Constance put on a plain white dress, immaculate and starched, set wire-frame spectacles on her face and put a wide-brimmed hat decked out with flowers on her head before marching out to do her Christian duty. In the center of town was an establishment named the Leaky Spittoon, a haven of sin, both of the flesh and of liquor. Constance had been trying to shut it down since she arrived in Virginia City a few months ago without success.

“I have to try,” she whispered to herself, gathering up an armful of pamphlets published by the Society, tucking a pink parasol under her arm and heading for the door. “Jesus would never give up!”

The sun was low in the sky and the shadows were long, causing many of the more disreputable types in Virginia City to take to the streets, but nothing on God’s Green Earth could frighten Constance Trolpers, or so she thought.

Sure enough, the barkeep in the Leaky Spittoon was waiting for her. The brawny man had an angry look in his eye. He stroked his walrus moustache with one hand and stuck an official restraining order in Constance’s face. It was signed by the mayor of Virginia City himself.

“Don’t you come in here no more!” he growled in his gravelly voice. “Times is tough without no goddamn temperance strumpet coming in here, chasing away my customers with her all caterwauling and carrying on!”

“Sir! I demand entry! I demand it!” Constance cried, jabbing at him with parasol.

“The mayor wants you out! And so do I! And so does everybody else!” the barkeep yelled, waving the restraining order at her. “You’re ruining business for the whole town!”

Constance stared at the yellowing scrap of paper. It prohibited her from entering the Leaky Spittoon. But it didn’t say anything about setting up near the entrance and regaling passing citizens with tales of the evil that dripped out of the Leaky Spittoon’s bottles.

“Very well. I will preach the truth outside of your sinful saloon!” Constance said defiantly. She turned her back on the barkeep and took several steps away from the entrance to the Leaky Spittoon before plopping down the pile of pamphlets at her feet. The barkeep shook his head with a sigh and returned to his establishment.

The first two customers were hopeless cases, winos with sunken eyes and bushy unkempt beards. Constance handed a pamphlet to one. He blew his nose on it and handed back to her with a ‘thank you kindly’ before sidling into the bar.

The third customer was something different and Constance’s heart leapt when she saw him. He was a tall, gaunt man with a face tanned and weathered by the harsh elements of the west, dressed in brown duster as beaten and rough as he was. An old Stetson with a torn brim sat on his head like it had sprouted there and two colt peacemakers in holsters rested on a bullet-laden belt at his waist.

But it was the tall man’s companion that caused a lump to appear in Constance’s throat. He was a small boy, no older than ten years of age. The boy was dressed neatly in a miniature Norfolk jacket and trousers with a black tie around his neck and curly black hair resting under a peaked cap, as well as rounded spectacles on his face. He was walking next to the tall desperado, looking up at him and smiling. The thought of that sweet innocent child being corrupted under the influence of Satan himself sent chills down Constance’s neck. She grabbed some pamphlets and rushed to intercept them, nearly tripping over her skirts.

“Sir! Sir!” she called out, coming to a stop in front of the potential drunkard and his young companion.

The tall man stopped and touched his hat brim, and the small boy did the same. “What can I do for you ma’am?” he asked, politely.

“Pray tell, sir, are you intending to enter that,” Constance shivered as she said the word, “house of ill repute, that den of vile sin, that saloon?”

“Reckon I was gonna,” the man said evenly. “I’ve been on patrol all day and I’m mighty thirsty. Knocking back a couple of drinks sounds like a mighty fine proposition right about now.”

“But your boy!” Constance said, pointing a quivering finger and the youngster. “Surely you don’t intend to corrupt him with the devil’s juices?”

“Charles?” the desperado said with a chuckle. “No way in Hell he’s drinking. Boy just turned ten a couple months back. You ought to be at least thirteen before you can drink rotgut without puking it back up again.”

“Mr. Reeper promised to get me a sarsaparilla!” Charles proclaimed proudly.

“Thirteen!” Constance could hardly contain her outrage. “Sir, I will not let you take another step towards that wretched hive of evil before I properly educate you and your son-”

“Mr. Reeper’s not my father,” Charles said quickly, interrupting Constance. She gave him a harrowing look and said, “Uh-huh, ma’am, he adopted me after my real father was devoured by corpses.”

Constance could barely believe her ears. She stared at the boy’s adult companion with malice in her eyes.

