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1993-03-01
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:Main
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Copyright (c) 1993 Lucia B. Chambers and Michael R. Hahn
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:Intro
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░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░Smoke and Mirrors ░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░
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Writing is an art and a science . . . and a little bit of magic.
The storyteller is sleight-of-hand artist, guiding his audience with
feint and flair. The storyteller's aim is to entertain and inform by
weaving a web of words scintillating to the senses. Writers are
storytellers, above all else.
Gathered here are storytellers. Poetry, fiction, computer lore,
and cooking--with a little bit of legerdemain in all. It's all just
smoke and mirrors . . .
?Contents
:Contents
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░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░Table of Contents░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░
▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀
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1* Smoke: "Not Another ElecMag!"....................... by Michael Hahn
2* Under the Hood: "Ya Gotta Have Drive" ............ by Arnold Slotnik
3* Adventures at Kent's* Place: "Ballard's Salon"
4* Poetry: "Animal Scent" ............................. by Shan O'Meara
5* Poetry: "Fortuna's Speech" ...................... by Cecilio Morales
6* Adventures at Kent's* Place: "Just Another Night At Kent's Place"
7* Fright Night Feature: "The Stuhlmann Corpse" ..... by Franchot Lewis
8 John's Diner!
a* Lemon Chicken ............................. from Maxine Urso
b* Foccacia (bread) .......................... from David Winer
9* Garden Feature: Lobelia Seed Treatment................ by Mark Lysne
10* Gorgeous GIFs: "Angels" - a Raytrace ............by Michael Heinich
11* Mirrors: "The NS16650 UART" ..........John Chambers and Michael Hahn
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┌──────────┐ ┌─────────────────┐ ┌──────────────┐ ┌──────────────────┐
│ Credits* │ │ Others* to Read │ │ Submit* Info │ │ Acknowledgements*│
└──────────┘ └─────────────────┘ └──────────────┘ └──────────────────┘
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?1
:Acknowledgements
▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄
░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░Acknowledgements░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░
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|"Not Another Elecmag!" Copyright (c) 1993 by Michael Hahn.
|"Ya Gotta Have Drive" Copyright (c) 1993 by Arnold Slotnik.
|"Adventures at Kent's Place" is the work of an anonymous group of
| writers who, for obvious reasons, want to keep it that way.
|"Animal Scent" Copyright (c) 1993 by Shan O'Meara.
|"Fortuna's Speech" Copyright (c) 1992 by Cecilio Morales.
|"The Stuhlmann Corpse" Copyright (c) 1993 by Franchot Lewis.
|"Angels" Copyright (c) 1993 by Michael Heinich.
?Contents ?Marinis ?Credits ?Others? ?Submit
:1
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░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░Not Another ElecMag!░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░by Michael Hahn
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Copyright (c) 1993
NOT ANOTHER ELECMAG!
"Not another elecmag!" Yes, I can hear you out there. You've
just checked the "Recent Uploads" directory of your favorite BBS
and found another interesting file to download. "S&M0393.ZIP,"
you mumble, "sounds kinky." You hit PageDown, rubbing your sweaty
little palms in anticipation. You break open the archive . . .
text files? And a reader? "Oh, no--somebody else trying to be
RUBY'S PEARLS or ModemNews!"
Well, I'm happy to say we aren't trying to be either. RUBY'S
PEARLS was our inspiration, but "Smoke and Mirrors" is going to be
a different sort of beast. We'll have fiction, but we'll also
feature a bit of poetry. We'll have recipes, computer tips,
gardening hints, and maybe even a giggle or two. A lot of the new
electronic publications are trying to specialize; we'll be aiming
for diversity.
One thing the experiences of the last year have taught me is
that there are a lot of shy folks out there with talent in their
keyboards. All they need is a healthy shove and a place to try
their wings. A little over a year ago, I was one of those people.
Writing seems a little magical to those who don't do it
regularly. "Where do you get your ideas?" is a question often
heard. Look around--the ideas are everywhere. And "Smoke and
Mirrors" will be, I hope, a magical place to put them.
-end-
?Contents ?2
:2
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░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░Ya Gotta Have Drive░░░░░░░░░░░░░by Arnold Slotnik
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Copyright (c) 1993
YA GOTTA HAVE DRIVE
Application programs have gotten bigger, particularly with the
advent of Microsoft Windows as a major player. Packages like
Paradox, Word for Windows, and Excel demand more memory and more
disk space. Unless you were lucky enough to start out with a big
hard disk, chances are you'll need an upgrade.
That's the situation I found myself in--my 42mb hard disk was
just too full. I had to choose between applications, consigning
some software to floppies on the shelf. What I needed was a
second hard drive. That meant I had some choices to make.
Syquest makes a removable hard disk system with an SCSI
interface. The cartridges come in 44- and 88mb sizes, and appear
to your system to be exactly like a standard hard disk. It's an
expensive proposition, though, with a 44mb internal model starting
at about $450. The cartridges run about $90 each.
The cheapest alternative is to install a second standard hard
drive. An 85mb hard drive is in the $180-$280 range. It entails
a little more trouble in installation, though. With my system,
jumpers would have to be changed on the existing controller to
acknowledge the presence of the new drive, cables hooked up
correctly, and all the hardware installed without tearing
something up.
I'm a klutz, so I chose the third alternative. A Quantum
HardCard is slightly more expensive than a standard hard drive,
but it's much easier to install. After pulling off the system
cover, all I had to do was slip the card into an open 16-bit slot,
screw it into place, and put the cover back on. I then ran an
installation program that installed a software driver (5K, loaded
into upper memory), partitioned the drive, and formatted it for
use. The HardCard added 85mb of storage to my system, took about
fifteen minutes to install, and cost $269. It also comes in 42-,
127-, and 240mb sizes.
-end-
?Contents ?3
:Kent's
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Kent's Place is a writers' bar on the seedier side of
Indianapolis in an alternate universe. It's a sleazy, dangerous
place where real people do outrageous things, most folks are armed,
and the drinks of choice are marinis* and Staggering Highlander.
The Kent's Place Chronicles began in the RIME Writers' conference,
and soon spilled over to the pages of RUBY'S* PEARLS. Not even RUBY'S
can handle all the goings-on anymore, though, so we're proud to
feature a branch of the Kent's Place tree.
Grab a stool, pull up a drink, and try not to ogle Brassy too
obviously. Welcome to Kent's Place . . .
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?Contents ?3
:marinis
This is not a typo. Marinis are martinis, only more so.
Imagine a glass about THIS big . . .]
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:3
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Copyright (c) 1993
ADVENTURES AT KENT'S PLACE
Ballard's Salon
The usual crowd at Ballard's Inn and Drafthouse was enjoying a
quiet afternoon. Mozart played softly on the phonograph, and the
air was filled with the delightful aroma of fresh-baked
croissants. Eric Loeb, Shakib Otaqui, Clark Burner, and Brian
Whatcott were playing bridge, while Lyn Rust, Aline Thompson,
and Miryam Gordon compared their needlepoint. Greg Kirby and
Penny Plant sat in a corner booth, gazing soulfully (but chastely)
into one another's eyes.
The door quietly swung open, and Bill Slattery entered. He
strode purposefully to the bar, resplendent in a three-piece suit,
and ordered his usual: a glass of milk. Kent procured a clean
glass, poured the milk with a flourish, and waved off Bill's offer
of payment. "Never mind, Slats--it's on the house. I'm feeling
generous today."
