Mr. Crow, Volume One

Mr. Crow, Volume 1

By Jonathan Redhorse

____________________

A grandchild and I went to the carnival.

“Let’s ride the merry-go-round,” it insisted, tugging me towards the circling horses.

Everywhere people held balloons. The grandchild wanted a balloon, and I’d gone from man to woman, brat to schmuck, looking for the salesperson distributing this inflated joy.

My inquiries were met with belligerent shouts:

“Get your own damn balloon!”

Insults:

“You senile cur!”

And non-responsiveness:

“…”

The horses were frozen in pose and I became disoriented riding them. I dismounted and tried to observe from the sidelines, only to be distracted by the balloons everyone held. A yellow balloon to my left, held by a child, came up to shoulder-height. The child was staring off into space, evidently distracted by the carousel. I knew this was my chance, so I discreetly plucked the balloon from the air, and attempted to hide it underneath my coat. Unfortunately the balloon was too large, and I realized I’d have to pop it, which I accomplished with a ballpoint pen.

A woman next to me screamed and fainted. The child burst into tears, and violently tugged the string. Everyone looked my way and I bolted, losing myself in the sea of balloons.

In the confusion I managed to acquire the deflated balloon along with the attached string. I stuck this in my pocket, only to realize that I’d lost my grandchild, and that it was probably a goner. Panicky, I fled into the fortune teller’s booth. It was inhabited by a woman dressed as a gypsy.

“Hullo, hullo,” she said, ushering me to sit down.

“I’ve a problem,” I said.

“Yes I know,” she said, “Can I have your name please?”

“Shouldn’t you know that already?”

“Montgomery.”

“Good work.”

The fortune teller and I sat down at her table, which had a crystal ball on it.

“I’ve lost one of the grandchildren and I need to know how to get it back.”

“Even worse,” the fortune teller said, “You’re going to die.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“How? When?”

“Doesn’t matter how. But it will happen on Saturday.”

“Cripes. It’s Wednesday!”

“Is there anything else you want to know?”

“I guess not,” I got up from the table, “Thanks I guess.”

“No problem. Five dollars please.”

My wallet was empty, save for a moth. It fluttered about and beat its wings in the dim light.

“Um,” I said.

“Whatsit?” the fortune teller asked.

“I’ve got no money.”

“Oh dear.”

I realized that predicting death probably took a decent amount of work, so I made a deal with the fortune teller.

“How about this,” I said, “I’ll give you the gift of world renowned credibility after I die. You know… as payment.”

“How’s that?” she asked.

“Easy,” I said, “I’ll bury a treasure somewhere, and you can come to my funeral, and tell my family where it is.”

The fortune teller placed a finger near her mouth, considering my offer.

“Hmm,” she said, “… fair enough.”

I started to write down my address, but she said it was unnecessary, and I nodded.

No one noticed me as I exited the tent, so the hullabaloo regarding the balloon must’ve died down. I made my way through the crowds, searching for my grandchild, but I found no one claiming me as a grandfather. I knew my son would be fumed if I returned empty handed, so I snatched a kid waiting by the restrooms and we were off.

The kid didn’t make a peep or protest opting to stare out the window sullenly. This was fortunate since I needed to plan my last few days in peace. Any hostilities in the car would have probably caused me to crash into a tree and although I knew I’d live (it was only Wednesday), the child’s fate seemed iffy.

First and foremost on my mind was getting revenge on Bobby Filtspotter. I began formulating several ways in which I could do this, deciding that I’d attack his business and punch him in the face. Time was of the essence.

My passenger began crying two miles from our destination. I implored that the wails stop, but to no avail. I even offered the deflated balloon, but the child shunned it away with its hands. Unable to tolerate this anymore, I pulled a U-turn to return the bastard to the carnival. Cars screeched and honked their horns. Various gestures were exchanged. The child giggled uproariously and I decided that maybe everything was alright, and so I pulled another U-turn and made more cars screech and honk their horns.

My son, James, and his wife, Marcie, were waiting at the doorway when we arrived.