The tall man in the duster, Clark Reeper, looked a little bashful, but nodded. “The kid didn’t have anywhere else to go. Bounty hunter’s like me ain’t the best fathers, but I reckon I’ve done okay. Now I’d be much obliged if you would please step out of our way. No offense ma’am, but I’ve had one hell of a night and I need a drink.”

“I will do no such thing!” Constance cried. “You sir, are a barbarian, a heathen, and a monster! Filling this poor child’s head with such terrible stories about his family, taking him into sinful establishments so you can quench your own evil thirst with the devil’s juices, I am Constance Trolpers, Angel of Temperance, and I will not rest until this child is free from the fetters of Hell!”

“But I saw those corpses eat my father,” Charles said, his eyes moist and wide.

Clark Reeper bent down and embraced him, holding the tearful boy close. “Don’t fret son, Clark’s here for you.” He patted the boy gently and rose to his feet looking angrily at Constance.  “Now look what you gone and done, reminded the poor kid about his father getting munched on by the walking dead.” Little Charles hunkered in the shadow of the older man. “Now I’ve never slugged a lady before, but unless you get the hell out of my way I’m liable to start.”

“I will take any punch you can throw at me, just as Jesus Christ would!” she shouted fearlessly. Constance stood her ground. “I will not let you pass!”

The two just stood there, silently fuming at each other. Clark’s hands balled into fists, and Constance firmly gripped her parasol, but the neither of them moved. The sun continued its descent until it was completely dark in Virginia City and the only light came from inside the Leaky Spittoon, full of riotously drinking patrons who had snuck by Constance while she was pestering Clark and Charles.

“I ain’t gonna be stopped by you,” Clark said angrily.

“I shall not let you pass!” Constance declared.

“I want my sarsaparilla, and I’m getting tired, uh, please?” Charles muttered nervously. The moon rose up and bathed all three with white light.

The sound of a horse, in fact, a number of approaching horses, interrupting Clark Reeper and Constance Trolpers. Riding into town were five horses and riders, four of them flanking one who was obviously the leader. Each of the riders was dressed in a black cloak and black hat, with silver-inlaid rifles and pistols gleaming on their saddles. They had unnaturally pale skin, wide black eyes and elfin pointy ears. They had an eldritch quality to their movements that made Constance gasp and Charles cringe instinctively.

Their leader sprang off his horse and walked over to Clark, spurs jangling on his black leather boots. Unlike his underlings, he was bareheaded; his bald head was the same inhumanly pale color as the rest of his skin. His eyes were like two dark pits, his ears high and pointed and his nose thin and elongated like that of a rat. His two teeth were long and sharp looking. A Mauser pistol hung in his belt like it belonged there.

“Clark Reeper,” he squealed in a high-pitched voice that grated on the ears and sent chills to the heart. “I heard you were patrolling for me and my fellows. Should of known we wouldn’t be out in broad daylight like you lot.”

“Noah Feratu and the Midnight Gang,” Clark said calmly, staring at the creepy gang of black clad thugs. “I figured you’d try something creative and summon up a bunch of hellhounds or spirits or something. Guess I didn’t figure how stupid the Midnight Gang is.”

Noah Feratu bristled and hissed at the insult. “Course, it ain’t their fault. Your whole bunch has been heading downhill since an acquaintance of mine stuck a bowie knife in your leader’s heart. What was his name? Drake-something? Rhymed with spatula?”

“You dare insult the memory of the Count, may his ashes rest in peace!” Noah Feratu shirked with pure fury. “I will enjoy sucking you dry. And look, a wife and child. Doesn’t that sweeten the juices?” 

“Excuse me,” Constance said indignantly. “But I am not this reprobate’s wife, far from it, in fact-”

Noah swatted her with one clawed hand and she went sprawling, then lunged for Clark. The desperado moved faster, drawing out one of his revolvers and sending two slugs straight in the oncoming fiend’s chest. Noah Feratu fell to the ground, but despite the gaping wound in his chest he got up in seconds. His men had drawn out their guns and were aiming at Clark and Charles.

“Get behind something!” Clark shouted to Charles, who dived behind a bunch of wooden barrels. Clark leapt to the ground and neatly rolled out of the way of the Midnight Gang’s barrage, then came to his feet and returned fire. His first shot shattered the head of the foremost thug, causing the creature to tumble off of his horse. The corpse turned to dust before it hit the ground. Clark Reeper crawled behind a watering trough and took out his second revolver as the Midnight Gang dismounted and fanned out. He found Constance sharing his hiding place. 

