The Battle of Pythagorean Numbers

A goofy story of numbers ...

The morning fog hung low over the battlefield as Commander Square 190 rolled to the front lines, his perfectly square armor gleaming in the early light. Above them all, the giant scoreboard flickered:

"Harmony and goodness: 42 | Chaos and Evil: 64."

Odd squares and equilateral triangles and circles surround the square, listening intently.

"Listen up, Odds! We're behind the Evens!" the Commander Square bellowed, his compass-point helmet spinning nervously. "The evil Evens, the forces of Chaos, have pushed us back with their non-Euclidean tactics!"

Circle Scout darted forward, hyperventilating. "Commander! Eight evil Even enemies approach from the east! Let us all pray for the power of perfect numbers, 6, 28, 496 —" he shouted to the heavens.

"Calm yourself, Scout," Commander Square said, his voice as steady as Euler’s constant. "Remember your training. Breathe to the count of the first five Fibonacci numbers."

Triangle Warrior stomped forward, his blocky shoulders squared perfectly at 60-degree angles. He thumped his Laplacian chestplate. "Let me at 'em, Commander! My 4×4 matrix hammer is ready to seriously smash some decimal points!"

From across the battlefield, a menacing Even General Pyramid with far too many sides and components shrieked. "Your pathetic numerical harmony is doomed! Chaos reigns!"

Commander Square narrowed his radius. "Triangle, take your division battalion and flank them from the right with fluxions. Circle, your fractional forces will create a distraction with those numerator number catapults."

Triangle saluted with his angular arm. "And you, sir?"

"I'll lead the arithmetical assault with our triangular number troop,” Square said. “Those of us who are sums of square numbers will show them the meaning of true mathematical harmony!"

Circle Scout bounced nervously on his diameter. "But Commander, what if they deploy their... unsolvable equations?" He whispered the last words with terror.

Commander Square's circumference stiffened. "Then we'll do what mathematicians have always done—simplify, reduce, and solve step-by-step."

As they moved into position, Circle caught a glimpse of the banner fluttering in the algebraic wind:

"Rithmomachia: Where Math Is Always Right!"

Triangle Warrior hefted his multiplication hammer. "For Pythagoras!" he bellowed.

They charged across the field, geometric shapes of all kinds clashing in a spectacular array of mathematical operations. Square bashed a chaotic trapezoid with a mighty matrix hammer, shouting, "That's 4x4 damage—calculate that!"

Circle Scout leapt over enemies, dropping division symbols like land mines. "Can't step on these without solving them first!" he cackled.

Commander Square rolled through the fray, his geometric ratio shield deflecting diabolical denominators. He engaged the many-sided General Pyramid of Chaos, their weapons clashing in a shower of mathematical symbols.

"Your random numbers can't defeat the power of mathematical harmony!" said Square parrying a fractional number thrust.

The Even General Pyramid cackled. "Fool! There will always be chaos in mathematics! What about imaginary numbers? What about infinity?"

Square smiled. "That's the beauty of it. Even those fit into the patterns. Everything in mathematics connects—you just need to learn the rules!" With a powerful thrust of his compass sword, Commander Square solved the evil General Pyramid's equation.

The chaotic Pyramid's angles collapsed in on themselves as he shouted, "Impossible! My calculations were perfect!"

"No," replied Commander Square. "They were just incomplete."

Above them, the scoreboard flickered and changed:

"Harmony and goodness: 81 | Chaos and evil: 64"

As the remaining chaotic shapes retreated, Circle and Triangle joined their commander.

Circle thumped a round chest plate. "Victory through radial vectors!"

Triangle couldn't stand still. "Did you see me? I was adding and subtracting so fast they couldn't keep up with my calculations!"

Commander Square surveyed the battlefield, where defeated shapes were being tutored in proper mathematical principles by the victors. "Remember, Odds —- in Rithmomachia, we don't just defeat our enemies."

"We teach them," Square nodded solemnly.

"And we learn from them," Triangle added, examining a fascinating fractal pattern left behind by a fleeing chaotic shape.

Circle smiled as new recruits began to gather around them, eager to learn the ways of mathematical harmony.

"That's right," Square said. "Because the real victory in Rithmomachia isn't just winning..."

Triangle and Circle smile and nod.

"...it's understanding!" Square declares proudly.

The End

Favorite books of the year 2021

Which books really affected me? Here’s my list. There are no math books, even though I did read a few. They are mostly philosophy or writing books, listed below in no particular order.

