "Ah, even better," she exclaimed, suddenly happy for the first time that evening since Biff had gotten her off twice in a row with just the tip of his nose; "a shoe vid-phone!" She clicked the On button and the screen lit up.|
On the tiny shoe-vid-phone screen, Doc Smack stood, smiling sheepishly and wiping away a great black raccoon-circle from around each eye with a towel. He was bare-chested, a great many oriental and occult-looking tattoos in full display, and around his neck lay a half dozen heavy gold and silver chains from which hung pentacles, iron crosses, and stylized runes. As he drew back from the camera to hang the towel over the back of a chair, she noticed the baggy chain-mail surfer shorts he was wearing, and she suddenly experienced what the japanese refer to as satori -- "the kick in the eye" -- instant revelation. MTV earler that afternoon. The awful music. Doc Smack. Doc Smack was Ozzy.|
He looked at her, winked, and began to croon "Mr. Crowley," but as she read his lips she found a markedly different story emerging. "The house next door..." she read. "Abandoned. Go the the attic. Climb out the northwesternmost dormer window in the attic and it's an easy jump to the widow's-watch of the house where Tiki and Demetrius are being held. Tiki's the one they want, and they'll torture Demetrius to get her to talk. They'll torture you, too. Beware. Beware especially of the Iron Sausage."
The screen went blank. Janice sped through the night in the stolen police car. The clock on the dash read 11:56.
|She couldn't believe it! She was getting away! All of a sudden......|
|the sky opened up and poured torrents marbles, cold like hail.|
They bounced off the windshield. They clattered off the roof. "It was a dark and stormy night," thought Janice to herself, glancing once again at the LED numbers of the clock glowing green and ocular from dashboard. 11:55. Fuck, she cursed, knowing she pull over on account of the ever-harder hailstorm, but slamming her foot on the gas instead. Only four blocks to go. Only five minutes. Only her two best friends, one about to be butchered like a pig. Fear roiled in her stomach, souring it even further. Hail pounded on the windshield. Two blocks left. Half a block ahead of her, the light went from green to yellow; throwing caution to the wind, she turned the sirens on and floored the stolen police car through the lights.|
In a parking lot on the left side of Elm Avenue, Officer Karl Borgnine (DWM, 32) was furiously masturbating to a copy of Hungry Toothless Nympho Grannies Bearing New Hoover Vacuum Cleaners With Curious Attachments magazine in his squad car when he heard Janice's sirens come on and saw her fly past, recognizing, even through the hail, the telltale dents along the passenger side of his buddy's cruiser. Instantly he had crammed the dogeared magazine under the seat, started up the car, and was off. "Jake," he said over the crackling radio, "Mad Dog [crackle] here. I'm backin' you [crackle] up, over."
|She couldn't believe it! She was getting away! All of a sudden...... any hopes she had of escape were dashed. Mabel Feppywetter knew she'd reach this point in her life when she'd have to face her worst fear. Had she not fallen on hard times and been able to send her clothes out to be cleaned and had the super of the building not installed the new dryer, then perhaps she could have avoided this wretched moment. But the insistent beeping that signaled that the dryer lint must be removed before another load could be dried was forcing her to face her worst nightmare. Her deepseated fear was instilled in her when she was a child. Her father, a struggling sculptor who couldn't afford to put food on the table let alone buy the clay that his art required had opted to use dryer lint to make his statues. Since buyers were scarce for pieces done in such an unusual medium he decided to promote his work by populating the yard with his grotesqueries. Dozens of the creatures, most of them over seven feet tall inhabited the front and back of their property. Malformed and gray, their deformed shapes only bearing the most rudimentary resemblance to human form. They seemed to her a village of evil. And when she looked down into the garden at night from her bedroom window, the breeze made them appear to be moving, looking up at her, beckoning her to join their discoloured midst and be as one with them. ....Quiggley, the small, rabid monkey who perched upon Mabel's shoulder was of little comfort to her. Even though he had been her close companion and confidante for a number of years he was still anthropoidial in his approach to life. Sensing his mistress's fear he took it upon himself to reach into his diaper, pulling forth the contents and flinging poop at the square white beast that was causing her upset. Cursing the tenant before her who had failed to clean the lint trap after their last load, Mabel, with perspiration dampening her armpits and trepidation in her heart, approached the dryer...|