The Penny Dreadfuls

A Dreadful Story - Part V

Well, the karate move had worked just like his sensei said it would. But now, Michael was not exactly sure what to do with this defeated werewolf. He had seen a few bad horror movies during his life, but at the moment, no right solution was immediately coming to mind.

On one hand, it would feel really good to drag this big beast, a.k.a. Lenny, back into the palace before Cory and the gang -- like a dog that brings a dead mole to the front porch to show its owner, "Hey, look what I can do!" But would anyone believe him when he claimed that Lenny was the nasty intruder of the evening? They would probably think Lenny was the real hero and I just somehow knocked out the good guy.

Then again, what was the other option? Leaving lifeless Lenny in the yard would only allow him to get away when he finally comes to. Or worse, Lenny would probably come back inside and say he was the real hero and I knocked him out just before he could take out the intruder. And Cory would swoon. Dammit! His parents would be furious if they heard him use language like that.

Michael decided to go with option one. All 132 pounds of him grabbed Lenny the werewolf by his feet and dragged him back toward the door. Surprisingly, he was able to move him quite easily. The greater obstacle was an awful, putrid odor emitting from Lenny. Michael had noticed it before. He pulled his shirt up over his nose like a gas mask. My CK One smells nice.

When Michael came to the door, he dropped big hairy Lenny and stepped inside to let the others know what he had found. There, just a few steps away, was a spread of shattered glass where Lenny had exited through the window. And just beyond, in the once again well lit room, was a party going on. Did anyone even realize what happened? Did they care that I subjected myself to danger for their safety? Well, okay, it was really for Cory, but still.

Michael turned back for Lenny and instead of seeing the nasty werewolf version, he saw the buck naked (well, except for the torn CCCP t-shirt) hunk of a man version with an awful bruise and scrapes on his right cheek where Lenny met the tree. And from the room behind him, he heard a voice. "Michael, is that you?" And another. "What are you doing out there?" Oh boy.

A Dreadful Story - Part IV

Meanwhile, back in Nashville, Tennessee, an older gentleman with a thick head of silvery hair, in remarkably good shape for his age, sat silently in a dim room. In front of him was an arc of video monitors – at least 50 – with live images of people and places around the globe. From Saddam Hussein, former president of Iraq, sleeping in his prison cell, to the currently dark and empty Oval Office at the White House, to anonymous warlords, to dingy warehouses, and on and on. Much of the footage would have been meaningless to the average observer. But this man was no average observer.

At the moment, his interest was focused on one particular display – one that showed a young man hunched over a lifeless werewolf outside a stone palace in Bhutan. He stared at the screen with a look that expressed both distress and peaceful recognition of a moment that would change the course of the world as we know it.

“Sonny,” the man spoke into the intercom beside his chair, “escort Jill and Frank into my study. I’ll be right there.”

“You got it, King,” came the prompt reply.

Back in the 1960s and 70s, “King” was the world’s foremost agent of justice. Most never knew, though. The United States government did. They quickly realized that he was uniquely equipped to tackle missions that they could not. Whereas the U.S. was weighed down by political responsibilities, King was stealth-like and unimpeded, so they made him an official ally in 1958. Aside from the U.S. government, King’s true identity was only known to his relatively small posse.

King’s entourage consisted of an inner circle known as the Memphis Mafia, and an outer circle consisting of what Joe Public would call superheroes. King called them his Special Forces. What made King’s campaign effective was the fact that he never personally engaged in delivering justice to the evildoers of the world. He monitored the global landscape and relayed action plans to the Mafia, who then set the Forces in action. 

Jill and Frank Feinstein were among the second and final group of Special Forces to serve with King before his disappearance in 1977. They joined him in 1971, only two years after discovering their “superhero” powers. King heard about them and four of their friends and called them into service, just as his first band of Forces was ending its 12-year term. After King’s mysterious disappearance, the Mafia disbanded the Forces and everyone went their separate ways. Jill and Frank made the decision to close the book on that chapter of their lives and set out on a path of normalcy. They were married in 1978 and traveled the world – for the first time in broad daylight – before settling in Miami, Florida, in 1984 and giving birth to their one and only son in 1986. 

Now they found themselves sitting across the desk from King, who still had the charisma and charm that they remembered and loved. As he leaned toward them and rested his right forearm on the heavy mahogany desk, they couldn’t help but notice the large ring on his finger – shiny gold, studded with diamonds in the shape of the letters TCB and a fierce lightning bolt. It was a familiar sight, causing their minds to instantly race back almost 30 years, to when they had stowed their matching rings away in their attic. 

The TCB – “Taking Care of Business” – ring was the only thing that officially branded King’s network. King hadn’t been wearing that ring during the last few days they had been staying with him, so the fact that he now was made his next words come as no surprise.

“Jill, Frank,” King said in his low voice, “I hope you’ve enjoyed your vacation.”

A Dreadful Story- Part III

Ouch.  At least that's what he thought he was supposed to think when jaws are locked onto your neck.  Instead he had a flashback to this past summer, when he'd first met Cory.  When you live in Miami. you've got no choice but to go north for summer vacation. So instead of strolling down South Beach, he'd found himself with his parents going to backwoods cities like Tupelo, Memphis, and (gasp) Nashville.  One night his family decided to go the seventh level of Hades (aka The Grand Ole Opry), with Michael fully expecting to see nothing but gap tooth spoon players and accordions.  As he and his parents were waiting for the show to begin, he saw what seemed to be an angel float down from the sky and descend into the seat next to him.  She was the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen.  He began sweating profusely.  After several minutes, she finally broke the ice, that apparently only she felt.  "Are you OK?" she asked.  "Yeah, its just really hot in here and I'm not used to the heat," he replied.  "Oh, OK.  Where are you from?"  "Uh...Miami."  She broke into a laugh so loud it almost drowned out the twang from onstage. "My name's Cory," she said with a wide grin.  "Oh.  I'm Michael."  And with that, the most memorable week of his life began, as he and Cory were inseparable, before both of their families went their separate ways for the month of August.  But the most amazing thing was that she was going to be transferring to his school in the fall. 