It began snowing and all of the grandchildren were playing outside in the backyard. My second son, Burt, he came over with his wife, Melanie, and they brought their children and dumped them in the backyard. My third son, Edgar, also came over with his wife, Melissa, and they added some kids into the yard along with a big dog, who frolicked around and knocked the children down. James and Marcie’s other children who had not accompanied me to the carnival were staring at their new sibling, prodding and poking.

"I should’ve known…” Marcie said, holding her head.

“It’s alright. It’s not your fault,” James uttered, staring me down.

My son, Edgar, said:

“Come on now, James, you still have a few original ones left.”

Burt was twiddling his thumbs in a corner and his wife, Melissa, was making dinner with Melanie. I decided my presence wasn’t needed and so I went outside to berate my grandchildren. They were making snowmen, and lines of grass peeked through the white on the ground.

“What do you think you’re doing?” I asked them.

All of the grandchildren were bundled up and more unfamiliar than usual.

“Mmph Mmph Mmph Mmph,” one in a red snowsuit said.

“Why on earth are you doing that?”

“Mmummph” the red snowsuit’s arms wiggled in explanation.

“What’s so fun about snowmen?” I postured myself, preparing my speech, “They’re the most tragic characters of life aside from us.”

All activity stopped as I eloquently described the lives of snowmen (“Snowwomen too,” I added upon muffled objections from a few listeners). The children abandoned their creations and took in all I had to say. Even the dog, who’d previously been tackling the children, stood solemnly at attention.

“Snowmen consume, consume, consume,” I said, “They eat up their surroundings and absorb it into their countenance with reckless abandon.”

There was a muffled sneeze and a subdued Bless You.

“And for what ends do they do this consuming?” I gazed into each of their little foreign eyes, “To melt. They are burned alive. After marring the landscape by consuming the surrounding snow, they go about littering the area with rotting corpses.”

One of the grandchildren began bawling. I did not stop. They had to know the truth.

“All the hard work you’ve put into them has disintegrated into mush. Your time is wasted and all you’ve left to show for it is a green lawn. What a slew of ungrateful twerps.”

The children were incensed. They regarded their creations with anger, taking in the tattered snowscape. There were shouts. A multitude of young bodies suddenly attacked the hordes of motionless snowpeople. Decapitations occurred. Twigs used for appendages were torn off and tossed aside. Their torsos were knocked away with kicks and punches.

As the battle wound down, I surveyed the damage. I came across a greensuited lad who stared wistfully into the sky.

It had stopped snowing.

“Don’t worry,” I said, “There’s still some snow left in the world.

I removed my cap and briskly shook my hand against my hair. Dandruff flakes swirled upon the child, slowly burying it in bits of dead flesh.

“Hey… you!”

“Me?”

“Yes you.”

“What?”

“I need your help.”

Montgomery Crow was 68. He had never filled water balloons with bleach before and the proper method for accomplishing this proved difficult; he beckoned a neighborhood boy to help him with this task.

“What do you need help with?” the boy asked. He was 13.

“Do you have any experience with water balloons?” Montgomery replied.

“Plenty. What do you need?”

“I need you to assist me in tying these. My arthritis is really painful and I’m afraid that I’m going to get bleach all over my clothes.”

The boy considered the scenario.

“Well I might get bleach on my clothes too. What will I tell my mom?”

“What would convince you, boy?”

“Sammy.”

“Sammy?”

“My name’s Sammy.”

“Oh.”

The boy, apparently very comfortable with negotiations, said:

“I would like money to buy a pack of gum and one of the balloons as payment.”

Montgomery heartily agreed to the arrangement, and that is how he got his box of 36 bleach balloons, each numbered with a black marker.

(I)The next day, Montgomery promptly awoke at 5:00 AM.

(II) Methodically:

(1) He tumbled out of bed.

(2) He dressed in his:

(A) Black suit with:

(a) Green tie and

(b) White dress shirt.

(B) Black socks.

(a) He tied in double knots.

(b) Spit shined.

