Be careful what you ask for

The light from the windows of her hundred-year-old house streamed out onto the lawn late that night in February. The light reflected the shadow of her silhouette behind the curtains of her second story bedroom. She was watching me, I knew, as I stood next to the fence across the street and waited. I had been here every night for one hundred days, in rain, in fog that came up off the nearby sea, and on clear nights. It was the key to the door of her heart.

I wondered if she would ever recognize my love for her. At first, I had sent her notes, then candy, then flowers, first one, then a half dozen, then a dozen. But she ignored them. When we had last spoke at our high school, she had urged, “Please don’t.”

But I loved her too much to give up and I knew she would come to love me. It was fated to be and only a matter of time.

Each night I watched her father arrive from some late night appointment and go into the house. He was always going and coming at night. But why? Why did he do this? After all, he was a successful lawyer who had an office downtown, open for appointments all day long. Why did he need to be out this late every night?

One night her father walked out of the house and headed for his car. I looked at my watch. Eleven o’clock. I decided to follow. I hurried around the corner and jumped into my old beat-up green Buick. I started it, then sat there. Her father backed out of the driveway and headed east.

I pulled in behind him, about twenty car lengths, and tailed him. We drove for thirty minutes or so until we came to an old rundown warehouse. He parked in its parking lot, next to the three or four other cars there. I pulled to a stop a block or so away and watched him enter a side door into the building.

I got out of the car and walked over to the partially lit parking lot. I went around to the side and listened in through a half-broken window. All I could hear was the sound of barking dogs in the distance. I pushed my ear closer to the window. Then I felt it. The cold metal in my back. It was a gun.

“Come with me,” the man behind me demanded and grabbed me by the neck and shoved me forward. Before I could turn around to see who it was, I was forced through the side door and into the warehouse. Before me stood several men.

“I caught this outside,” the voice behind me said.

“Welcome, Mr. Benedaro,” her father greeted me with a smile.

I was pushed toward the group of men and forced to drop onto my knees. I was in the center of a circle of these men.

From behind me, I heard her voice. “Now, Father?” she said.

“Yes, Daughter,” her father said.

I turned to see a large wolf, charging me with its teeth bared.

“What the he…,” I screamed as she bit into my neck.

Munsters: A Horrible Little Comedy

A little unusual for me to post on this blog a smattering of a play but here’s the beginning of a musical comedy. The characters will be all the creatures from those old movies you know and love. So here goes.

Narrator: These stories always begin the same way. It was a dark and stormy night. Well, it was. Lightning flashed, revealing a castle standing on a mountain in the darkness. Deep in the recesses of the castle is a large, wooden door. Sparks can be seen coming from behind the door. Then a voice:

Dr. Frankenstein: I’ve done it, I’ve really done it this time.

Narrator: The door opens. A white-haired man in a white laboratory coat leans over a large male body. The body is connected to electrical wires. Sparks slowly dying are coming from the body. He seems to be asleep. Then he begins to stir.

Dr. Frankenstein sings lovingly to the body the song, “Got a Blind Date and Ain’t Got Nothing to Wear Blues”:

I’ll be your Hannibal Lector, you’ll be my fava beans.

When you come to dinner, there’ll be lots of screams.

First I’ll cook up the liver, so tender and nice;

Then a kidney pie, I’ll cut you out a slice. 

Fee fee fie fie fo fo fum

I smell the blood of everyone.

I’ll be your Jack the Ripper, you’ll be my London girl.

You’re, oh, such a cut-up, the best in all the world.

From London to Paris and all points beyond;

Such a crazy pair, we’re having globs of fun.

Fee fee fie fie fo fo fum

I wanna taste the blood of everyone

You’ll be my Dr. Jekyll, I’ll be your Mr. Hyde.

Walking hand in hand, we’ll walk side by side.

The thrill of it all, just the two of you and me.

Just call me Mr. Multiple Personality.