• Steven B Smith, Spinoza, Liberalism, and the Question of Jewish Identity, Yale Univ. Press. Smith is a political science professor at Yale and a Spinoza expert. This is a book of how Spinoza’s philosophy influenced political science thought today and how he (in the 1600s) laid out foundational principles for the American democratic republic of today. Smith’s very clear writing and well-laid out arguments make this a terrific book for anyone (like me) who’s a Spinoza fan. I’m reading Smith’s next book, Spinoza’s Book of Life, now. Excellent so far.
  
• Zoe Quinn, Crash Override, PublicAffairs Books. This is an eye-opening account of how misogynists use the internet and social media to attack women. While specific to abuse of women in the video game community, these techniques have been refined and expanded to attacking politicians and journalists today (see Ezra Klein’s article from 2014 and the article of Aja Romano from 2021, among others).
• Michael Botvinnik, One Hundred Selected Games, Dover. I’m so impressed with this former world champion chess grandmaster. This book sent me down a rabbit hole trying to research his life. He was very self-disciplined and held down a full time job as an engineer, solving some important electrical engineering problems for the growing Soviet state, while pursuing the world chess championship title. Do I agree with his personal views? No. He once said Stalin wasn’t communist enough! But he’s also a Jew that not only survived but thrived in the Stalinist era, not an easy feat. My favorite part of each game was the one moment in which an ordinary looking chess move was made (that is, ordinary looking to me) and then the next line of Botvinnik’s commentary was “Of course, this was the move that lost the game.” Of all the games, I don’t remember even once predicting the losing move. I loved the commentary though.
• Mel Scult, volume 2 of Communings With the Spirit. This is the second volume in Mel Scult’s series of selections from Mordecai Kaplan’s diaries. Volume 1 was excellent and I’m reading volume 3 now. Kaplan (who died in 1983 at the age of 102) was IMHO one of the most important and profound philosophical thinkers on religion and American society. Like Botvinnik, Kaplan was another extremely disciplined worker. This is the volume where Kaplan explains his interest with Spinoza’s philosophy. While Spinoza’s precise influence isn’t clear from the diaries, the influence is clearly there. For more details on this connection, see for example the 2000 scholarly article by Shaul Magid, now a professor at Dartmouth College. I’m reading volume 3 of Scult’s series now. Excellent so far.
• Ben Westhoff, Fentanyl Inc, Atlantic Monthly Press. After my step-son Zach died, I wanted to learn more about how fentanyl reaches the USA, where it comes from, and so on. To be clear, when the press uses the work “fentanyl” it usually means a fentanyl derivative which has been cooked up to avoid export laws in China (where some exports are allowed even though use is illegal). While the situation on the ground is constantly evolving, this explains a lot about the origins in China of these narcotic products and the idiocy of the current US drug laws.
• Steve Kaplan, The Comic Hero’s Journey. This book should be paired with Kaplan’s earlier book, The Hidden Tools of Comedy. Steve Kaplan (no relation to my knowledge to Mordacai Kaplan) is a director and looks at comedy from that perspective. Before I read these books, I’d read lots of books on comedy and thought I had an inkling of comedic structure. I was wrong. These books, and Kaplan’s online courses, which go into detail on these books, really taught me a great deal. I may not be funnier but I understand comedic structure (and comedy screenplay structure) much much better as a result of Kaplan’s books and classes.
• Charles Deemer, Screenwright: the craft of screenwriting, Xlibris Corp (reviewed on this blog here). Deemer taught screenwriting for many years at the college level and this book distills the down-to-earth lessons from his classes. I liked that he presented a number of screenplay templates, such as the 3-act paradigm and some of its “spin-offs”. Deemer’s book is out-of-print but still available in paperback (on amazon, for example) or free from ibiblio.org, in html format, at this link. The online version is not only free but it’s expanded greatly in some sections, such as the examples of breakdowns breakdowns using one of his templates. I don’t want to say this is better than, say Dan O’Bannon’s book, Dan O'Bannon's Guide to Screenplay Structure, but it is in many ways similar and (like O’Bannon’s book) pleasant to read. O’Bannon is more of a Hollywood icon than Deemer. O’Bannon wrote or co-wrote the screenplays for, among many others, the classic movies Alien (the first in the franchise) and The Return of the Living Dead (the first of several sequels to George Romero’s Night of the Living Dead, which was co-written with John Russo - the complicated explanation of the sequels is discussed at this link). I like the organization of both of these books by Deemer and O’Bannon.

All the children were blue (short story 29)

  Over a year ago, as an exercise, I started writing one short story a week. This was something Harlan Ellison (I think) suggested to one of his fans, his reasoning being "You can't write 52 bad short stories in a row." I'm not sure about that, but here's one of those stories.