Down the bar, Ms. Brass, clad in a floor-length kimono, served
hot tea to Dick Burkhalter. She smiled prettily, and correctly
made change. Jon Rutledge, Kent's new bartender, clumsily dropped
a glass. Kent smiled, handed Jon a broom. "Don't worry about
it," he said, "there are more where that came from. You've done
quite a nice job today, so I think you can expect a raise at the
end of the week."
Al Ruffin and Howard Palmer were sitting at another table
tying flies, while Howard Belasco gazed on in wonderment. As
Michael Hahn was leaving, he held the door for Ruby Begonia. Ms.
Begonia was wearing her usual severe, no-nonsense frock, and
carrying a stack of religious tracts.
"Oh, dear," she exclaimed, sliding into a booth across from
John and Lucia Chambers, "missionary work is so demanding.
There's so much good to be done in the world, and so little time."
Lucia nodded understandingly, placed her hand on Ruby's. "We
know, dear. John and I really miss our work among the poor, but
the animal rights movement takes up all our time these days."
Kent Ballard joined them, asking, "Is there anything I can get
for you, Ruby?" She considered a moment, then said, "I believe
I'd like a nice glass of mineral water, please." Kent smiled,
headed back to the bar.
Ruby turned to admire the fresh cut flowers near the door.
"The girls upstairs do such nice work," she commented. "How is
the new project coming?"
"Wonderfully," John said. "`Sally's Finishing School and
Design Academy' just graduated its third class. Why, just the
other day, . . .
"aaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!"
Kent woke screaming, bathed in a cold sweat. He dug a half-smoked
butt from the overflowing ashtray on the desk, lit it. Shaking,
he levered himself out of the chair and walked to the door of the
office. He opened it a crack, peered out into the gloom of the
bar.
Ruby and Lyn were dancing on the bar again, thrilling the
crowd with the dime trick. Herm Holtz was taking pot-shots at the
pteradactyl, and had so far succeeded in taking off one of the
moosehead's antlers. For the third time. Slattery was passed
out on the floor, the orange pylons in place. Clark Burner and
Dick Burkhalter were throwing darts at each other again, and
everyone (except that Hahn character) was drinking Staggering
Highlander that had an alcohol content of about one part per million.
The new guy behind the bar, Jon Rutledge, was pouring three drinks
with each hand, and still somehow managing to skim the till at the
same time. Brassy's latest outfit seemed composed largely of holes.
Kent took a deep breath, slid the door shut. "Yep, it was
only a dream," he mumbled to himself. "That'll teach me to drink
my own booze."
-end-
?Contents ?4
:4
▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄
░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░Animal Scent░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░by Shan O'Meara
▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀
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Copyright (c) 1993
Animal Scent
Becoming a new aroma
Forcing your presence known
Everywhere, leaving your smell
So you can be hunted down
Going through water
Wiping away your fragrance
Forming a different air
To track you down by
?Contents ?5
:5
▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄
░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░Fortuna's Speech░░░░░░░░░░░by Cecilio Morales
▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀
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>.hilite[2 59 76 lightred.black]
Copyright (c) 1992
Fortuna's Speech
This is the last Spring
I will grant you, human,
before you face Autumn in earnest,
then Winter.
It is the last Spring
mares will all seem maidens,
all men stallions,
and every breeze a dream's whisper
that you believe.
Do not mishear me, human,
:page
▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄
░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░Fortuna's Speech░░░░░░░░░░░ continued
▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀
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it is a false Spring,
an Indian Summer:
soon you will starve and die.
But for one last season
the faintest brush of lips
will quicken your lickerishness;
for one last time
your striving
will approach its goal:
your work will be an enterprise,
its reward within your grasp.
Advice, you ask, human?
Don't make me laugh.
You will write the Book of Life
with your own blood
and only after the story is finished
:page
▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄
░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░Fortuna's Speech░░░░░░░░░░░ continued
▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀
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will you and I know
how worthy was your prose.
One day you will wake,
it will be cold
and hags will titter toothless
in one corner,
while you sit wizened
on a far bench,
smarter much too late.
Did I disturb you, human,
with my taunts?
Arise, you have one last chance:
my music plays,
so dance.
?Contents ?6
:6
▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄
Adventures at Kent's Place░░░░░░░░░░░░░ Just Another Night at Kent's Place
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Copyright (c) 1993
JUST ANOTHER NIGHT AT KENT'S PLACE
Ruby deftly caught the quarter Michael Hahn tossed into the
air and converted it to two dimes and a nickel, as Lyn Rust nodded
approvingly.
"Say, Kent, why don'cha just get one o'them machines that
takes quarters, anyway?" asked Bill Slattery, who was immediately
accosted by a dig in the ribs from Michael.
"Kee-rist, Slats, will you shut up? That plastic comb machine
in the men's room is the only thing left around here that will
dispense goods for a dime. Don't give Ballard any ideas, okay?"
Slats nodded in comprehension, and went back to sipping from
his necklaced jug.
Lyn Rust beckoned to Ruby, and the two of them retired to a
corner table for a chat. Sam, the cat from hell, promptly leaped
atop Ruby's shoulder and growled menacingly.
"Jeez, Rube, you made friends with Sam? How'd ya' do it?" Lyn
asked.
"I'm not sure," Ruby replied, thoughtfully. "I think he may
be developing a taste for piranha. They don't have near the
longevity of goldfish, you know, so I have to replace 'em daily.
Sam sort of hangs around waiting for me to dump the latest batch
and then he doesn't know me, again. I do wish Hahn's brother would
come back and take Sam away. Heck, I wish Hahn's brother would come
back and take me away."
"Well, that's what I want to discuss with you. You know, if
Ballard *does* get a new machine that takes quarters, you and I
will have to come up with a new trick," Lyn suggested.
"Well, I've been thinking about that. This coin changing is
getting to be a real pain, anyway. Lugging around this coin changer
is causing me to list to the left, which makes it awfully hard to
dance properly. When I take it off, I keep wanting to compensate
for the missing weight. Last night I fell off the bar."
Just then Shakib Otaqui came through the back door, flipped
a quarter into the air and watched it land at Ruby's feet. Without
interrupting her flow of conversation, she tapped an edge of the
coin with her piranha-filled spike heels, sending the quarter back
into the air, where she caught it. In one motion, she plunked it
down into her changer, scooping two dimes and a nickel into her
palm, and passed them to Shakib.
"You're right, though, Lyn. Aside from affecting my
equilibrium, this coin changer is history waiting to happen. When
Ballard finds out these guys are paying a dime for combs in here,
and then taking them down and selling them to the corner vendor for
12-1/2 cents apiece, the jig is up. I've been thinking about a nice
little bagel concession."
Lyn leaned closer and lowered her voice.
"Listen, Ruby, it's not a minute too soon. I haven't wanted
to say anything but, well, there is talk."
"Talk? TALK? What kind of talk?" Ruby looked confused. Lyn
could always tell when Ruby was confused because her eyes sort of
glazed over and her mouth fell open.
"Well, now don't get your panties in a wad--and I wouldn't
want you to think it's a regular. It's not. You know the regulars
wouldn't say anything critical..."