Fee fee fie fie fo fo fum

I’m gonna suck the blood from everyone.

I just got bit by rabies, rabies in my drawers,

As I walked my bloodhound way out on the moors.

If I were Bing Crosby, I’d surely wanna croon;

Me, I’m really hungry, so I’ll howl at the moon.

Fee fee fie fie fo fo fum

There’s no blood in anyone

And we’re having oodles and oodles of fun.

Narrator: The large body rises and jerks the electric wires from his body. He is monstrous-looking but charming in a lost kind of way. He looks at the doctor, then he looks at a large pinup of a woman in a bathing suit nailed to the wall. He walks slowly over to the pinup and sings “Virgin Blues”:

When I was in school

We said it was cool

To be a virgin

We laughed at those

Who were not supposed

To be virgins

Sweet sweet virginity

Like some disease

Got stuck to me

When I got out

I roamed about

Still a virgin

Now in my older days

I’d like to dump the ways

Of being virgin

Sweet sweet virginity

Like some disease

Got stuck to me

Narrator: In the kitchen upstairs a small man, Igor, finishes preparing dinner for the doctor and his patient. He loads it all on a tray and takes the food downstairs, singing:

I likes them flies

when they dives

them flies

them flies

I likes them dried

peppered and spiced

and toads

big and growed

make the grade

for my lemonade

When all is said and done

lunch will be fun

and I can’t wait

for supper to animate

I catch me roaches

as they approaches

me roaches

me roaches

I likes them fried

strung up and dried

and snakes

is all it takes

to make a stew

good and grue—

some.

Narrator: Igor opens the door to the laboratory.

Igor: Room service.

Narrator: He takes lunch over to a table and uncovers it. As he does, he smells something odd. An odor. He looks over at the large fellow in love with the pin-up. He walks over and pulls the monster’s coattails.

Igor: Fellow, you are not going to get a girl, smelling like that.

Igor sings “Feed your feet”:

You can dress ‘em up just like Christmas      

In flip-flops or sandal ware                            

Loafers, brogans or cowboy boots                 

I really couldn’t care                                      

But I want you to understand                                   

What’s been since time began                        

That nothing can make a bod compleat         

If that body don’t feed his feet                     

Feed your feet, feed your feet               

For if you don’t, they’re sure gonna stink     

So feed those dogs or I can tell you well      

If you don’t, they’re gonna smell                  

Many’s the time I heard the shout

“What’s that odor? Get it out!”

Neither Mom nor wife would allow

That kinda small anyhow

Now I want you to understand

What’s been since time began

That nothing can make a bod compleat

If that body don’t feed his feet

Feed your feet, feed your feet           

For if you don’t, they’re sure gonna stink     

So feed those dogs or I can tell you well      

If you don’t, they’re gonna smell

Narrator: Igor leads the monster over to the bed, sits him down, pulls off his shoes and sprays his feet with Ye Olde Foot Spray.

Narrator: Meanwhile in the village below the mountain, a criminal is prowling the streets.

Narrator sings:

Oh, what do you know about Jack?
He had a mighty good knack
So let me give you the facts
He was needing
He was pleading
“Just give me a midnight snack.”

Oh, she made her way about town
Just a girl making her rounds
A bride in search of a gown
“I shall not tarry
Soon I’ll marry
A lord I think is a clown.”

Oh, why would she marry this guy?
He couldn’t even zip up his fly
No matter how hard he did try
He’d heave the ho
Give it a go
But the zipper had gone and died.

Said she was out for the money
Just a girl who’d never had any
And the lord had more than plenty
“Marry for love
You’ll grovel for grub”
That’s why her name was Penny

Well, she was out roaming the streets
Shopping for all kinds of treats
When it was the Ripper she meets
Her bodice did fall
Her bosoms enthralled
That night Jack fell off his feet

Soon Jack the Ripper was gone
He gave up ripping alone
These two are ripping real strong
Fast as they go
They doe-si-doe
Now they’ve got two ripplets at home.