* A blue-colored little girl Lena, who’s tall for a 10 year old, enters a rusty metal building with Bee-tou, a short stocky Blue who always wore a knitted cap even when it was hot. Their clothes are shabby, torn, and patched, in dark reds, browns, greens and blues. The structure is made of corrigated metal shaped like a half-cylinder on it's side. Lena thought it could have once stored farm equipment or maybe it was once a hanger for a prop plane. It had electricity, but not much. Enought to heat one small section, and to power dim lights here and there. Mostly, it stored boxes and was a place for the Blues to meet the Wise Man. The Wise Man, looked at them as they approached the heated section he sat in. His eyes we impassionate, but he greeted them with a warm smile. This made Lena more nervous but Bee-tou smiled back. “Please make yourself comfortable,” Wise Man said, pointing to a sofa and chair close to him with cushions. Wise Man gets some bottles out of a cooler. He gives one to Bee-tou, “Call me Woosa. You at the protector Bee-tou?” Lena took the chair and Bee-tou takes the sofa. Bee-tou nods. “Thank you.” As he gave Lena a bottle he asked, “So you are Lena, the one with the bad dreams?” Lena nods nervously and sets her bottle down. Bee-tou drinks and says “She can be shy. That’s why I came with her.” “Of course, you are her protector.” “Not the only one. The others are outside.” “Of course” Woosa says and smirks at the door. “She calls them visions, not dreams,” Bee-tou says with a corrective tone. “Do they scare you?” Wise Man asks Lena. She nods and looks away. “Well, relax, you’re safe here. These dreams are normal. Your brain processes the stress and strain of everyday life. It’s not natural for our kind to live like this, is it? Scrounging for food, fuel, electricity. Keeping eyes peeled for Reds. We go into survival mode. Therefore, when you sleep, your dreams carry these scary, stressful images. Nothing to worry about. Would you like to talk about them?” Lena shakes her head. “I understand. Has she told you about them?” Wise asks Bee-tou. “A little. They involve Red attacks,” Bee-tou. “Exactly my point. When was the last time we fought the Reds?” “Months ago,” Bee-tou says. “Was Lena scared?” “Oh, yes.” “It’s quite possible the Reds now want peace. We don’t know. But, in any case, that explains it. Lena was scared in the Red attack and her subcounscious processes that fear as dreaming these scary visions during her sleep. Basic psychology, right?” Woosa smiles and nods to them both. Woosa gets a small pill bottle and hands it to Lena. “Take these for a few nights. They will help you sleep.” Lena takes the bottle. “Thank you,” Bee-tou says. He looks to Lena. “Ready?” Lena nods and gets up. “Thank you,” she says shyly. “Absolutely my pleasure,” Woosa says with a smile, watching them walk out. As they shut the door he turns Red and his smile vanishes.

* Lena and Bee-tou walk a path between crumbling buildings and junk. large and small. Abandoned relics, tossed aside by the Elders just as they did with their children. They look around then, seeing no one, enter the rear door of a rusty car parked too close to a long crumbling brick building. Lena goes in first, and slides over the vinyl seats, then Bee-tou. He shuts the door behind them. It's quiet and, because the windows are tinted, darker. Then they open the door on the other side, which doubles as a hatch into the building. They are greeted by another stocky Blue, who nods and helps Lena step out into the building. It’s clean and on the other side, there’s a well-lit space with lots of little Blue girls paired with their stocky Blue protectors, all dressed in the same drab colors. As Lena and Bee-tou approach them, one Blue girl asks “How did it go?” “He said not to worry,” Bee-tou says. “He gave me these,” Lena says, handing the bottle to the smallest Blue girl. Deesha. Deesha tries to open it but can’t. She looks to her protector, Gee-doo, who takes it, opens it and hands it back to her. Deesha sniffs it, shakes her head at Lena, then tosses the bottle in the trash. They all look to Lena with an unspoken question. Lena looks at each one of the little Blue girls then says, “I know what I saw, call it a dream or a vision, whatever you want. We need to be on alert.” Each of the Blue protectors looks at their girl with concern. “I’m going to make a food run. We sleep here tonight and move at first light,” Bee-tou says.

* That night, they are all sleeping soundly, even Lena and, not far away, Bee-tou. Lena’s head jerks and her eyes open. She gets up, the sound waking Bee-tou, who watches her carefully. Lena quietly tip-toes to each of the little Blue girls, touching each one on the shoulder. They wake when touched, look at Lena, and nod. Bee-tou coughs. All the Blue protectors’ eyes open at the sound. They look to Bee-tou, then to Lena. Bee-tou points to the exit, a hole in the wall leading to a car door. They all quietly head to the exit.

