Feel free to join in anyone. Let's see if we can win a mass Pullitzer, or something. For A Few Psychics More Dedicated to the late Richard Pryor It’s Christmas. Across the vast land known as the United States, people are celebrating, enjoying the company of their friends and family. Children are staying awake to open their presents, their hearts palpitating with excitement and anticipation. Parents are looking warmly at their offspring, replenishing their own youth. The spirit of goodwill hasn’t permeated every home, however, and although Jodie should have been in Baltimore with her parents this very minute, instead she finds herself unable to speak, or move, and in the harrowing company of death. Her mascara stained eyes can see the serrated edge of her soon-to-be killer’s knife. She struggles, but the rope is holding her fast on the rickety chair. Her screams are mere mumblings underneath the dirty cloth that’s tied around her mouth. The sadist is enjoying the torment of his victim, even more than the killing part. Once she is dead, there is no more entertainment and he will have to move on and find someone new. He’s done this many times. The dimly lit basement stinks of rot and fear. Silently, the killer steps forward for the coup de grâce. The show is about to finish for Jodie, and her trembling will cease for good. She closes her eyes, but instead of pain she hears a thud. The door has burst open. Someone else is in the basement. Has she been saved? She hears strong steps walking down the old staircase. Surely the killer hears them, too, but his reactions are slightly delayed by the surprise. He darts like a cobra to reach his 45, which he left on the table, not thinking that he would need it. “Not so fast,” says the stranger. His voice is firm and full of hope. “I’ll put a bullet between your eyes. Now, untie the girl.” The man is holding a revolver which is pointing straight at the temple of the mass murderer’s head. The killer complies without uttering a word, waiting for his chance to take evasive action. Once free, Jodie runs straight into the embrace of her savior. “Thank you, thank you,” she keeps repeating; her tears of relief are nothing to the joy of witnessing the miracle that saved her life. “But how did you know I was here?” she asks. “Ever since I was a child, I had this gift of seeing bad things an hour before they happened. It’s a blessing for those I save, but it’s a curse to me, because I don’t get any sleep,” replies the stranger. “By the way, my name is Norbert, Norbert Sorebottom.” “Pleased to meet you. I’m Jodie.” “Well, Jodie. I suppose you better run upstairs and call the cops. This sad little game has come to an end.” Norbert ties the maniac on the chair. The killer drops his head, as Jodie starts ascending the stairs. He knows he’s going to fry for this, but his thought is interrupted by the sound of the door closing. They all look around as they hear the distinct sound of spurs coming down towards the basement. Jodie takes a couple of steps back. “Not so fast,” the man is dressed in black. Around his waist is a gunbelt, but the holster is empty. The gun is in his hand. It’s a Peacemaker from the Civil War and it is pointing directly at Jodie’s heart. “OK, stranger,” says the man dressed as a cowboy. “Drop your weapon and move away, or the lady gets it.” Unable to resist, Norbert slowly places his gun on the dusty floor. His face is flashed with anger. The cowboy’s voice sounds familiar. In fact they have all heard it before, but can’t remember where. “Who are you stranger?” asks the killer. Using the barrel of his revolver, the cowboy lifts his hat so they can all see his face. “Holly shit on a stick!” shouts Norbert. “It’s Lee Van Cleef! But I thought you were dead!” “In this world there are two types of people, my friend,” replies Lee, “those that think and those who untie killers. Now, start untying.” The killer, relieved that he’s been saved from the electric chair, runs to Lee Van Cleef and embraces him. “Oh, man, thank you, like, I’m really sick in the head, you know, I can’t help all this shit I do, like, I hear voices and things? And, like, I don’t do it on purpose or anything, man, like, hey, do you think I could have your autograph?” The girl feels sick in the stomach. “Why are you doing this, Lee Van Cleef? And how did you know we were all down here?” “Well, since you’re both gonna die, I don’t suppose there’s any harm telling ‘ya,” replies Lee Van Cleef, “you see, I also have a gift that I was born with an’ I can see when someone else sees something bad that he’s gonna try an’ stop, ten minutes ahead of him.” “Yes, but why are you doing this? I tried to save this girl’s life!” interrupts Norbert. Lee Van Cleef smiles. “Call me ol’ fashioned, but I don’t think fate should be tampered with. What’s meant to happen should happen. Say, Mr. Killer, d’ you have a name?” “Colon Colostomy,” replies the murder. Lee Van Cleef just looks at him with his narrow slit eyes. “That explains why you became a psychopath. Now, run upstairs an’ get