"It is too a regular. It's Loeb, isn't it? I knew it. He'll
never get over that name thing, will he?" Ruby put her head in her
hands. Just then Clark Burner entered and flipped a coin in her
direction. She automatically caught it over her shoulder and
rapidly changed it, never raising her head.
"No, Ruby, Mr. Lope has long ago forgiven that little slip.
A man of Mr. Lowe's stature - why he wouldn't hold a grudge about
a little mistake like that. It's... it's somebody else. It's
somebody who doesn't understand the genuine service we're
performing with the dime trick. Incidentally, why do we call it the
dime trick? Shouldn't it be the quarter trick? Anyway, apparently
it has been misinterpreted by some, and I have tried, but I can't
seem to get through on my explanation. There is at least one
somebody, Ruby, who thinks the dime trick is something dirty," Lyn
got the last out in a rush.
"Dirty? What, dirty? Hell, the Chase Manhattan makes change.
Is that dirty? Every business since the dawn of time has made
change. Is that dirty? Why, if there were no change, the world
would be full of only quarters - do you realize that? All those
penny, nickel and dime wrappers would pile up in the landfill;
paying taxes would be an impossible nightmare; the government would
collapse and there'd be insurrection in the land. Who is this
person who is trying to topple the greatest country in the world,
anyway?"
"Now, calm down. It's not that this person doesn't think there
should be change. I think, somehow, it's just that this person has
a mistaken impression of what the dime trick is all about. It has
never been explained to me, but I gather the person has somehow
attached a risqué connotation to it. Maybe the person is a shut-
in, I don't know, but apparently it is just a large
misunderstanding. Anyway, this person is saying some unpleasant
things about the exploitation of women, and stuff, and I just
thought you should know." Lyn's diplomacy was only exceeded by her
earnest delivery of the information.
"What? This person wants a man to make change at Kent's Place?
Maybe Kent should make change? Hell, does this person realize Kent
doesn't believe in change? The last time he gave anybody change was
when he poured that stranger a shot of ouzo instead of Staggering
Highlander." Ruby began to giggle. "Remember that? The guy's eyes
rolled back in his head and he landed flat on his back next to Sam
on the floor. Scared Sam so bad he whizzed all over the guy's blue
serge pants. Herman Holtz and Jerry Taylor had to drag the guy into
the back alley and the cops came along and arrested him for a
derelict."
"Hey," Lyn had an idea. "Maybe we could give the change
concession to Jim Daly. He's not doing much these days."
"He's not doing much because he can't do much, Lyn. I swear,
who'd have thought a person could become addicted to an electric
charge, anyway? Daly can't even drive, anymore - he gets dropped
off here in the mornings by his partner, and he just sits around
all day with his finger in a water glass and his eyebrows jiggling
from the electricity coursing through his body. Zach Klein says we
ought to do an intervention - get him involved in Electricity
Anonymous, or something. I told him EA stands for Emotions
Anonymous, but he says same thing. Jim's getting his jollies from
that electricity, Zach says. Says he's got an electric monkey on
his back. Shoot, the man can't make change. He can barely make
conversation."
Ruby and Lyn looked toward the corner, where Daly sat happily
dunking his pinkie in his water glass and making
"OhGodOHGodOHGOD!!!" noises.
"Hell's bells, you give him a quarter, he'll use it as a
conduit to get a bigger charge," Ruby judged.
Howard Belasco emerged from the shadows just at that moment
and seated himself with the two women.
"Listen, Ruby, I've been eavesdropping on your conversation,
here, and I just want to say that I think you perform a valuable
service. You can't let the erroneous opinion of one person affect
your career."
"See, Howard, that's just what I've been trying to say," Lyn
agreed.
Ruby nodded in concurrence.
***
Devil With a Blue Dress On blasted from the jukebox as Ruby
Begonia gyrated enthusiastically atop the end of Kent's bar, a
flushed Lyn Rust emulating her movements at the other end. The two
tossed quarters across to one another, simultaneously changing them
to dimes and nickels and tossing them back. Ruby was trying to
teach Lyn to catch the quarter in her changer without using her
hands, to the delight of a busload of Orientals who had mistakenly
wandered into Kent's Place looking for the wax museum. Kent was
selling diluted Staggering Highlander at a record pace.
"Say, how come the drinks are that funny-looking reddish
color, anyway? Looks almost like real scotch," remarked Herman
Holtz.
"Ah, Ballard's adding red food dye to the diluted Staggering
in honor of Valentine's Day," explained Eric Loeb. "Luckily, it
doesn't affect the taste, but then nothing affects the taste since
there is no taste. Ballard's really got to quit watering it so
much," he complained.
"He can get away with it, though. Ballard can keep drawing a
crowd in here just to see the show, whether he serves anything
remotely recognizable as liquor, or not. Can you imagine anyone not
appreciating a great show like this?" asked Howard Belasco of a
bleary-eyed and completely sated Jim Daly.
"Change good." pronounced Daly, solemnly.
"I'll say it's good," agreed Doug Haire as he slipped onto a
stool next to Daly. "This is the best floor show in town."
Ruby and Lyn smiled brightly as they were helped from atop the
bar by two Oriental gentlemen who were trying to coax them into
taking their show to Japan.
It was just another night at Kent's Place.
-end-
?Contents ?7
:7
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░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░The Stuhlmann Corpse░░░░░░░░░by Franchot Lewis
▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀
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Copyright (c) 1993
A long day, a long wait, it had been. Jack Lynch had two
executions in a 24 hours period, and he had to wait. His
last job was on hold. He waited for the final clearances from
the Governor's office. Finally, the last word came at two that
morning, and by two thirty, Jack Lynch finished the job. He
arrived home at three and after a late supper and a fruitless
search for something to watch on all-night cable he dozed to
sleep. The time was four-forty.
He lay, stretched, on his bed. He still had on his dark
gray executioner's suit. He was in his stocking feet. He had
kicked his shoes off before laying on the bed. He left the
bedroom light lit. He lay on top of the blanket. The room had
been warm, but had now chilled. The night wind rose, noisily
rustled in the leaves outside the window, repeatedly sent
debris crashing into the side of the house, and shook the
windows in their frames. Through the space between the loose
window and the frame, a draft whooshed into Jack Lynch's
bedroom. The curtains flapped and the blinds bumped against
the glass. The apartment building was old. During a brisk wind
it creaked and groaned. This night, its old joists, joints and
boards seemed almost to whine. These sounds were common and did
not disturb Jack Lynch's sleep. But, the cooling of the room
brought Jack Lynch almost to the point of wakefulness. He
tossed on his back, then, onto his stomach, and curled up, his
hands, his feet crouched up close to his chest, his hand at his
crotch, drawing his body inward to seek warmth. The wind paused.
He quieted and began to fall back into sleep. Then, he heard a
scream.
In sleep, he wondered, his mind questioned, fretfully. Was he
in limbo? In sleep? Was he dreaming that he had heard a scream?
Next, he wondered, was it a scream? Did not the noise sound like
a screech? He heard the sound of heavy breathing. The sounded was
close, and was coming closer. Slowly he began to believe the sound
was from some thing in the room, something real. He opened his
eyes and screeched.
"Omigod!" A large bloated male body was looming
over him. He recognized the face straight away. The knife scars
on the cheek, the hard eyes that stared but could not see. He
knew that face even before his eyes could focus. He screamed and
the lurking figure fell on top of him, pinning him to the bed.