“They’re not human!” she whispered, terrified at the monsters that were hunting them.

“Not human!”

“Great observation, Nellie Bly, you ought to write it up some time,” Clark muttered.

“Headshot will kill them dead, but they’re damn quick. Stab in the heart or fire is the best way to do them in.” Looking at Constance’s parasol’s Clark added. ” You know ma’am, the end of that umbrella your carrying look pretty sharp.”

Then another of the Midnight Gang leapt over the water trough like a pouncing cat and fell upon them. Clark tried to shoot him, but the creature was too fast and held the squirming bounty hunter down, leering in with it’s gaping mouth wide. The long teeth were inches away from Clark’s neck when the beast suddenly stopped.

Enraged, Constance gripped her parasol tightly and stabbed it straight through the monster’s back, neatly piercing the heart. It hissed painfully as it turned into thick dust.

Clark opened his eyes “Good thinking,” he said gratefully. Constance was shaking slightly, but she picked up her parasol and shook the dust off of it.

“It’s a parasol,” she whispered.

“A what?” Clark asked.

“A parasol, not an umbrella.”

“Oh, well, only two of them suckers left. And the leader.”

“And Charles,” Constance whispered. The boy’s sharp cry interrupted their conversation.

Clark leapt out from behind his hiding space and ran towards the sound. Two of the Midnight Gang had pulled Charles from his hiding space and were cruelly scratching him with their claws, drawing small amounts of blood, but not enough to be fatal. They were toying with him.

Clark sprung into the fray with a battle cry knocking both of the Midnight Gang and poor Charles to the ground in a sprawling heap. The monstrous thugs turned on Clark, but he drew a thick bladed bowie knife from his boot and held it expertly. “Same weapon that killed your Count. You should be honored,” he said, lunging out at his attackers. He drove the knife into one of the Midnight Gang’s heart. The fiend struggled for a few seconds before slowly turning to dust.

The second thug sprang at Clark but he sent the monster to the ground with a single punch that knocked out a single fang, then Clark kicked downwards, spurs first, into the beast’s heart. Soon he was tramping through dust.

Constance ran to him and they both helped the shaken and gently bleeding Charlie to his feet. “You doing okay, son?” Clark asked, looking at Charlie’s wounds. They looked very painful, but not deep.

“I’d like sarsaparilla, please,” Charlie wheezed with a weak smile. Constance bent down and hugged the boy, gently mopping up the blood with a checkered kerchief. He was almost calmed down when a bullet whizzed by his head. They all looked up and saw Noah Feratu standing on the roof of the saloon, his mauser pistol in his clawed hands.

“Let’s settle this thing, Clark!” Noah Feratu howled down. “You may have killed my posse, but you won’t stop me!”

“I might not,” Clark whispered to Constance. “He’s an old one, a real tough hombre.”

“Fire!” Constance said. “You mentioned fire could stop him, right?”

“Right, but it would take a mighty strong blaze,” Clark frowned, deep in thought. 

“I’ve got it!  Constance cried. “Hold on for a few more seconds.” Noah Feratu fired another shot and Constance started running towards the Leaky Spittoon. The barkeep rushed to block her path, but Constance smacked him out of the way with her parasol. A number of bottles were on the counter. Ignoring the stares of the barflies, she grabbed the fullest bottle of whiskey available and ran outside.

Clark fired both revolvers at Noah Feratu, but the Midnight Gang ringleader wasn’t even flinching as the bullets ripped the flesh from his bones. He was drawing a bead on Charles, and taking his time about it.

“Clark!” Constance called tossing the whiskey bottle to the bounty hunter. Clark let both of his revolver drop to the ground and caught the bottle with one hand, all while tearing a piece of his weathered duster off. He stuffed it inside the whiskey and drew a match from his ammo belt.

“What in the name of the Count, the Impaler, and Carmilla the Beautiful are you doing?” Noah shouted down. “Some kind of last drink that will pale in comparison to the glorious blood I will suck from your pale white neck?”

“Aw shucks,” Clark said, striking the match on the sole of his boot. “Ain’t you ever heard of a whiskey bomb?”

With a roar of purest rage, Noah Feratu dived at Clark Reeper, Constance, and Charlie. His claws were outreached, his mouth gaping like a great hound, and he seemed much more primal beast than human. Clark hurled the flaming explosive at Noah Feratu and it covered him in burning alcohol. Noah let out a primal scream as he fell to the ground in a blazing mass, coming to his feet and taking several halting steps towards Clark and his friends before finally succumbing to the flame and falling the ground. The fiend was dust in seconds.