The play does not end here. There’s more but where it is, it’s anybody’s guess.

Another Case of the Thors

Happy Valentines, y’all.

It was about time Thor had a date. An actual date. The other gods all had marriages. So why not Thor?. Even Loki. He had three, no less. And they all knew how marital bliss had straightened the heavenly bad boy out. No more mischievousness. All he needed was a good goddess. Oh, sure he played a practical joke from time to time. They were a little harmless fun. Even though he had been behind the skunk that stunk up the great Hall of Valhalla. The stink had been so bad the gods couldn’t gather there for a month.

The Asgardian deities urged Thor to at least date. After all, they thought he would be a good catch. Any single goddess or demi-goddess would be lucky to have him. He had a regular job. He wasn’t so bad on the looks department. He was a real hunk. The only drawback was that he didn’t have a lot upstairs. It wasn’t that he was downright dumb. He wasn’t. He was just a little slow on the uptake. Any girl would be lucky to have him.

There was just one thing. It was that hammer. He wouldn’t let go of the darn thing. Not even to go to the toilet. The hammer would be like a third wheel tagging along on a date.

Jackie Lynn Tremahorn, of the Florida Tremahorns, wasn’t interested in dating anybody. But her mother insisted she go out and meet someone. Anyone. Find a nice boy, date a while, get engaged, then married and have the two-point-four kids that make up the American average. It was the patriotic thing to do. So reluctantly one Saturday night she went to a speed dating event held at the local American Legion Hall.

Now being a Southern girl—we know that because she had three names. Most Southerners have three names for a very practical reason. When we hear our mamas call out our three names, we know she is truly peeved at us. We are in deep doo-doo. Being a Southern belle of a girl, with very traditional values, Jackie Lynn was not interested in meeting a prospective at a speed dating function. It just wasn’t done. She gave deep thought to feigning the vahpors, but her good friend Pippa Jean would have none of it. “You just gotta go, sweetheart,” she said. “It just won’t do for you to end up a spinster of an old maid, Jackie Lynn. It just won’t do.”

Part of Jackie Lynn’s problem was her name. She was named after Jacqueline Kennedy. No matter how much of the old college try she gave it, she was not up to living up to the Jackie Kennedy image. Besides there was no JFK around to sweep her off her feet and off to Camelot and Hyannis Port. There were only Dick Nixons and their five o’clock shadows everywhere her blue eyes looked.

So there she, reluctantly, sat at a small table in the Legion Hall, auditioning candidates for a future Mr. Jackie Lynn, not daring to hope. And none were up to the task. She took one good look at each Nixon. His shifty eyes immediately told her everything she needed to know.

Just as she was about to give up, Thor sat down in front of her. She first noticed the eyes. He did have nice eyes. She wasn’t sure, but there was enough man there to make her open to some convincing. Put him in a nice suit, give his red hair a cut, trim his red beard some, and he just might do. ‘Course that hammer had to go. You’d think he was married to the darn thing the way he held it up close and personal-like. They could get a dog instead. She always did want a poodle.

“I usually don’t offer,” the words tumbled out of him. “Would you like to feel my hammer?”

Jackie Lynn blushed. “Why, sir, don’t be so forward. A Southern girl does not feel a man’s hammer. At least, not upon the first meeting.”

“Don’t worry. He doesn’t bite. He’s a perfect gentleman. Just thought you might want to touch him. He’s special. He’s been places. Done things. Mighty things.”

“But, sir, you are being forward. If I wasn’t a lady, I would…well, let’s just say, I would.”

“It’s okay. I’m a god.”

God, what an ego. But it did look like he had the qualities Dorothy Parker wanted in a man when she said, “He must be handsome, ruthless, and stupid.” Could it be? Yes, something spoke to her heart. In a moment of indecision, she decided. It was love at first sight.