Adrenalin pumped, his heart beat like a drum. He struggled to
free himself. The weight of the thing that fell on him was light,
so by him steadily, unrelentingly wiggling, kicking, screeching
he managed to toss the thing off himself and send it tumbling to
the floor. He jumped to his feet, covered his mouth with his
hands to keep from throwing up. The thing looked terrible,
frightful, horrible, like a walking corpse, not any corpse, but
the corpse of a man Jack Lynch had executed a year ago. Though
time and worms, and the elements had not decayed the face, the
body was full of maggots, feasting, wiggling, looking almost as
if they were swimming on the rotting flesh. The odor was awful.
It stung Jack Lynch's nose, rode to the delicate innermost part
of his olfactory bulb. The stink hung in Jack Lynch's mouth. He
could taste the awful rot. His whole insides, his nose, his
mouth, his throat, his lungs, his stomach choked from the
maggoted odor of rotting flesh. Jack Lynch puked. He could not
stop. All the food and gunk, and liquids on his stomach erupted,
spewing out, gushing. One stinking, foul mess that kept coming
until his gut could not bear the hurt. Then, his bladder broke
and his bowels. He puked, peed, plunked until he emptied himself
and he fell, exhausted alongside the corpse and cried.
Neighbors had heard the screaming and the police came. The
police broke down the door and found Jack Lynch immobilized with
fear. The police found him on the floor in his own filth
alongside the corpse.
The time was 7:00 A.M. The coroner's wagon took the corpse
to the city morgue. Detective Sergeant Joe Christian arrived. A
small crowd gathered outside the apartment building. The people
who lived in the other five units of the building were peeping
out their doors into the hall. Police lines were up. Uniformed
officers were interviewing people, taking statements from those
who had heard or had seen something. An officer had coaxed Jack
Lynch to undress, and to get under the shower. Officers opened
the apartment's windows, and poured bleach on the floor where
Jack Lynch had puked.
After being briefed, Christian called together the uniforms
who had opened the window, poured the bleach, and said to them,
"Something is worrying me which I shouldn't have to ask anybody
about, which is: did you disturb any evidence?"
"No!" replied Officer Charles Nunn who had poured the bleach.
"The place stunk, the dead body was taken out by the people who
remove dead bodies, they took pictures".
Christian nodded, "Good."
"Sergeant, this is no homicide," Nunn said.
"There is a dead body?" Christian asked.
Nunn said, "The guy from the medical examiner's is saying
that, that stiff has been dead more than a year and that it had
been buried! What was it doing here? Now, that's what really
concerns me!"
"Of course it concerns me as well," Christian said.
"This guy must have a lot of enemies for somebody to do a
thing like this to him, scared him almost to death!"
"His name is Jack Lynch?"
"Yes, Sergeant, that's what he said," Nunn replied.
"Did he tell you anything else?"
"Gibberish, he was very upset and excitable."
Just then, Officer Morales entered carrying pen and a clip
board and a smile when he saw Christian.
"Ernesto, do you have anything for me?" Christian asked him.
"I've checked on this guy," Morales said. "He's okay. He
works for Virginia, he is the Commomwealth's executioner."
"Oh?"
"Yes, sir," Morales nodded. "He's been on the job six years,
has done a hundred executions and has a very satisfactory
job performance record. I've talked to the prison warden, he
vouches for Jack Lynch a thousand percent."
Christian said, "It doesn't take much imagination to
surmise a probable scenario: a grave robber or robbers
brought the corpse here to frighten Mr. Lynch. The probable
motive, revenge. The probable perpetrators, family or
friends of some one whom in the line of duty, Mr. Jack Lynch
executed."
Morales smiled, "Yes, and get this: the corpse is the
remains of Robert Stuhlmann".
Christian nodded. "Do I have to ask? Mr Stuhlmann was one
of the criminals Mr. Lynch executed?"
Morales replied, "No, you don't have to ask, and yes, Lynch
executed Stuhlmann".
"Fine," said Christian, asking Morales, "When are you going
to put on plain clothes and be a detective?"
Morales replied, "I like wearing the uniform, I like the
camaraderie".
"We could use you in homicide," Christian said, slapping
Morales on the back.
Morales grinned, "Thanks."
---
"What's keeping, Mr. Lynch?" Christian asked. The sergeant
was becoming impatient. He wanted to continue with the
investigation. He had questions for the victim.
"Mr. Lynch is in the shower," Officer Nunn replied.
"How long has he been in the shower?"
"About an hour."
"Don't you think it's time for him to come out?"
"Not if you had smelled him when he went in."
Christian said, "I think its time for him to come out."
Christian knocked on the bath room door. "Mr. Lynch, I am
Sergeant Christian, homicide. I have a few questions, Sir."
No answer, only the sound of the shower running.
"Mr. Lynch, will you come out, please?"
The only sound Christian could hear from the bathroom was
that of the shower spray, of water rushing with force through
a faucet and falling, and splashing on the wall into a tub. As
Christian knocked again and again, and called to Jack Lynch to
open the door, the shower water seemed to come faster and faster
as if a fretful force was trying to make the water break
speed records.
"What's wrong with him?" Christian asked. "What was his
mental condition?"
"He was distressed, " Nunn said. "But -"
Christian cut him off with urgency. "Help me break down
this door!"
"Sergeant!" Nunn pointed to the door's hinges. The apartment
house was old. The builders of the apartment house had hung the
bathroom door in such a way that when closed, the hinges were
visible from the other side. "If I could get a screw driver I
could pry the pins loose and we could just lift the door up
off its hinges and open it, without destroying it, I think
it's an antique door".
"You have a screw driver?"
"In the scout car, I'll get it..."
While Nunn ran for the screw driver, Christian pounded a
couple more times on the door. "Why won't he answer?"
Christian demanded to know.
"We might need the boys from the state mental hospital,"
said Officer Morales.
Nunn returned and he easily removed the hinges and easily
lifted the door. Christian was the first to look inside.
"Great Scott!" he shouted.
A dark blue shower curtain, the color of blue night had
been torn back, and partially torn from the rod where it hung.
The shower water was rushing from the spray head into the tub,
and was whirling away in an angry fit, down into the drain. Jack
Lynch was lying in the tub, still, his eyes open, looking as if
they were gazing toward where Christian stood. Jack Lynch's eyes
looked sad and deep and sorrowful. Lying on the tile floor,
next to Lynch's body was the Stuhlmann 's corpse.
Sergeant Christian cursed, hurrying toward Jack Lynch, took
the man's arm and felt for a pulse, and found none. Christian
cursed again. He put his hand to the man's chest, hoping for
a heart beat, and found none. He checked the man's lips for
signs of respiration, and found none.
Nunn poked his head through the door, the first thing he
noticed, was the corpse. "Am I dreaming? What's that doing
here!"
Christian replied, "That's my question!"
When Christian turned his head, moving his eyes toward Nunn,
Nunn's eyes moved and he saw Jack Lynch.
"Lordy! Is he dead?"
Christian nodded.
"Damn! They took that corpse away! How did it get in here?"
Nunn was so full of anxious energy that he was close to shouting.
Christian let his eyes scan through the bathroom, carefully
looking for evidence. "This room was locked," he said quietly.