Constance stared at the dead monsters lying all around her. “My God,” she muttered. “We survived.” She gulped and tried to readjust her flowered hat so it looked a little presentable, than gave up. Slowly, much to the surprise of Clark and Charles, she walked into the Leaky Spittoon. Clark and Charles followed her, and found everyone inside staring with wide eyes as the Angel of Temperance plopped down on a barstool.

“What do you want now, especially after causing all that awful racket?” the barkeep asked.

“Goddamnit,” Constance Trolpers muttered. “I need a stiff drink.”

“So could I,” Charlie said.

“I reckon I’m buying,” Clark said with a smile.

“I reckon you are”,” Constance agreed.

————

Michael Panush is a nineteen year-old and lives in Sacramento, California. He has been published in the Tiny Globule, Alien Skin, Demon Minds, Demonic Tome, and Horror Bound Online Magazine. For the further adventures of Clark Reeper and Charles Green, be sure to check out Clark Reeper Tales: The Truthful Account of the Adventures of the West’s Wildest Bounty Hunter, available now on Amazon.com http://www.amazon.com/Clark-Reeper-Tales-Truthful-Adventures/dp/1439218501/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1229654464&sr=1-1 .

The principal (main) source of Kevin’s (Mr. Kile’s) problem was
vocational (work-related): he was (is) a writer (author).
Specifically (yes, be specific), he was (is, is) an emerging (like a groundhog?) fiction writer with 43 (forty-three) Internet (ezine? blog? both?) publications (postings) to his credit. (Well, then.)

Someone (more likely, some ones) penetrated (what!) his e-mail
submissions to various publications (oh), and almost immediately (soon afterwards) the spam began to rain down on him (arrive). It was like a meteor
shower (a perfect spam storm? Happy Metaphor Day. Kevin!) Each submission
seemed to trigger (set off, no, trigger -provoke?) a cloudburst (a lot) of spam.

* * *
For instance, his clever (according to whom?) fictional piece (story), “A
Fig for My Mother” (I’d like to read that one, myself!) drew more than a
hundred (109) spams (ugh!) in several categories (of two kinds).

The first category (kind) apparently derived from (was apparently
related to) the title of the story. A single (Here is an) example:
–Scriptural Origins of 100 (One Hundred) of the World’s Most Common Obscene Gestures (Whoa!), by (The Very) Reverend Mishach (M.) Shadrach Abinadab. (Seriously, you jest.)

The other (second) category (kind, kind) apparently derived from (was
obviously related to) Kile (“Kile”), the (his) surname (name), itself.
In this case, too, we have (Here is) an (one) example:

1.Unique Promotional Opportunity (uh oh): The Keystone (cops)
International Livestock (moo) Exhibition Invites You to Become a Proud
Sponsor (bull) of … (Hey, those are his/my initials; that’s the last,
yes, straw.)

* * *
So (after pressing delete a few more (thousand) times, what did (Mr.)
Kile (I) do? One thing (this):

1. He (I) considered using snail mail exclusively. [Pay for stamps
and Internet? (And) with those long lines?[

(AND) THE SOLUTION (finally):
Stop writing (okay, for now, anyhow) and change your (my) name to …
(never mind).

————

Ron Singer is a jack-of-all genres (satires, stories, poems, librettos, journalism). Among his gross of publications are satires in, e.g., diagram, elimae, ghoti, Oregon Literary Review, and Word Riot. Just now, he is featured poet at New Works Review (election issue); his chapbook, A Voice for My Grandmother (Ten Penny Players), is in its second printing; and The Second Kingdom, an e-book of novellas (three), is due out in January ’09 from Cantarabooks, LLC. For forty-four years, Singer taught and wrote. Now he writes and is treated as a retiree (cooks, shops, tutors, edits, and babysits his grandson, Leo).

————

Michael Garriga is a PhD candidate in Florida State University’s creative writing program, where he serves as co-editor of The Southeast Review.  He’s published work in The Black Warrior Review, Poetry Southeast, and Versus: An Anthology.

Yes.

“No.”

So she stood defiantly, knees wobbling slightly, nine sets of eyes
pasted to her. Grabbing Tim’s arm she yanked him up.

“Oooooh” cooed the thirteen year olds.

“I knew it” whispered Corey R.

Lindsay Snow frowned deeply.