The gods, the goddesses from Asgard to Olympus let out a sigh of relief. Finally Thor was going to take the plunge. Before they could shout out Vahalla, the happy couple eloped and were off on their honeymoon to the mystic isle of the west, Avalon, to live happily ever after. At least, until she started complaining about that hammer.

Mr. Gecko and the Picnic Basket

An adult faerie tale not for kids

One Wednesday, the heavens opened up and the Great Gecko in the Sky on his mushroom perch looked down upon all his creatures. He was not happy. He saw way too much fornication going on down there on earth. So much fornicating that it got his blood boiling. He had to do something, and what he had in mind was something hard and destructive.

Since it was such a pleasant day up there in gecko heaven, the sun shining all nice and warm unlike a week earlier. His heaven had been all gecko hell with the snow and the blizzard. Down-right freezing it was. Not being a fur-bearing kind of god Mr. Gecko hated the cold. But this particular day was a nice heavenly kind of spring day and Mr. Gecko looked around and saw his favorite tree just a bit of a ways off.

It was a tree all fluffy with cherry blossoms. The kind of tree that Mr. Gecko loved to siesta under when he was taking a break from his gecko-god duties or doing his chores assigned to him by Mrs. Gecko, his wife for nigh-on eight and a half eons. A rather long time for a heavenly pair to stay coupled together but still they were as happy as any two middle-aged gods could be under the circumstances. But enough of that. Mr. Gecko had work to do, coming up with a destructive methodology for those fornicating fools.

He strolled over to the cherry blossom tree and sat himself down on the green grass and leaned back to do some thinking. But thinking being what it is, Mr. Gecko could only do it so long and then he was famished. This particularly day in April, the “so long” was about fifteen minutes long and he still had not come up with anything of the destructive ilk yet.

He reached over and pulled his picnic basket closer. A picnic basket Mrs. Gecko had risen up early that morning before sunrise and prepared for him. It was like she read his mind. Like she knew that he was going to have some hard thinking to do that day, knew that he’d need a good nutritious, delicious meal so he could come up with just the right destruction for his fornicating creation.

Mr. Gecko opened up that picnic basket, and lo and behold, what he saw was good. Very good. There were three watercress sandwiches with mustard…oh, yes and a pickle. One of Mrs. Gecko’s prize sweet pickles that she had grown in her vegetable garden behind their lovely white cottage.

In the basket, there was a thermos of his favorite green tea and a bag of Indonesian chips, the chips that made Jakarta famous. And there…no, it just couldn’t be. But it was. A large slice of key lime pie. If he hadn’t known better, he would have believed that he was in hog heaven. But he was a gecko god and he was in heaven just the same.

Then it hit him. If he consumed all that food, he was going to need a siesta. A long siesta. He was not going to be in any kind of destructive mood for quite some time. This was Mrs. Gecko’s way of preventing what he was about to do. First he would come up with The Plan, then he would eat.

When he would comment to Mrs. Gecko on what a fornicating crowd he’d created, all she could say was, “Well, dear, you know that’s how the eight ball bounces. It is in the nature of creation to be about itself creating. And how exactly do you expect your creation to create with nary any fornication?”

Mr. Gecko took another look into the basket. Those chips looked enticing. Well, maybe he would eat just one…no, two…just two…ah, shoot…three then. Soon he had completely consumed not just the chips, but the sandwiches, the pickle and the key lime pie, tossing it all down with his tea. And he was snoring the afternoon away, dreaming of Indra dreaming of Gecko dreaming.

The Second Coming, Maybe

Some folks think they know something even Jesus doesn’t know. I’m talking Second Coming here. In May of 2012, some radio preacher predicted it. Second Coming didn’t happen. The Mayans had predicted it for the following December. It didn’t happen then either.