Then, he shook his head and sighed. "I want to talk to everybody!
Check with the morgue. Check with the drivers. I want to find
out how that thing got back here!"
Christian turned and saw Morales standing in the doorway.
"Buddy, do you have any answers?"
"No," Morales shook his head. "But -"
"Yeah?" asked Christian.
"Stuhlmann cursed everybody involved in his execution: the
witnesses against him, the prosecutor, the jury, the judge, the
executioner."
"Well, I'll be kicked in the behind by a mule." Christian
exclaimed. "I am a police officer, I lock up crooks, I don't
chase the bogeyman."
"I don't either," said Morales.
Christian said, "I've got a lot of work to do! I'm going to
talk to everybody who's been here or who has been around that
corpse. Now, somebody is going to tell me something that's going
to lead to a crook being locked up."
The Stuhlmann's grave had been disturbed. The ground and the
vault had been opened, the coffin had been raised, broken, opened
and dumped on top of Stuhlmann 's tombstone. The authorities
took the corpse back to its grave site, and after a short service
of purification by the cemetery's chaplain, the body was
reinterred.
---
His Honor, Circuit Court Judge Justin Ruhe had lived in
fanatical anxiety fantasies when he was a slender boy before his
muscles developed and his voice changed. He had read the comic
books with the advertisements by Charles Atlas, advising young
boys to send their coins and dollars through the mails to get
their own copies of the plan to build themselves up like a man.
No beach bully had kicked sand in little Justin's face yet, but
he was feeling the urge to do something about his skinny,
hairless body, to get a sort of head start, on looking manly,
and grow hair on his chest, before all the other boys at school
grew hair on their chests and he had grown none. He sent for
Charles Atlas plan, and he began exercising at the "YMCA" and
taking a big interest in gym class at school. Going to the gym
became a big part of his life. Always, he worked out, religiously.
At fifty he was in good physical shape, had a trim body, a well
muscled chest. He kept fit by working out almost daily at the
gym a few blocks from the court house.
When Judge Ruhe arrived at the gym only a few people were
around. He arrived late because a trial jury had come in a late
with a verdict. Duty had delayed him in his court room. He went
straight to the weight room which to a novice resembled the worst
high-tech nightmare, a modern medieval torture chamber, that could
receive the warm approval of the ghost of the Grand Inquisitor of
the Spanish Inquisition.
Within moments, the judge had connected his body to a
mechanical monstrosity designed to torture the muscles of his
arms and legs into getting bigger. Soon followed, the clanking
of metal, the creaking and straining of muscles and bones,
the grunting and groaning from the judge, the rapid sighing and
a shout of challenge and defiance at the machine, as the judge's
chest, arms and legs bulged.
The judge had wanted to stop. The hour was late. He wanted
to go home to relax with his wife, but something told him to wait.
That time to stop would come. He was enjoying his performance. He
was pressing ten pounds more weight than before. His hands went
up and down with the lever, his feet back and forth. Sweat
trickled down his forehead. His body began to feel better. He
was pumping the iron machine. He felt power in his hand. He
sped up and then slowed. His straining muscles stayed up. His
legs looked strong. He admired his arms and he slowed the motion
to a long easy pace. Much sweat was seeping from his pores. He
imagined himself the best weight lifter his age. He licked
his upper lip, tasted the sweat, flowing down his face. He was
feeling good. His sweat tasted good to him. He slowed down his
pumping of the machine. He looked down again at the muscles on
his body, his muscles looked good to him, almost beautiful. He
lifted up his head and he whispered, "Yeah, baby, that's a good
work out!"
As he got off the machine, he looked about and discovered
all the other people had left the weight room. He thought of how
late the time was. He glanced at the big clock on the wall. He
had time for a shower. He hurried to his locker, got his towel,
stripped off his gym suit and headed into the shower. The water
was right, warm and strong. The management of the gym did not
believe in humoring its clientele with gentle shower spray.
No, the water came out in force, rushing. The gym was a man's
gym and this was a man's shower. The judge was accustomed to the
force of water, but each time, he showered he would wince for a
moment, as the water knocked against him, but the judge liked it.
He opened his mouth and let water gush in, which he gargled with,
twirling the water back and forth before spitting it out. He shut
his eyes and let the shower water hit his face, and he rubbed the
water into his skin with his hands, the water pounded him, its
thrust penetrated. When he opened his eyes he was not alone in
the shower.
The judge's legs tensed, his body shook and his eyes flew
open wide. He recognized the other presence in the shower. He
had seen the big stink in the papers concerning the Stuhlmann's
corpse. He knew that he had come eyeball-to-eyeball with a thing,
whose eye balls were half eaten by worms, whose eye lids were
rotting flesh. The judge tried to calm himself. He was a thinking
man up against the unthinkable. He strained his neck, trying to
look around to see what was holding up the corpse to keep it
from falling.
"This is quite a show," he said, still sounding nervous. "I
am a circuit court judge, and I tell you, characters, it's later
than you think."
He tried to put on a strong face and smile. He was naked in
the shower. He thought of his towel on a rack outside the stall.
Then, he felt puzzled by the effect on him of this thing staring
at him. He was angry and anxious, and his mind seemed duller to
him, not normal. Then, he could see what the thing had in its
hand. It was the ends of an electrical extension cord and the
wires were exposed.
"Oh, Damn!" he shouted at the thing. "Get away from me!"
The thing would not move. He tried to run around it. The
thing blocked the way. He could see the dwindling chance for
his escape, and a large puddle of his pee joining the shower
water at his feet. He cursed and he screamed for help and wished
to God someone would come. The thing came closer. He tried to
dodge away from it. The thing charged at him from a tackling
stance, contact was made and the judge fried, screaming
like a scared chicken being burnt alive.
The gym manager on duty heard the screams and came running.
His arrival was much too late for the judge. The manager saw the
smoke, smelled the burning flesh, thought a fire, then he saw the
cord. Long and black and led from an electrical plug in the
weight room. He knew this was murder. Frightened, he ran to a
phone. He called the police. He was too afraid to pull the
plug, or to go back near the shower for fear a killer was
still on the scene.
Christian was angry. He had made no headway on solving Jack
Lynch's murder and now a circuit court judge, the sentencing
judge in the Stuhlmann case had been murdered by the same corpse
used, according to the medical examiner, to frighten Jack Lynch
to death. Christian was angry. The Chief of Police was outraged.
His honor, the mayor was about to have a baby, he was yelling
and screaming, and carrying on so much. The media, television
and the daily newspapers were having a field day.
The police had no usual suspects to round up and to
interrogate because this was not a usual case. Sergeant
Christian was baffled. Stuhlmann had been an orphan. He had no
family who could have been doing these crazy things in a stupid
way of trying to avenge him. He had no friends either. The man
had spent most of his life in jail.
"I think this might be a political crime," Sergeant
Christian told his chief, Captain Alexander Pope, who had taken
over the case.
"In what way is this ghoulish business political?" Pope
asked.
"Anti-death penalty nuts!" Christian said, suggesting
that capitol punishment foes were responsible for the two
murders. "And if it is political, these might be hard nuts
to crack."
"How so?" Pope asked.
"Can you imagine," Christian replied, "All the bodies of
everybody executed in this state being dug up and used in
revenge against the law biding and constitutional officers
and persons of the court who did their duty to rule, judge or
decree that criminal creeps be put to death? It would take an
army of law enforcement officers just to put surveillance on
all of those grave sites."