Joanne cleared her throat and smoothed her skirt, marching over to Brianne’s basement closet and opening the door. She desperately wanted to make a run for the stairs and out into the bright setting sun, out of the dank hole into which she had now dug herself.

Whipping Tim in first, she stepped into the closet behind him and shut the door.

“We’ll turn the timer on, don’t you worry Joanne!” shouted Cory H. through the door as everyone giggled.

The closet was dark and small. She could feel Tim’s breath on her face, and it smelled like Pepsi.

“There’s a light” he said, reaching up and pulling on a string.

They were practically nose to nose, his brown eyes staring blankly into hers. Casting her gaze down slightly Joanne could see the stubble beginning to break through on his pimpled chin.

“So…” he said, looking around the closet, shifting his weight.

“So.” she said, following his gaze to a pile of boxes. “Brianne has a lot of board games.”

“Yeah.”

Joanne wondered how many minutes had gone by. It had to be at least ten or twenty.

“You’re pretty strong.” Tim commented, rubbing his arm.

“Oh. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just, I had to pick someone.” She tried to laugh but it came out sounding strangled.

“You didn’t hurt me.” Tim said, and he stopped rubbing his arm.

Silence descended on the closet like smoke. Had they forgotten about them? Should she suggest a round of Scrabble to kill the time?

“So, do you want to switch gum?” Tim asked, reaching into his back pocket. Joanne hesitated.

“Here you can have a piece of mine.” He shoved a piece into his mouth and waited for her to do the same.

She took the Winterfresh from his hand and unwrapped the foil, their knuckles brushing. Pushing the piece of gum past her teeth a rush of saliva filled her cheeks and the cool mint shot up her nose. She chewed slowly, pieces of cheese doodles dislodging from her back molars. Tim shoved the wrappers back into his pocket and leaned in suddenly, pressing his mouth against hers.

Joanne’s eyes shot wide open. She could feel his stubbly skin pushing against her face as his tongue worked at the two pieces of gum between their mouths. And then he pulled away. Tim wiped his lips on his hand. Joanne blinked. She tongued the warm pre-chewed gum in her mouth.

“So you like me.” Tim said factually. “But I like Lindsay Snow.”

Joanne coughed. Her breath tasted like Pepsi.

Tim reached up and pulled the light off, opening the door and walking out.

“Wooooooh!” the group cheered, looking up from their pizza.

Tim plopped down next to Lindsay Snow and put his hand on her leg.

“That was so not seven minutes.” Corey H. said.

“Who cares?” whispered Corey R. The girls laughed.

Joanne zombie walked over to a chair and sat down. She chewed Tim’s gum in her mouth. She looked over and watched as he blew a bubble with her gum. She pushed her teeth together and felt liquid ooze out of the warm mint glob.

Was this what intimacy felt like? They were connected. She felt sick.

She stared at Tim as he fished around in his mouth, stuck the big blue wad onto Lindsay Snow’s plate and took a bite of her pizza. Corey H. stared at the gum with disdain and turned back to the group.

“Who wants to make prank calls?”

————

Gabrielle Sierra is a twenty three year old weight lifting champion from New York City. She uses the term ‘weightlifting champion’ lightly; technically she is about 113 pounds and generally cons other people into lifting things for her. Someday she will be a full time writer and her signature will be worth about a million zillion dollars. Check out her other flash fiction in Opium Magazine, From the Asylum, and Yankee Pot Roast. Her boyfriend makes great films that can be seen on Thewetfloor.com. She is overjoyed to become a part of the Defenestration family, as defenestration has always been one of her favorite words.

————

At the age of eight Ethan Bernard was a tee-ball All Star. At the age of nine he became a target for wild-eyed pitchers, his injuries becoming things of legend. He subsequently gave up baseball. He lives in Queens.

But maybe not. When had Catman last made a big capture? I couldn’t remember seeing the Cat Beacon in the night sky once in recent weeks, as a desperate Police Chief sought the assistance of the Furred Avenger, or reading about the crimestopper’s adventures in the Daily Metro, once so thrilling and so just. It seemed he was still living down the recent scandal of his DUI in the Catmobile where he crashed it into a police cruiser in pursuit of a bank robber who got clean away. From the looks of him now too, overweight and puffing on a cig as he prowled around his yard, his Catsuit frayed and wrinkled and probably unlaundered, he’d bottomed out pretty badly. Yep, perhaps his best days were behind him now. The Catmobile, too, looked pretty useless in Catman’s new driveway, sitting there shiny and black, but still needing a lot of body work after the DUI mishap. Maybe, I thought, he should trade it in on a Smart Car.

