|The Story||The Authors|
|Poor sad pathetic Shrapnel Mike. To have come to such an end after such a miserable existence. Vashondra shook her head and lowered the newspaper. "I swear, Bitzy! What is this world coming to?" She set aside the front page section and picked up the comics.|
|Vashondra laughed histerically for a few minutes and then abruptly stoped for a moment. Mike, pondering the cause of this histeria stared at Vash. Not seeing any movement Mike started poking at her with a fork. Seeing now, what seemed to be a nervous twitch he was concerned. Getting more and more frantic ever second he runs out of the room yelling and screaming like a newborn. Coming back in an hour with a doctor from the not so nearby hospital, they examined Vash intricatly. Mike, about to saying something was rudely interupted by the doctor,"Point of Clarification!".Mike was baffled as to the origin of this remark.Mike asked,|
At this, the shrapnel made Mike's legs stop running, while it tried to figure out just what it wasn't doing right, for Mike's neural impulses to be firing so randomly, causing him to suffer bouts of nonsense and glossolalia, and to see people who weren't there. He leaned the body up against a tree, where it panted and listened uncomprehendingly to its own hammering heart. A stray cocker spaniel, drawn to the tree by the rainbow of scents emanating from Mike, lifted its leg and urinated down the leg of his chinos. The body did not even twitch. Inside, somewhere, floating in the warm shallow coastal waters off the Isles of Langerhans, Mike felt nothing, eyes closed, inner sun on his face, and dreamt of a ghostly Puget Sound which vomited geysers of clams up into the sky.|
Downstairs from all this, however, the shrapnel was growing irked. He could eavesdrop on Mike's dreams but he didn't know how to stop them. And the more he looked around him, at the night, through Mike's eyes, the more he understood that those dreams were beginning to infect the world. He kicked a pesky swarm of land-clams clustering on the sidewalk in front of him. He watched the fearsome nocturnal tree-clams clambering up the elms and listened to the sound of their teeth munching on succulent elm-leaves and bark. He saw the cars passing on the street and their frames were cut from the shells of giant clams. Even his skin felt clammy.
|He quickly walked in the nearest building. In it were threee gentlemen waiting. They told him to come quickly. He followed them into a white cold room. In that room there were four tables and one red chair.|
|Three gentlemen sat in the red chair. They were all cut from the same cloth and of that indeterminate age between 75 and ninety with little intricately patterned and elaborate Van Dykes drawn on their collective chins with what appeared to be magic marker. It made them seem a bit more dignified Mike thought as, still a bit winded, leaned cautiously on the table that stood closest to the door. His legs were rubbery from all the unasccustomed exercise and a distant rumble from deep within his belly reminded him that he hadn't eaten since early that morning. Perhaps one of these gentlemen might get him a nosh, he thought. They certainly resembled waiters after a fashion in their white jackets and dark slacks. The white socks with the dark shoes gave away the illusion however but Mike decided to give them ten minutes anyway. "Ah Mike at last...said the first gentleman. "we have the opportunity..." said the second. "to meet formally" remarked the third gentleman as the trio broke into a wide and disarming grin. "But, of course,..."the first began. "you are under.." continued #2. " "...standably confused." the third finished. 1st gent : "Allow us..." 2nd gent : "to introduce..." 3rd gent : "ourselves." the three in unison : "We are the brother's Gromelsky!"|
|The Brothers Gromelsky! Shrapnel Mike was astonished. He'd heard of the infamous brothers but never dreamed that he'd one day meet them face to face to face to face. He had first heard of the Gromelskys when he was a fighter pilot during the war. He and his fellow pilots would lay in there bunks at night quietly telling stories and rumors about the notorious threesome. One story had them running arms to the enemy. Another story had them stealing arms from the enemy. Still another story had them providing prostitutes to the generals. Yet another story pegged them as alien beings on a mission to abduct as many Nebraskans as they could. The stories and rumors became so contradictory and outlandish, that Shrapnel Mike had come to the conclusion that the three brothers never existed. Boy was he surprised!|