"We will watch one grave site for now," Pope said.
"We should cremate that corpse" Christian suggested. "That
would put an end to its ghoulish activities."
"No," Pope said. "That would take a court order, besides I
want the rascals who are using that corpse, they've committed
two murders."
"So that thing is to be re-buried again?" Christian asked.
"And its grave site is to be watched," said Captain Pope,
continuing, "I understand Stuhlmann threatened every one
involved in his case. I want the principals involved to
be given police protection."
Christian asked, "That's the jury? And the prosecuting team?
And key prosecuting witnesses?"
"Yes."
"That's going to require a lot of manpower."
"The Chief has given us a blank check," said Pope.
"People get angry when dead bodies are moved about and
are used to murder people; the mayor wants this case solved."
---
"Neither rain, nor sleet, nor snow, nor a bunch of nuts are
gonna keep me from making my appointed rounds," said Juan Doe,
a United States' Postal worker, who had been the foreman of the
Stuhlmann jury. His dedication to duty that got him to agree to
serve as the jury foreman, to serve on a seven month trial
which during the whole time the jury was sequestered in a
Holiday Inn. The forty two year old civil servant lived with
his wife and four children who ranged in ages from six to
sixteen years. He was under constant police protection. That
meant three uniformed officers were assigned to guard him always.
One officer, Barry St. George, was riding besides him in the
small vehicle used by the postal service to deliver packages, and
two officers were following in a marked car.
"I am going to keep doing my regular job," Doe said. "I am a
Mailman, people expect to see me every day. My supervisor wanted
to take me off the route, hide me in the back room of the post
office, but I said: 'No! I am not afraid. These nuts are going
around trying to make us all slaves to fear, but I am no slave.
I am a free man. I won't cower to their terror. No one would be
safe if we did.'"
Officer St. George was a veteran officer, he sensed the
tremors under the Doe bravo, and he said, "Don't worry, we will
protect you."
"I'm not worried, " Doe said.
"The Department is going to break this thing," St. George
said. "We'll be making arrests pretty soon."
"Good!" said Doe.
St. George continued, "We've hauled in over forty radicals
and are watching hundreds of other suspicious persons."
Doe smiled. "I'll tell my wife that because she is afraid for
me."
"There's no reason to be afraid, police officers will be with
you every minute."
"I'm not afraid," Doe said. "My wife never used to be afraid.
She would go out on the street by herself to the store if she had
to go at night, she wasn't afraid of rapists or muggers. You've
seen my wife. She has big bones and is built solid. She knows
karate. Once, she tried to use a little of it on me when I
stepped out of line, if you know what I mean?" His eyes smiled
at St. George.
St. George grinned. "You're a ladies man?"
Doe grinned. "Guilty. It's hard to keep the old eyes from
roving when spring has sprung and the days get longer and the
skirts shorter."
"And your wife gets into the karate?" St. George laughed.
Doe laughed too.
Doe parked the little postal truck, and accompanied by the
three police officers, he delivered a package to a store.
"I feel like the President," he teased. "I've got body
guards."
At six thirty, Doe had not arrived home. He was a half
hour late. His wife, Marie, was besides herself. He had seldom
been late, rarely this late. She was anxious because the
possibility was there that he could be the late Doe, and
she a widow. His wife had worked herself up a sweat, wearing out
the carpet on her floor with constant pacing. She called Captain
Pope's office twice. "I'm really scared of him being killed, " she
told the officer who took the call. Captain Pope was out and had
left orders that he was not to be bothered by calls unless the
Stuhlmann corpse put in an appearance above ground, or unless
the Chief of Police called.
Mrs. Doe continued whining into the phone. "I called my father
to come and look for my husband and my father is nearly
seventy!"
The officer spoke, "Mrs. Doe, your husband is fine, he should
be home shortly."
"Where is he? He's never been this late!"
"He is with police officers, riding in a police car, they are
stuck in traffic on the Wilson Bridge. A four-wheeler overturned,
and it lays spilled across the highway, and traffic is backed up
for fifteen miles. You shouldn't worry."
"I'm his wife, I'll worry if I want to," said Mrs. Doe.
When Doe came up the walk laughing and joking with his police
protectors, Mrs. Doe was standing at the front door. She became
angry. "Tell me what kept you?" she demanded. She was indignant.
"Traffic jam," said Doe, still grinning.
"What's so funny?"
"I told them that you would say that!" Doe laughed. "See
fellahs, she wants to know what kept me."
"Is it funny because I worry?" Mrs. Doe said. "Maybe I'm
blowing things out of proportion. Maybe it's a bad attitude on
my part but I sure in hell wish you hadn't gotten involved in
this."
Doe stopped laughing. "We've talked about this," he said.
"There's enough trouble around us as it is, we don't need to
start any between ourselves."
Officer John Sayers was hoping, just hoping that something
would happen. He and Officer Tillman had staked out Stuhlmann 's
grave for three months on twelve hour a day shifts. He wanted
the grave robbers to drop by. Officer Tillman wanted action
as much as Sayers, but had not verbalized. He kept watch and
listened as Sayers would ramble on all the long night shifts
about what he would do to anybody he caught desecrating a
grave. "Grave desecration, you know," Sayers was telling
Tillman, "Is a profane act, a sacrilege, it takes a warped
mind to do such a disgusting thing."
As Sayers continued his explanation of grave desecration,
it turned two o'clock in the morning. They had passed most of
the shift drinking a little too much coffee, and the caffeine
added to their normal impatience at so much inactivity was
making them a little jumpy. Their inactivity ended. First,
Tillman saw four field rats run through the grave yard and one
stop atop Stuhlmann 's grave and stare, working its teeth like
gnawing at the air. Next, the ground shook like it was an
earthquake, Tillman yelled at Sayers,
"Earthquake! We better get out of the car!"
"Why?"
"The ground under us is shaking, I don't want to be
swallowed up!"
Tillman opened the car door and hurriedly moved away from
the car. Sayers did the same. The ground was shaking, but once
outside the car Tillman and Sayers could see that the center of
the disturbance was Stuhlmann's grave.
"Omigod!" Sayers shuddered, feeling almost faint, and a
small bit of excrement was at the opening of his anus, wetting
the seat of his drawers.
"We better call this in," said Tillman. His voice trembling
almost as much as the ground.
Sayers shouted, "Something horrible is happening."
A loud sound like an explosion rattled the officers'
ears. Tillman and Sayers watched as the ground over Stuhlmann 's
grave flew into the sky as if propelled by the force of a
geyser, or by a god below who had thrown up the earth. Next
came the lid of the burial vault that held Stuhlmann 's coffin,
then, the coffin came shooting from the hole. It landed a few
yards from Sayers's foot.
"God! God! God!" he shouted.
Tillman ran to the squad car to radio, but he spoke so
fast that the dispatcher thought he was speaking a strange
language, and asking for clarification, demanded, "Speak in
English, slowly, please."