(3) He manipulated his white hair into a careful combover.

(4) Strapped on a black strapped analog watch which read six-eleven-eh-em.

(5) He placed the following in his pockets:

(A) A black fountain pen (shirt pocket)

(B) A leather wallet (right trousers pocket), containing:

(a) State ID.

(b) SSN card.

(d) YMCA ID.

(e) $5,000 dollars in cash.

(f) Assorted credit cards.

(D) A keychain (left trousers pocket) with:

(a) House key.

(b) Car key.

(d) Luggage lock key.

(e) Garage key.

(f) Room in the basement key.

(g) Undetermined use key.

(6) Neatly and precisely placed:

(A) A black fedora on the top of his head.

(B) Smallish black aviator sunglasses on his nose.

(III) Montgomery dove out the door into his black Cadillac which contained:

(1) A box of 36 water balloons containing sodium/calcium hypochlorite (bleach).

(2) Four seats.

(3) Four doors.

(4) A/C.

(5) CD/Radio.

(6) A working SRS.

(7) A Reliable ABS

(8) A flashlight for signaling SOS

(9) Five full gasoline containers.

(10) One steering wheel.

(11) One spare wheel.

(12) Five seatbelts.

(13) An automatic transmission.

(14) A sledge hammer.

(15) A briefcase with $150,000.

(16) A shovel.

(17) Smoking paraphernalia:

(A) A car ashtray.

(B) A car cigarette lighter.

(18) Assorted crumbs.

IV. The sunlight:

(1) Shined.

(2) Shimmered.

V. Montgomery:

(1) Drove.

(2) Grinned.

Montgomery’s first stop was at the house of his longtime friend, Maxwell Penny Eldridge.

The Cadillac slowly approached the sidewalk parallel to the front door of the house and stopped. Maxwell stood waiting on the porch.

Maxwell Penny Eldridge was 69 and dressed in gray trousers along with a disorienting plaid green shirt from which a minor gut emerged. He shuffled down the walkway and entered the front passenger door of the Cadillac.

“Good morning,” Montgomery said.

“Good morning,” Maxwell said, buckling his seatbelt.

“Are you all rested up?”

“You betcha.”

Louis Armstrong played on the radio.

“Is this Louis Armstrong?” Maxwell asked.

“Yes.”

“On the radio?”

“No. On the CD."

Louis Armstrong played on the CD.

“Are you sure?” Maxwell examined the music console, “It says radio. There’s even a radio frequency here…”

“Oh. Well I guess it’s the radio then.”

Louis Armstrong played on the radio.

Maxwell asked:

“What about lunch?”

The labels affixed to the sneeze guards of the buffets read:

Macaroni & Cheese

Fried Chicken

White Fish

Bread Dressing

Fruit Gelatin

Jo-Jo Potatoes

Mixed Lettuce

Strawberry Mousse Cake

Etc.

Monty and Maxwell sat at a booth, nibbling their piles of food with the assistance of dentures and forks. They faced opposite each other and stared at their plates while talking and eating. A crowd milled about the macaroni and cheese platter over by the buffet islands with a few shoves here and there. An old man with a hunchback, about yea-high (4’ 7”), had his largesque hearing aid knocked from his ear amongst the pasta brouhaha.

“Wha? Wha!?” he said.

Monty and Maxwell nearly simultaneously wiped their mouths with their paper napkins. An old woman hobbled past them with a cane and a wooden leg that creaked with every move. Her husband puttered alongside her, his glass eye acting lazy.

Maxwell Eldridge, lettuce hanging off the side of his cheek, asked:

“So how are the grandchildren?”

“I still can’t recognize any of them.”

“Yes, I know what you mean,” Maxwell said with a chortle followed by a bilious cough, “One of them gave me this shirt. They’re spending the night so I had to wear it out today.”

“It’s difficult for me to eat around it… I keep getting fits of nausea.”

“Same here. So how are your kids then?”

“They’re doing alright I guess. James is upset with me.”

“Why’s that?”

“I lost one of his kids at the carnival.”