Catman stayed inside most of the day. Only after six, when I was home from work, would he put in an appearance at his front door, in full ratty costume. He might come out and sit on his porch chair, a can of Bud in his paw, and survey the neighborhood in his sleepy way. He never even started on the much-needed repairs to his place. No new roof, no fix to the peeling paint, not even a lawn manicure so that his yard, already choked with three-foot weeds, got worse. I don’t think Catman even owned a mower, and in the ‘burbs that’s a mortal sin.

He did put a new gas grill in the back, and soon was spending whole evenings alone behind his house, grilling fish and drinking beer in his crimestopper get-up. Not that he was completely antisocial. Every so often he’d take a short stroll down the block, belching softly, his belly sagging beneath the Cat logo on his shirt, and nod hello to everyone. Or he’d raise the hood of the Catmobile and fiddle around under there with some tools with the radio on country. Every once in a while, too, a neon blonde in a rusted-out van would visit him. But he looked bored out of his skull to be here, even his costume couldn’t hide that. I guessed he was watching for the Cat Beacon out of the corner of his eye, and ready to roll. But after all the beer he put away, you had to wonder how effective he’d be, and if it wouldn’t be a big mistake for him to try to get involved, and if the Catmobile would even start up. I thought he needed to get going on that yard and maybe take up roofing as a hobby.

Unfortunately, his feline nature stayed a part of Catman even as his heroism ran
downhill. No longer did he leap sure-footedly from rooftop to rooftop on downtown’s skyscrapers, or climb nimbly up sheer walls in pursuit of evildoers. But he sure as anything was in all the trash dumpsters at night, and yowling to beat the band at ungodly hours. It wasn’t bad enough that his own yard was a litter of beer cans and Little Friskies tins. He had to spread everyone’s garbage around. It got so I kept my garbage locked in my shed until pickup morning, and waited by it for the truck, or I’d find it spread all over the yard and even a trail of rib bones from my last cookout leading down my drive and across the street. I didn’t know if Catman was broke or just couldn’t resist my special sauce. Maybe both. Horrible as it was to think of, the neighborhood bird population declined too. We sure didn’t see as many nests in the trees as we usually do. So Catman was eating well, too well, and to be on the safe side, I hauled my kid’s sandbox into the shed and locked it every night, after I got word from a friend of what Catman did in his son’s box. That’s revolting even in a superhero.

Worst of all, though, were his tom urges. One night about a week after Catman first moved in, my wife Flo heard some strange scrabbling noises outside our front door about eleven. She looked through the Venetian blinds just in time to see Catman with his shorts down spraying our porch swing. Our female cat Fancy was in the window on the other side of the blinds, Flo said, staring out at Catman with a bizarre look in her eyes. Catman finished his territorial ritual and, with a meaningful glance at my wife, trotted across the street again back to his place and later never even gave her an apology. It was as if it never happened, though Flo got out the garden hose and disinfectant next morning.

Catman enjoyed his catnaps too. After a night of prowling and feasting on whatever, he would fall asleep on his lounger in his back yard and still be zoned out there in the morning, weekends and weekdays both. It seemed he had totally given up on being a crimefighter by now, since he took off his Catman suit once and for all and wore old jeans and sandals and went shirtless in the summer heat. I guessed he didn’t mind anymore if people knew his real identity, either, though everyone still called him Catman since no one out our way recognized him. He had a thick head of reddish hair, lots of freckles, and a pasty white body. You could see the outline of his Cat mask since the skin it used to cover around the eyes and nose was really white, at least before the sun burned him bright red all over. Catman looked like everyone else now, I’d say, only messier and lazier.

A lot of the neighborhood kids early on formed a kind of friendship with Catman, since being kids they didn’t respect the great man’s privacy, and many worshipped his legend, not quite realizing that Catman’s fortunes had gone south. Bunches of them would gather at Catman’s fence alongside his back yard and talk to him. Catman had complete control of his scalp and hair, and could change his hairdo without touching it. As the kids watched in amazement, the part on the left side of his head would travel over to the right side, and the hair lay itself down in the opposite direction. He could make the part stop in the middle too, in a sort of hippie style. I saw him do that once. It was astounding. How could a guy like this not be in something big?