The authorities had doubled and tripled sealed the
coffin. Five one quarter inch thick steel bands had been
wrapped around the coffin, like a steel ribbon, to fasten it
securely. One by one the steel bands popped. Then, the lip of
the coffin popped opened, flying in the air and crashing onto
the ground, breaking into many pieces. Then, the Stuhlmann
corpse itself reappeared, stepping from the coffin like a
ventriloquist dummy raising itself from a trunk. More of its
flesh was gone, some eaten further by worms, some burnt during
the electrocution-murder of Judge Ruhe. The corpse had no eyes
now, only sockets where the flesh had been eaten or had rotted
away. There were live maggots still eating on the flesh left
and one rat clinging to and gnawing at the corpse's left leg.
"This is too much!" Sayers shouted, shaking his head. "Too
much! We've got to stop it." He drew his service weapon, and
shouted, "In the name of Heaven, we've got to stop it!"
The corpse began to run, fast, like a marathon runner with
masterly skill, going from a trot to a gallop to a splinter's
speed, lifting its feet as it moved in stride, bringing them
down faster and faster. Then, far ahead of the chase, it
pulled to a stop, turned and waited, wiggled a rotting finger,
then took off at breathless speed again. Sure, it had no breath
to hold it back. Sayers's breath was pumping, he was trying to
get a hold of himself, and suck in air at the same time. His
face was flush and rigid with tension. His nerves were badly
bruised something terrible. His heart was beating in such a way
that he if he had not been so psyched-up he would have thought
his heart would burst. His skull almost felt like his head
was about to burst. He was growing hot, heat, fire and pain
coursed through his veins. Still, he chased the corpse. The
corpse was quicker, and it stopped time after time to wait, to
torture Sayers to continue the chase. Sayers finally, stopped,
his strength was melting away. He felt drained of the last drop
of zeal he had left in him. His eyes were swimming; his head,
dizzy. He was near collapse. The corpse wiggled a rotting finger
as if waving goodbye when squad cars seem to come from nowhere, a
dozen, and the police helicopter swooped in and circled
overhead, its high powered beam shined directly into the corpse's
face. The thing was surrounded. It suddenly collapsed on the
ground as if the power that had given it motion had suddenly been
shut down.
The corpse was taken to police headquarters, placed in an
open coffin and locked in a cell and given a 24-hour guard.
Faith West of the National Committee for Life, a friend of
the mayor, asked to consult on the case. A reluctant Captain
Pope, prodded by the mayor, agreed to one interview. Sergeant
Christian was also present during the interview.
Captain Pope had a slight cold but he pretended to have
worse. He was busy enough and he did not have time for Mrs.
West. He sat back in his chair and let her talk. He thought to
himself that she was a jerk. He let her have the moment. He
decided to give her ten minutes, and let her squeeze all the
silly ideas she had to tell him in that time. She was one of
many citizens who thought they had a valuable contribution to
make in solving the case. To Captain Pope, these busybodies
were making a pest of themselves by trying to advise him on
how he should do his job.
Mrs. West spoke, "Who has the right to take life? Not
he who was executed for murder, and not them who executed him,
or he wouldn't be allowed to return - "
Christian interrupted the lady, "He is the devil!" The
sergeant's tone was short and angry, his tongue almost thick
and his breath convulsive, his emotions almost made him
choke, he was disgusted by Mrs. West's reasoning.
Mrs. West rebuffed the sergeant. "It is God who must allow
it."
"God?" gasped, Sergeant Christian, his chest heaving with
emotion. "Lady, you're something else."
"The devil has no power," Mrs. West said.
"Really now?" Pope asked, smiling.
Mrs. West replied in ernest, "The devil just deceives, makes
you think he has power. It Is God Who Rules, and why He permits
this is a mystery to me -"
"Nonsense!" said Sergeant Christian, and he went on growling
at Mrs. West. "Satan? Rascals, human beings who are doing
wrong, criminals are behind this. And what I am saying is I
don't believe any of this garbage you are talking about." He
stopped and looked at Captain Pope.
Mrs. West said, "You see with your own eyes and you do not
believe?"
"This is hard to believe," the Captain said quietly.
"You refuse to believe," Mrs. West said.
"It's a trick," replied the sergeant. "A clever trick! Who
knows how it's done? Scientists are discovering new ways of
doing what was once thought impossible every day. What you say
is magic, is some scientific or technological invention."
"I don't say it is magic."
"No, you are blaming God, saying that He did it."
Mrs. West shook her head, saying that she was being
misunderstood.
Sergeant Christian said, "Well, I know what to do, burn
the damned thing. Let's see what it does when it's ashes."
"No, you mustn't," plead Mrs. West. "There's something
here."
"What?" asked the Captain.
"Tricks," replied the sergeant.
Mrs. West replied, "I suggest you act with caution."
"Bah! Burn it," said the sergeant addressing the captain.
"No," said Mrs. West.
"Then what?" asked the captain.
Mrs. West replied, "We should pray?"
"Are you kidding? I say, burn the thing now."
"It's not up to me to decide," said the captain. "Higher
ups will have to decide."
"Yes!" said Mrs. West.
"I'm referring to the chief of police," Pope said.
"You are one of those abolish-capital-punishment-people?"
Sergeant Christian asked.
"Yes, I am against capital punishment."
"There you go," said the sergeant. "We're not going to
listen to you."
Captain Pope apologized for the sergeant's bluntness and
then brought the interview with Mrs. West to a close. She had
gone passed nearly double her ten minutes of allotted time.
After a series of high-level meetings, the authorities
decided to cremate the Stuhlmann corpse, and its ashes were
scattered, dropped from a police helicopter into the sea. After
months of effort, Sergeant Christian was still baffled. He
complained that the Department was no closer to reaching the
light and discovering a solution to the case. However, with
the corpse disposed of, the heat on the Department, somehow,
seemed to have dissipated. Though the case remained opened, it
accrued little activity for months. The level of manpower
assigned to the case was scaled way back. The potential
targets of the Stuhlmann's curse continued to have police
protection, but not the intensive protection they had been
receiving. Occasionally, at night, an officer drove by the
homes, and each target was frequently visited by an
officer on the beat where they worked during the day to
keep an eye on them. But generally, the Department thought
that the perpetrators of the murders had decided to lay low.
---
Juan Doe had been asleep, he was in bed lying beside his
wife who was still asleep. He woke with a scream.
---
AFTERWORD:
["And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted -- nevermore!"
Edgar Allen Poe]
-end-
?Contents ?a
:a
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░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░ Chicken with Lemon ░░░░░░░░░░░░░░by Maxine Urso
▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀
>.fill[1 2 76 3 blue.black]
>.hilite[2 29 46 lightred.black]
>.hilite[2 63 76 lightred.black]
Chicken with Lemon
Chicken fryer parts, skinned or not, your choice
1/2 cup lemon juice (fresh or reconstituted)
1/2 cup water
pinch of pepper
1/2 tsp garlic juice or powder
1 tbsp veg oil
1 tbsp oregano
(If you really like to dunk you may want to increase ingredients.)
Mix all ingredients in a large cup or bowl and set aside.
Put chicken, bone side up in 350 degree oven and bake 15 minutes.
Pour 1/2 mixture over chicken and bake another 30 minutes.
Add rest of mixture and finish baking (15-30 minutes)
Baste often...the more often you baste the browner the juice.
Dunk Italian bread into it and enjoy!