* Outside, it's dark, the way lit by the flashlights held by the protectors. They walk in single file along a path between junk and abandoned buildings. Lena turns to look behinds them. The sky, once dark blue, starts to turn red, like a strangely colored sunrise. “We need to run,” Lena says. They run reaching a large parking lot, where they spread out and run as fast as their small legs can go. The Protectors stay between the girls and the Reds in the sky behind them. Once in a while, a couple of stray Blues boys come out of the shadows to join them running. They fall behind, whether by intention of lack of speed. The Reds are visible in the distance behind them. The closest Red, flying at the height of a small building, throws a red translucent small cloud at a Blue stray. He collapses in the parking lot, dies and turns Red. The Protectors see this and re-organize to keeps themselves between the Reds and the little blue girl they are in charge of. Bee-tou yells at little Lena, “Hurry.” They speed up as fast as they can. Another Blue stray dies in a red cloud. Bee-tou yells at even louder, “Hurry.” Three Blue strays die in red clouds. As far as the eye can see, there are Reds flying towards them, a rag-tag bunch of scared little Blue kids. Now Bee-tou is loudly yelling ‘Hurry”, so loud Lena starts to cry. The little blue girls look to Lena, reaching out to her, all the girls touching Lena. Lena stops running and, sobbing, she drops to one knee. She raises her head to the sky and screams a long high-pitched scream. The girls hold each other tighter. The Blue Protectors surround all the girls, facing outward towards the approaching Reds. As the Reds, en mass, descend for their final attack, a translucent blue cloud condenses and grows around the girls, spreading to the Blue Protectors. They look at each other mystified and Lena's scream continues impossibly long and loud. The cloud condenses and grows and expands wider and wider. The Reds throw red clouds at it, which simply dissolve into mist and fade away. Each little girl starts to scream, joining in the terrible scream coming from Lena. As each one starts to scream, the blue cloud grows. Finally, Deesha too screams and the blue cloud explodes to infinity. As the edge of the massive blue cloud passes through each Red, they turn Blue and drop from the sky to the ground. For what seems like hours, the sky rains Reds, who drop to the ground and turn into a Blue adult. Asleep at first, one by one they wake and look around at their new world. The little blue girls vomit when it’s over. Then they all collapse in exhaustion. Eventually, they get up eventually, leave their Protectors. They know they must search for their parents, who once abandoned them and became Red. Their parents are somewhere out there, among the fallen.

Detour, revisited (short story 28)

  Over a year ago, as an exercise, I started writing one short story a week. This was something Harlan Ellison (I think) suggested to one of his fans, his reasoning being "You can't write 52 bad short stories in a row." I'm not sure about that, but here's one of those stories. This is a spoof on part of the film noir "Detour". I love the film, and write a post about it ("Public domain film noir: Detour (1945)"), but parts are unintentionally funny and inspired me to write the story below.

* Roberts has his thumb out and his ratty old sports jacket buttoned up as best as he can. His fedora is pulled down to try to keep out the cold. It’s only in the 50s but the wind is blowing along this long flat stretch of highway in South Dakota, which makes it seem colder. An old guy in a rusty old Ford 150 pulls up. “Where are you headed?” the old man asks. “LA,” Roberts says. “Sounds good.” “Okay, hop in then. My name’s Sam.” Sam unlocks the door. “Thank you,” Roberts says climbing in. “Al Roberts.” Roberts takes off his hat, placing it on his knee, and unbuttons his jacket. “It’s getting a bit chilly out there, compared to Kentucky.”

“You started out in Kentucky? Ain’t ya a little far north for LA?” “Yeah, but I hitched a ride from a trucker in Kentucky and this is where he was going. It was west, so I stayed with him.” “Yeah, South Dakota is west of Kentucky, I’ll give ya that. I’m going to Montana.” “So, you're from Kentucky?” “No, I’m from North Carolina, near the coast. Born and raised.” “Why leave? What’s in LA?” “Movies. I want to be an actor.” “You done any acting in movies I've seen?” “I did some community theater. And I did some commercials.” They chat off and on until they’re a good ways into Montana. Not one thing Roberts says is true. Sam didn’t believe him, or care much anyway. Sam didn’t think much of hitch-hikers. After Rt 90 joins Rt 94, Sam pulls into a truck stop. “We’re just outside Billings. This is where it ends for me. You can hitch a ride on Rt 90 to Butte then get out and hitch a ride south towards LA on Rt 15.” “Thanks much, Sam,” Roberts says, getting out. Roberts thought about killing Sam but just couldn’t get in the mood. Besides, Sam’s truck smelled funny and he didn’t want to drive to LA in a smelly truck. As Roberts gets out, Sam looks behind him at the truck bed. The top of Janice’s knitted cap sticks out of the tarp. The blood is visible from his angle, but not Roberts'. Janice was the last hitcher. Sam makes a mental note to readjust the tarp when he stops for gas. He liked riding with Janice more than with Roberts, and was glad to be rid of him. There’s a bus station down the block. After Sam drives away, Roberts walks to the bus station and buys a ticket for a bus to Butte, then goes into the men’s room to wash off.