He was still fairly agile too, and once, to show off for the youngsters, he pounced from his patio straight up onto his roof. Unfortunately he lost his footing up there and fell, taking out a section of rusty rain gutter as he crashed down. He landed uninjured on his feet though, and sat nonchalantly back in his lounger, to the admiration of the boys and girls, who cried, ‘Are you hurt, Catman, are you hurt?’ even though they could tell by Catman’s wave of his hand that he wasn’t. I saw that one too, since I admit I spied a lot. A celebrity doesn’t come along every day, you know, and I had dusted off my binoculars. Later I saw him install a satellite dish on his roof in about five minutes–without falling, yes! At the insistence of my son, Brad age 5, but also because Flo and I had wanted to all along, we invited Catman over for spaghetti dinner, figuring he could use a home-cooked meal. We sent Brad over to do the inviting, he was so excited. But he came back looking glum. ‘Catman says he’s busy,’ Brad said. ‘But he wants to borrow $10.’ I gave, but just that once. Of course I never got it back.

Catman’s downward spiral picked up pace. The sleek if crumpled Catmobile was replaced by a previously owned, rusted Ford Escort, and even that didn’t go anywhere except to the convenient store at 2 a.m. when Catman ran out of beer. Lacking a muffler, it reminded the whole neighborhood of Catman’s all-night drinking. Finally, about six weeks after he had moved in, Catman vanished in his Escort, his stuff put out on the street. Large catnip toys, elaborate scratching posts, monogrammed food bowls, fancy collars and a lot of hairy furniture were stacked by the curb. I imagined that Catman had overextended his credit, with the usual results.

Catman’s stuff was still on the street when who should arrive on the scene but Wonder Kid aka The Boy Crusader, Catman’s crimefighting companion. He was balding, packed a gut almost the heft of Catman’s, and had changed his hero costume for a sports shirt, jeans and cowboy boots. I wouldn’t have recognized him except for the personalized plates on his Lincoln, ‘W-Kid.’ Everybody knew the Boy Crusader had recently opened a restaurant in town named after himself, Crusader’s, and had publicly acknowledged that he was out of the justice business. More to do with his and Catman’s little incident with the Catmobile, I figured. He stood by the curb, hands on his well-padded hips, shaking his head as he surveyed the scene. He looked prosperous all right. Then he saw me watching him and came across the street.

‘Doesn’t look good,’ I told Wonder Kid.

‘Didn’t know where he was till I saw an article in the paper,’ said the Boy
Crusader. ‘Guess I’ll check the flophouses and shelters.’

‘It’s a shame,’ I said, ‘after all he’s done for this town.’

‘I offered him a job at the restaurant,’ said Boy. ‘All he had to do was greet a few
folks, shake a few hands, let me name a Catburger after him. Couldn’t be bothered. Had to be a hero, you know. Well, a man’s gotta eat.’

‘Sure does,’ I agreed. ‘Say, do you suppose my boy could have one of those cat
toys? Sure would mean a lot to him.’

‘Help yourself,’ said Wonder Kid, ‘they ain’t mine.’ Then he got back in his
huge Lincoln and drove off.

I latched onto a few. They gotta be worth something on eBay. They’re Catman’s!

————

Mike Fowler has been in Defenestration so many times he practically owns stock in the magazine. And by stock, of course, we mean delicious waffles.

Local Business Sponsor: Wanda’s Brassiere and Lingerie Gallery. Mom received three dozen Infinity Edge Push-Up bras, Wanda’s most popular push-up, for the ultimate lift and cleavage. The 6-year old got teddies of multiple styles: lacy, velvet, mesh, leather, etc. 10-year old was given every different design of Wanda’s short romper one-piece bathing suit, each of which transforms into a hoodie.

***

Family 2: Father, 36 years old; daughter, 13 years old. Father would like a set of durable hand tools. Daughter likes fantasy books, particularly vampire romance.

Local Business Sponsor: Leo’s Olde Style Barbershop. Dad received a free moustache waxing and two tins of Dapper Dan hair gel. Daughter received a certificate redeemable for one perm and dye job with the hair color of her choice.

***

Family 3: Dad, 21 years old; Mom, 20 years old; Baby girl, 18 months. Dad would like a nice pair of slacks and a tie. Mom would like kitchen ware. Little girl likes rattles and books for ages 3 and under.

Local Business Sponsor: Wilson’s Gas n’ Go. Dad received a gift card good for a free pair of sunglasses at any one of Wilson’s 3 convenient service stations around the county. Mom received a free DVD rental from any one of Wilson’s 2 convenient video rental counters at its 3 convenient service stations around the county. Baby girl received a Gas n’ Go gift card, good for $10 worth of gas at any one of Wilson’s 3 convenient service stations around the county.