that chainsaw. We’re gonna have some fun down here.” Colon can’t believe his luck. His childhood hero has just saved him and is now joining in with his merry ungoverned lunacy. Just as he reaches the door, it bursts open and he tumbles down, falling on top of Lee Van Cleef. As they both lay on the floor, they hear twitching leather, as someone with aristocratic grace descends into the basement. They all stare open mouthed. The stranger is dressed in a long red coat, adorned with military regalia, long cavalry boots, white long-johns and an equally white wig. Both Lee Van Cleef and Norbert Colon come face to face with a blunderbuss that is aiming towards their genitalia. “Who the hell are you?” asks Colon, with profound disappointment. “One is Clarence 17th Earl of Gloucestershire, and rightful Governor of this fair province.” “You what?” asks Norbert. “The guy’s more psycho than me!” exclaims Colon. Jodie is beginning to feel aggravated. “Are you for real?” asks Lee Van Cleef. “One is more real than plum pudding, you native colonist peasant,” replies the Earl. “One is the rightful heir of this here land, and one will have no shenanigans on His Majesty’s property, thank you very much.” “WTF!” exclaims Colon. “What have you been taking, man? What Majestics and shit are you on about, dude? This is the United States, you poopscoop! The only king we have here is Burger King, you dildo!” “What?!? Recreant! You shall be publicly hanged, drawn and quartered for this vile outrage, you, you, American heathen, pygmy copulator! Open your mouth once more and I will blow it off with saltpeter from this Royal Marine musket. And it’s dodo, you uneducated simpleton, what the Lucifer is a dildo? At least master the King’s English if you’re going to insult someone.” “Err… pardon me for asking, your, err… grace, but how exactly did you find us?” asks Norbert. “’Tis a long story, my good fellow, but basically speaking, it all started on my return from India. It was whilst serving with the Raj, when a fakir…” “Sorry, a what?” “A fakir.” Everyone starts giggling. “What the devil is wrong with you Americans? A fakir. A mystic chap that hypnotizes cobras and… and…” “… and shit?” asks Colon. “Thank you,” replies the Earl. “Well, this dodgy foreigner placed a curse on me, whereby I can see, when someone else can see, someone that can see something that something bad is about to happen and tries to stop them from stopping it, and I can see it ten minutes before they see it, therefore giving one ample time of putting a jolly end to it.” “That’s really great,” says Jodie. “Do you think I can go home now? I’m really quite exhausted and I could do with a coffee.” “That is a veritable idea, wench,” replies the Earl, “take yourself to the upper landing and make us all a cup, though I would prefer tea for myself if there’s any in the larder. Would anyone else like one?” “Yeah, I wouldn’t mind some coffee,” says Lee Van Cleef. “How d’ you want it?” asks Jodie. “Black. No sugar.” “I want extra cream in mine,” says Colon. “Fine. You, townsman,” says the Earl, pointing at Norbert. “go find the Watchmen and ask for Ecclesby, the Patrol Sergeant, to fetch some rope so we can hang these bastards after they’ve drank their hot beverage.” “Hey, you can’t do that!” protests Colon. “We’ve got rights!” “You’ve got what? My boy, the law of King George III perfectly states what must be done to anyone that brings disdain to the Empire. Now be a good sport and at least have the courtesy to die with a stiff upper lip. It’ll be over very quick. We’re not the Spanish Inquisition.” The door bursts open and three men dressed as clergy wade in. “Not so fast. We are the Spanish Inquisition. We fear three things, no four, err…” “Stop right there!” the police have arrived and they are escorted by a team of lawyers, and a camera crew from CNN. “You are now in breach of copyright. You are all under arrest, come quietly, come on. Let’s be having you, you miserable lot.” Suddenly the door bursts…
lol... hahaha.. i cant write with kind of humour.. its really cool to read dry, adultish humour...it brings a more delectable taste to the art of writing/life!!!
Thanks, Keramptha. I did this mostly as an exercise of getting my tenses right. Every now and again I tend to get mixed up with the past and present tense within a story. This one was made in the present tense. I hope I got it right. I checked it a few times, but you never know. It doesn't appear as a farce until quite a way down. I think if I made it known that it was a comedy from the start then more people would have taken a look. Bloody long story though, innit?
yeah.. it is long.... if i wrote my stories in the presnet....fkk..they'd be a library... I DID actually notice how... much 'sense' it made though.. which must be the effect of what you were traying to do with the tense.
Cheers, Keramptha. I look forward to reading more of your creations in the New Year. Let's hope it's a lucky one for all us struggling writers. Maybe we'll meet up in LA one day to work on a script. Who knows?