“Oh, well I guess that’s reason enough.”

“I got him a replacement though.”

“Well that’s thoughtful of you. How’re your other children then? Did you ever hear from uh…”

“Patricia?”

“Yes, Patricia. How is she?”

“I haven’t heard from her for some 30 years. She ran off the moment she graduated high school.”

“Oh. Too bad.”

“Yeah, well it could’ve been worse. She could’ve got knocked up and made me tend to more grandchildren. I thought we were past the age of large families.”

A graying woman with a hairnet and crinkly plastic gloves prepared and served banana splits next to the frozen yogurt machine. Some children kept returning to her counter, trying to attain more sprinkles for their desserts.

“Shoo, shoo!” she said, “I’m not giving you anymore. You’ve been back three times. Where’s your parents? Shoo!”

Maxwell swallowed a spoonful of green gelatin.

“Why’d she run off?”

“We argued a lot. She accused me of being tyrannical and heartless. After her mother died she lost whatever support she had and left.”

The dining pair chewed in silence. Maxwell considered the day’s mission and had a pressing question on his mind.

“Have you ever tried anything like this? I mean, against Bobby. I know you’re not all that fond of him, but isn’t this a bit extreme?”

A few decades back:

“Um. Hello.”

“Hi! How are you doing?”

"I’m doing okay …”

“You must be Monty.”

“Yes I am.”

“I once had an uncle named Monty. We used to call him Mount Uncle.”

“Um.”

“Sorry, just trying to break the ice.”

“I wasn’t aware that was necessary in your profession.”

“Oh, it most certainly is.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely. I need to maintain my business contacts after all, and a cold demeanor would chase away a lot of customers. I’m trying to liven things up a bit. You know, set myself apart.”

“Intriguing approach.”

“Yes, and I find that it builds a nice trust between customer and salesman. I mean, I need to assure clients that if their targets offer to double my money, I won’t turn around and kill them off instead. Ya know?”

“…”

“Cause what it’s all about is love of the job. Most of the people I’m told to go after are scumbags. I’m fairly laid back. People should be nice and decent to each other, and if they’re not then a quick bullet in the base of the noggin ought to do the trick I think.”

“Yes, it certainly sounds like you enjoy your job.”

“There’s no doubt about it. So what can I do for you today Mr. Crow?”

“Well there’s this fellow that I’d like to have… taken out, so to speak.”

“Nixed?”

“Yes, nixed I suppose.”

“I prefer nixed.”

“Ok, fair enough.”

“So who is he then?”

“Bobby Filtspotter.”

“Wow. That’s aiming a bit high isn’t it?”

“Well…”

“I mean, people will notice when he’s gone…”

“So wait, you’re not backing out then, are you?”

“Absolutely not. He must’ve done something bad for you wanting to nix him off.”

“Sure.”

“Indeed.”

“So um… when would you…?”

“How about right now?”

“Really?”

“Sure. Why not?”

“It just seems so sudden…”

“Don’t worry, I’ve found it’s better to get things out of the way before the client has time to think about it too much.”

“I’ve had a lot of time to think about it.”

“Even better.”

“Is it okay if I tag along?”

“Why’s that?”

“I’d really like to see the whole thing.”

“It’s a bit dangerous. I wouldn’t recommend it at all.”

“Then I may just have to kill him myself.”

“Okay, let’s not get rash here. Ask yourself. ‘How many people have I killed?’ None I bet. It’s a real science. There’s veins to know, and grips to learn. So, how about this. Call him up on the telephone and I’ll take him down within earshot.”

“It’s not the same…”

“Sure it is. Trust me. It’s worked for lots of people I’ve worked for.”

“Oh.”

“Very detailed. You hear the bangpop of the gun, and a loud thump. You’ll enjoy it. I insist.”

“Ok fine.”

“Then it’s settled! I’ll call you up after I’m finished with the final billing charges.”

“Sounds good.”

"Do you have his phone number?”

“Yes.”

“Good, good. Alright. Well bye. I’ll talk to you in a little while.”