He had been a theater major, but when he found out she was in Philosophy, he immediately signed up for Existentialism, Epistemology, and Platonic Theorems.  The day before classes started, he strode up to her dorm room door to welcome her to campus, flowers in hand.   "Hey, Cory, I'm so excited to see you and your gorgeous self..." he said as he opened the door, when he was stopped short by one of the biggest men he'd ever seen.  The man-child was wearing three days worth of stubble and a 'Communism is Cool' t-shirt.  "Those flowers aren't for my girl Cory, are they?" he growled.  Michael just stood there in a mild state of shock.  "Because no one, and I mean no one, even so much as thinks about my girl Cory without permission," he snarled.  Just then, Cory walked through the door, gave Michael a quick side-hug, and said, "Oh, you've met Lenny!"

Lenin "Lenny" Wolk was the son of ardent Bolsheviks, and a guy whose anti-establishment background was found irresistible by girls with a anti-establishment bent of their own, like Cory.  Ironically, his parents took advantage of the capitalist system and made a killing with their "Smooth Soviet" line of clothing, allowing Lenny to buy his way into any school he wanted.  He chose to follow Cory.

The semester passed slowly and painfully for Michael, who shared almost every class with Cory, but couldn't make a move out of fear of Lenny.  So he did what any methodical girl-obsessed movie-watching college student would do.  He started lifting weights and taking martial arts classes.  Now, there's only so much time you can devote to those pursuits while being a full-time college student, but Michael did what he could, and wasn't too shabby after three months.  He was more confident, more coordinated, and for the most part his bird-chest was gone. 

Finals were in full-swing and winter in full bloom when he got a very unexpected call from Lenny Wolk.  "Hey, Michael, what's up?"  This was the first contact he'd had with Lenny since the first day, other than the occasional glare when passing on campus.  "Cory says you're a pretty cool guy, so I'd like to bury the hatchet.  My family has invited Cory and a bunch of her friends to come to our estate in Bhutan- that's in the Himalayas, you know." Can Lenny actual be this nice?  What's the catch?  "It's an all-expense paid trip, a dozen guys and girls.  You can't say no."  And he didn't, not with the potential of spending time with Cory, event at distance.  And now, here he was, crouching in the grass with werewolf stuck in his neck.  This flash-back took only a second, which is less time than it took for him to employ his latest karate move.  With a quick spin, he lifted up the werewolf and threw him against the tree.  He instinctively put his hand against his neck.  Blood.  He resisted the thought of saying "sweet to lick" like he'd just seen in Karate Kid.  Why couldn't they have had some more recent movies on the private jet over here? he wondered.  He walked over to the now-unconscious form by the tree.  The werewolf had on a torn t-shirt that read 'You Down with CCCP?  Yeah You Know Me'.  It looked like maybe Lenny wasn't so nice after all.

A Dreadful Story - Part II

Michael sighed, his breath steaming out in a long white plume. This is hopeless. he thought. Get back inside before you freeze to death. Make sure nobody's hurt. Don't even know what you're looking for out here.

He turned back to the cabin, his shoes crunching lightly against the snow, then stopped.

Tracks, stupid. he thought. Look for tracks.

He crouched, scanning the garden around him by the dim light of the moon. A patch of muddy slush to his left could have been signs of someone. Maybe. The print didn't look exactly human, though. Too wide, with scratch-like depressions that resembled claw marks. More likely left by a bear, or a large dog of some sort.

He sniffed and rubbed his palms together for warmth. The air was thin at this altitude, and Michael had felt dizzy and nauseous since they'd arrived. He thought--not for the first time--what a stupid idea this trip had been. Why was a Philosophy major from Miami now squatting in the frozen heights of the Himalayas, freezing his Birkenstocks off and searching for tracks like bloody Daniel Boone?

Cory, that's why, he thought. With her long tanned legs and oh-so-modern ideas about destiny and fate.

Well, Michael didn't believe in fate. Didn't believe in destiny or karma or freaking cosmic coincidence.

He also didn't believe in werewolves, which is perhaps why he was so surprised when at that moment, a rather large one came shambling out of the darkness to his left and sank it's yellowed fangs into his throat.

A Dreadful Story - Part I

The blistering wind brushed briskly across Michael's cheeks, painting them a rosy red to match his nose. He was the only one brave enough to venture out into the darkness on this frigid night. Without the light of the full moon, though, it was even darker inside, where the others remained fearfully paralyzed.

Only moments ago, the relaxed room had been rocked by an eardrum-busting pop followed by a complete blackout. Then came an eery silence, quickly broken by bootsteps thundering across the floor of stone. A lone, shrill scream echoed through the chamber and a large shadow shattered a window on the South wall as it made its escape.

Without even thinking, Michael followed, but he only ran about 10 yards into the back garden before he paused, realizing that he had no idea which direction the intruder had gone. He looked in all directions, but it was as if he -- if it was a he -- had vanished into thin air.