?Contents ?b
:b
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░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░ Dave's Foccacia ░░░░░░░░░░░░░░by David Winer
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Dave's FOCCACIA (Italian Flatbread)
DRY LIQUID DRESSINGS
5 1/2 cups bread flour 1 3/4 cups water coarse salt
1 1/2 pkgs dry yeast 1/3 cup olive oil olive oil
1 T salt rosemary
Mix dry ingredients in a Kitchen Aid bowl while heating the
liquid ingredients to 130° F. Switch to the dough hook and, with
the machine running at medium slow speed (about setting 4), pour
the liquid slowly into the dry. Knead at setting 4 for 7 minutes.
Place dough in a buttered bowl, turn to coat, cover with plastic
wrap, and let rise in a warm place until doubled, about an hour.
Preheat the oven to 450° F while doing the next steps.
Punch down the dough.
Oil (olive) a 10 1/2" by 15 1/2" jelly roll pan.
Shape the dough into a rectangle and roll out to fit the pan.
Using the knuckles of the index and middle fingers, dimple the
dough deeply in a uniform array, 10 rows long by 7 rows wide.
Brush the dough with olive oil. A pastry brush works well.
Bake for 8 minutes. (Get ready with more olive oil, brush,
rosemary, potholders, and a place for the hot pan.)
Quickly remove from oven, brush with olive oil a 2nd time, and
sprinkle with about a tablespoon of finger-crushed rosemary.
Bake for 12 more minutes. (The bread should be browned.)
Remove from pan and place on a cooling rack.
Brush with olive oil a 3rd time and sprinkle with about a
tablespoon of coarse salt.
=================================================================
This method eliminates proofing yeast and hand kneading. The
liquid temperature should be between 125° F and 130° F to activate
the yeast... use a thermometer or even more convenient, a
temperature-controlled microwave oven.
=================================================================
Italian cold cut sandwich: Slice a sandwich size piece of the
foccacia into halves. Dress each half lightly with olive oil, or
use Italian crushed peppers in oil. I recommend a combination of
mortadella, proscuittini, and sopressata. Provolone and Lorraine
Swiss are good cheeses. Watercress, though not traditional, is
especially good here. Hors d'oeuvres: Make the whole foccacia
into one big sandwich. Keep halving until you reach 32 pieces.
Stick a frilled cellophane toothpick in each piece.
... Dave Winer
?Contents ?9
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░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░Lobelia Seed Treatment░░░░░░░░░░ by Mark Lysne
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Lobelia cardinalis seeds must be cold stratified (seeds must be in an
environment with moisture and temperature between 32 and 40 degrees
Farenheit) for eight weeks to get good germination. If you were to
prepare an outside bed and scatter the seeds on top of the bed in the
autumn, they would germinate in the spring. The only problem with
this approach is that animals can disturb the bed and you'll have
another problem with weeds.
The approach that I take is to plant the seeds in little cups, place
the cups in sandwich bags (to prevent drying out), and then place the
whole assembly in the refrigerator (not freezer) for the stratification
period.
If you don't want seeds in your refrigerator, you could then place
the assembly outside in the shade so the sun will not cook them on
warm sunny days. When the weather starts warming up in late winter,
I would then start checking them every day and finally bring them
indoors or into the greenhouse when they start germinating.
I find that I have much better germination (important if you only
have a small number of seeds) when I use the refrigerator. At the
state park where I work as a gardener, that is the method we use
for all seeds requiring stratification.
?Contents ?10
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░░░░░░░░░░ Press enter to view "Angels" by Michael Heinich. ░░░░░░░░░░░
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|This image was made by my algebraic text fed into the Persistence of
|Vision Raytrace software.
?11 ?Contents
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░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░ The NS16550 UART ░░░░░░ John Chambers and Michael Hahn
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From: JOHN CHAMBERS
Oh yes, forgot about that problem.
Every time I see the word UARTs I think about some
weird characters in Next Generation or Deep Space Nine.
"Keptin, I'm detecting a sub-space field. Looks like
it may be from a U'art ship."
"Oh no. Those U'arts are looking for trouble again."
From: MICHAEL HAHN
Mr. Data--hail the U'art vessel. (Yes, I know I changed
generations--play along . . .)
There is no response to our hail, sir.
Captain, I suggest we fire full phasers, now!
Easy, Mr. Worf . . . let's try a high-speed data pulse first . . .
From: JOHN CHAMBERS
Worf: Captain, the data pulse has no effect.
Data: Captain, we seem to be picking up serial input errors
in our data pulse. The U'arts are interfering with our
data stream.
Captain: What can we do to fix this, Commander Data?
From: MICHAEL HAHN
Data: Perhaps if we ugraded to a 486 with a v.fast
internal modem.
From: JOHN CHAMBERS
Geordie: Captain, I just completed a level three
diagnostic on the serial ports. They're interfering
with the transfer of the data stream. We don't have time
for an upgrade! The U'arts are attacking.
Captain: Lt Worf, how are the shields holding?
From: MICHAEL HAHN
Worf: We have error recovery and serial overruns on
the aft shield. Uploading has been shifted to the
backup systems.
Picard: Prepare evasive maneuvers--initiate chat mode.
From: JOHN CHAMBERS
hahahahahahaha
?Contents ?Submit ?Credits ?Others? ?Acknowledgements
:Credits
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░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░Credits/Copyright information░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░
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|The contents of Smoke and Mirrors are copyrighted
|property of Lucia B. Chambers and Michael R. Hahn,
|and/or the respective authors.
|The contents may be distributed freely only as a whole
|package containing the complete file package as listed in the
|CONTENT.DOC file enclosed with this package.
|No other changes, additions or deletions are allowed.
|Editors: Lucia B. Chambers and Michael R. Hahn
|Thank You for reading Smoke and Mirrors!
?Contents ?Others? ?Submit ?Main
:Ruby's
:Others?
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▒▒▒ READ: - RUBY'S PEARLS - ▒▒▒
▒▒▒ ───────────── ▒▒▒
▒▒▒ Electronic Magazine ▒▒▒
▒▒▒ ▒▒▒
▒▒▒ AND: Call Ruby's Joint (BBS) at 1-305-856-4897 ▒▒▒
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:submit
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░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░ Submit! ░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░
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SUBMIT! SUBMIT! SUBMIT!
(no, this isn't a hypnotic suggestion)
It's a call to writers everywhere--
SMOKE AND MIRRORS
(a Pen and Brush production)
Featuring:
computer tips and reviews short stories
gardening and cooking hints poetry
local events humor
book and movie reviews art
Submit all stories, recipes, cartoons, poems, and articles to:
SMOKE AND MIRRORS, c/o Lucia Chambers or Michael Hahn. ASCII text
preferred, but we'll accept WordPerfect format. Art may be in any
electronic format.
Upload submissions to Pen and Brush BBS at:
703/644-5196 (2400-14400 baud)
703/644-6730 (300-2400 baud)
or mail the submission to:
"Smoke and Mirrors"
114 N. Cameron Street
Sterling, VA 20164-1908
Your work will be published on a one-time, showcase basis. All
rights are retained by the author/artist.
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│░░░░▒▒▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▒▒░░█▒▒█(go have a green beer█▒▒█░░▒▒▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▒▒░░░░│
│░░░░▒▓▓▓▓▒▓▓▓▓▒░░█▒▒████at Kent's Place)███▒▒█░░▒▓▓▓▓▒▓▓▓▓▒░░░░│
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?Main ?Intro ?Contents ?Kent's