“Ok. Bye.”

“…”

“…………………………………………………………………………….”

Beep Bop Beep Boop Bop Beep Beep

“Hello?”

“Uh. Hi.”

“Hello…”

“Is this Bobby?”

“Yes…”

“It’s Montgomery.”

“Oh, hello Monty. What a surprise.”

“How’ve you been?”

“Oh… um… things are going well. And you?

“Oh, I’m fine. I hear you and Elizabeth are getting married.”

“Yes, as a matter of fact we are. How did you hear?”

“Oh you know… you’re such a famous person and all. News travels fast.”

“Yeah, it’s a bit intimidating. My privacy seems to have melted away with my increase in fortune.”

“Yeah I bet. So when are you two thinking about getting married?”

“We’re thinking either July or…”

Ding-Dong.

“…”

“Oh you’ll have to excuse me for a second. There’s someone at the door. It will only be a minute.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll be right back.”

“…”

“Hello?” (in the distance)

Bang(!).

“…”

“Hello? Are you still there Monty?”

“… Bobby?”

“Yes it’s me. I’m back.”

“Um. Oh good.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, I… who was that at the door?”

“I dunno. I told my butler to tend to the matter.”

“Uh…”

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing. It’s just…”

“Just what?”

“It’s just that I remembered I have to make another phone call. Could I call you back?”

“Sure thing. I’ll be right here.”

“It’ll only be a moment.”

“Ok, sure.”

Click.

Bop Bop Beep Boop Beep Beep Beep

“Hello?”

“He’s not dead!”

“What?”

“He’s still alive. I talked to him on the telephone.”

“Who?”

“Filtspotter.”

“Listen here, Mr. Crow. I’m a trained professional, and I think I know when I kill someone. Remember? It’s a science. I’m a scientist.”

“You killed his butler.”

“… what’s that?”

“The man who answered the door…”

“In the tuxedo…”

“That was his butler.”

“… crimeny. I guess I’ll have to go back.”

“Yes. Please do…”

“That one… jeez, I’m sorry. That one’s on the house.”

“Thanks.”

“Ok, well I’ll go do it in a jiffy.”

“Alright.”

Click.

Beep Bop Beep Boop Bop Beep Beep

“Hello?”

“Bobby?”

“Oh hi! You’re back then.”

“Yeah, sorry. It was an urgent call.”

“That’s no problem at all.”

“So uh… you’re thinking July possibly?”

“Yes, something like that… although who knows… maybe we’ll just elope.”

Ding-Dong.

“Is that your doorbell again?”

“Yes, it is. The butler will get it.”

Ding-Dong.

“Um. Uh. So…”

“So what have you been doing with yourself? Frankly I’m surprised you called… after our little spat.”

Ding-Dong.

“Bobby, after thinking about it, I decided there wasn’t really anything to be mad about. I figured our friendship was more important than holding some useless grudge.”

Ding-Dong.

“Goddamn that Godfrey. He’s probably off pilfering the brandy again. Excuse me for a second Monty.”

“No problem.”

“…”

“Hello.” (in the distance)

Bang(!).

“…”

“Hello, are you still there?”

“I…”

“I’m back.”

“So you are.”

“Nobody knows where Godfrey is, so the maid went and got it.”

Etc.

“The cook saw to it…”

Etc.

“I had to call the gardener…”

Etc.

____________________

And thus ends the first part of Jonathan Redhorse’s “Mr. Crow.” The second part will appear in the next issue of Defenestration, due out February 20^th. It only gets crazier after this….

____________________

Jonathan Redhorse is a student at the University of Denver. The other day he made the most fantastic quip about fish EVER, on the fly, to an unappreciative audience of one. The audience, who saw absolutely no genius whatsoever in the comment, made a quick exit from the scene, as it's doubtful that said audience even cared to analyze the clever pun of the statement and was instead more interested in keeping her thoughts on Midwestern Sushi to herself from now on. Had she laughed, Jonathan Redhorse would be a very funny man indeed. Alas.