Jerry Jenkins and Tim LaHaye, author of the Left Behind books, gave it the old college try. Nostradamus said it would be Y2K, and we know what a bust that one was. Pat Robertson predicted 2007. He first thought 1982 was to be the big year, but he re-evaluated. Edgar Cayce and Sun Myung Moon both said 2000.

The astrologer Jean Dixon even put in her two cents. Said it was to be 1962 according to the alignment of the planets. The planets forgot to check with her. They didn’t align properly and we didn’t get the fireworks she promised. She checked her charts again, and lo and behold, it’s supposed to be 2020. These are just a few of the ones who have blown it. And when they blow it, they don’t admit they blew it. Doesn’t this sound a lot like politicians?

No, they’re like software. They give us an update. Unless they do a Jim Jones and drink some Kool-Aid.

Guess the reason Radio Preacher Guy and the others blew it was because they were getting a little impatient. And they had not read Hal Lindsey’s book, “The Late Great Planet Earth”. Old Hal thought he had the road to the Second Coming down pat. He put his guesses in a nice, neat package and wrapped it up with a ribbon. He even gave it a name. Called it his stepping-stones to Jesus. First we get a temple, then we get an Armageddon. Then a Pope named Six-six-six.

The Catholics disagree on that one. The pope of the Second Coming is supposed to be Peter. And named Peter 2. The Mormons added their own take on the Second Coming. Jesus is supposed to set down in Missouri. Seems Hal didn’t check with the Mormons or the Catholics. Never did Radio Preacher Guy, Pat Robertson or Tim LaHaye.

Well, I think it is time I cleared it all up and gave you the real skinny. I have spent many years studying the hieroglyphics of the Book of the Dead Folks and the cuneiforms from the Tower of Babel. That last one turned out to be a lot of talk, talk, talk. I studied the Dead Sea Scrolls. They were a little dusty, so you can’t always trust them. The Nag Hammadi Codices were really not that helpful. It was hard to read what they said was the handwriting on the wall. Turned out it was written on a cave wall in a sandy spot in the desert. Them Gnostics were real kidders, you know.

I read the Vedas and the Tao te ching. Meditated on Mount Nanda Devi and Mount Fuji. Talked to a voodoo priestess. She read the entrails of a chicken for me. Smoked some, well I am not saying what we smoked, but just take my word for it. The Rastafarians know where the good stuff is.

Checked my Aztec calendar and it seemed to be running slow. Finally figured it was running on Aztec Savings Time. And the Aztec god of whatever, big Q, wasn’t talking. He is very upset that everybody took him to be Cortez. Well, he wanted me to let all the good Aztecs everywhere know. He wasn’t Cortez and he’s not taking the rap for Montezuma’s boo-boo.

Besides he’s been working the Star Trek gig and he is not about to give that up yet. He likes the money. He doesn’t have to work too hard. It’s only an occasional appearance he has to make after all.

I prayed at Olympus and checked with the Sibyl at Delphi. The Vestal Virgins only wanted to party. What else can you expect from the toga lobby?

I went through the Bible frontwards and backwards. You have to read it backwards if you’re reading it in Hebrew. Read the the Torah and the Talmud and the Kabbalah too. I studied the Old Testament, the New Testament and the In-Between-Testament. Read what Enoch said and what Adam wrote. I interviewed the lion that was going to eat Daniel. I visited Elijah’s cave and sailed to Patmos and hung out with an old guy who actually hung out with John when he was writing the Book of Revelations. I consulted the stars and I consulted the planets. Even checked with my crystals.

Finally, yes finally, I came up with the time. Not an exact date but a specific time. It was amazing but it made sense. And thanks to your patience I am about to reveal the revealable.

Before I do let you in on the secret, I have to tell you that none but none of those other guys and girls were right. They were all way off the mark.

So when is the Second Coming to be? You are not going to believe this. It will be the day, the exact day, when the White Sox beat the Cubs and win the World Series. That is also the day when hell freezes over.