***

Family 4: Man, 66 years old; woman, 65 years old; their son, 40 years old; his wife, 39 years old. 66-year old man would like a pair of wool gloves and a winter hat. 65-year old woman would like new rain coat. 40-year old man would like winter boots. 39-year old women could use thick socks and underwear.

Local Business Sponsor: Main Street Investment, LLP. Everyone in the family receives a free session with Charles Grotting, head manager of Main Street’s Small Cap Statistical Market Neutral Fund, one of Main Street’s highest returning asset management funds. A talk with Grotting gives every family a better idea of where to invest their money, how to plan for retirement, and how to construct wills to take advantage of loopholes in the estate tax.

***

Family 5: Father, age 39; mother, age 37; son, age 11. Father wants a winter jacket. Mother wants new reading glasses. Son wants the teddies and push-up bras that Family 1 got.

Local Business Sponsor: Harry’s Tavern. Father and mother both received a whiskey, straight. Son was given the chance to talk about his issues with Sully, the bartender.

————

John Frank Weaver is the pen name of a fictitious writer dreamed up by an infinite number of typewriter-pounding monkeys, which were created by Ãmile Borel, a physicist featured in a Wikipedia entry written by someone named John Frank Weaver.

Janet Zane, president of the National Aquarium in Baltimore, which shipped the shark, said that her organization would immediately stop using UPS until new quality-control procedures were implemented. In 2003 a similar mishap by UPS involving a killer whale shipment resulted in the slaughter of a Camden YMCA “seven and under” age-group swim team.

KLEVEKTERSCHANZEN, Switzerland (Reuters) –’ September 12 — Nineteen American participants in a yodeling contest in this remote Alpine village were buried on Thursday under tons of freshly fallen snow and are presumed dead, according to search and rescue workers. Johan Schausten, the director of the local Red Cross chapter, said such tragedies occur regularly. “It is the tourists, especially the ones with Swiss ancestors,” explained Schausten. “We tell them to not come in avalanche season, but they all want to get back to their roots. It’s even worse with the Sound of Music re-enacters.”

SANTA MONICA, California (Reuters) — December’ 1 — A 35 year old woman accidentally strangled herself with her own legs while maintaining an advanced pose in a yoga class on Monday. Amanda Cohen choked to death while in the “twisted vine” position, according to Diane Velsky, the instructor for Cohen’s class at the Swammivishnu Ashram. “Amanda was one of our finest students,” said Velsky. “This is a terrible tragedy. She was an extremely talented and spiritually balanced member of the ashram community.”

Barbara Ingles, a student in Cohen’s class, had a different perspective. “She had the physical talent, that’s for sure,” said Ingles. “But I’m not so sure about the spiritual balance. She told me she was feeling pretty down. I don’t want to insinuate anything, but leaving a note and using a gun is kind of bad karma, know what I mean?”

ELLESVILLE, Massachusetts (AP) — December’ 26 — Phillip Chang, a retired Xerox repairman, succumbed to third degree burns on Sunday after his attempt to convert a laser printer into a land-based missile defense system apparently went awry. Chang’s body was found in his home office by fire investigators who traced the path of a narrow hole burned through the 74 houses immediately to the north of his duplex.

“It’s a miracle no one else was hurt,” said Norm Bester, the fire chief of Ellesville. Bester said that the incident appeared to be an accident.

Chang, 61, was remembered fondly by his southern neighbors. “Phil was quite the tinkerer,” recalled Ann Lonnol. “After my home was broke into, he rigged up a burglar alarm for me, and I ain’t had no troubles since. He was generous, too — wouldn’t take a’ cent for it, and all them electric eyes and motion sensors and swivel-mounted AK47′s must have cost him a pretty penny.”

“Patriotic, that’s the first word I think of when I think of Phil,” said a distraught Jason Green, who also lived on Chang’s block and described himself as a friend of Chang. “He was very concerned about nuclear terrorism from Iran or North Korea or those other Arab countries. A patriotic visionary, that’s what he was. He was kind of the Steve Jobs of patriotism.”

Green’s wife Sandra agreed. “He gave his life for his country. I still can’t believe it. You know, you hear about this sort of thing all the time, but you never think it will happen to someone you know.”‘

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Eric Thurschwell is still unemployed and living resentfully with his parents in Wynnewood, PA.