* Roberts has his thumb out and his ratty old sports jacket buttoned up as best as he can. His fedora is pulled down to try to keep out the cold. Behind him is a sign for Rt 15. In short order, two girls up front and a guy in back, all in their late teens stop next to Roberts. “We’re going to Reno,” Betsy says. She's blond with a pink t-shirt. “I’m headed for LA, but Reno sounds good to me,” Roberts says. “We’ll give you a ride if you buy food and gas,” Ginger says. She's a red-head with hard expression and a temper. “I can do that.” The guy unlocks the back door. “Are you a serial killer?” George asks with a smart-alecky grin. George seems charming and easy-going. It's a good act. “How did you know?” Roberts laughs. “I’m Al.” “I’m George, she’s Betsy and she’s Ginger.” “Thanks for picking me up.” They chat, tell jokes, eat in restaurants, all the way to Reno. Roberts makes sure they all order dessert in the Applebee's they stop in located 10 miles outside Reno. On the road, Roberts hears faint, muffled yells and bumping sounds coming from the trunk. He notices George eye him after each one, so Roberts launches into a new joke or riddle to deflect the attention. He figures it was someone who didn’t pay the bill. He’d do the same if her were them. They drop him off at a truck stop in Reno.

* Outside that Reno truck stop, Roberts has his thumb out and his ratty old sports jacket flipped over his shoulder. It’s a nice day and he’s looking all cleaned up after a hot shower in the truck stop bathroom. A preacher with a blue clerical shirt and tab collar drives by in a beat up old Toyota. About 30 yards down the road she stops and puts the car in reverse. Roberts walks towards her to meet her halfway, and is a bit shocked to find the preacher is a woman. "Rubenesque" is the phrase that pops into Roberts' mind. She's a big woman, big arms, big hips. She cranks the passenger window down, as the car’s too old for electric power windows. “Would you like a ride?” she asks. “I’m going to LA,” Roberts says. “So am I. I passed you by but felt sorry for you.” "Thank you." Roberts gets in. He notices a dog asleep in the back on a blanket. "That's Betsy, my old yorkie-doodle. She's twelve," she says. “Sweet dog. I love terriers. I’m really glad you stopped. Are you a preacher?” “I’m Reverend Helen Ratchet of the Episcopal Church of Bakersfield, but you can call me Helen.” “Al Roberts. I got a degree in philosophy from UVa but didn’t have a course on religon per se.” “The University of Virginia?” “In Charlottesville. I was born there.” “A long way from there to Los Angeles. What’s in LA for you?” “I’m visiting my brother. I save money hitch-hiking. Little known fact: if you want to be rich, don’t get a degree in philosophy! Ha, ha.” Reverend Helen laughs at that too. “I know what you mean.” They chat off and on until they’re just outside LA. Besides disguising her annoyance at Roberts smell, which she’s good at, not one thing she says is true. But Roberts lies about everything too, which she sees clear as day. After a long day of driving, she pulls over on a deserted section of a highway near a cliff. “... and so the bartender says, ‘Is the Pope catholic?’ Ha, ha. I love that joke. Well, Al, here we are. LA’s not far now. Thanks for the company.” Al just stares blankly at the dashboard. “Let me help you,” Reverend Helen says, getting out of the car and walking around to the passenger side. She opens the door. Roberts has a huge knife sticking out of his chest. She leans him towards her and twists him around so she can grab him under his arms. With a heave-ho, she pulls and drags him out of the car over to the cliff, then pushes him over. Reverend Helen gets back in the car. Betsy wakes up and stretches. Helen pets Betsy behind the ears and and drives off. “The liars have a certain smell, don't you think Betsy?” she says to herself. She pulls out a pine scented spray can from under the seat and sprays the passenger seat. “Much better.”

Nate the Happy Painter (short story 27)

  Over a year ago, as an exercise, I started writing one short story a week. This was something Harlan Ellison (I think) suggested to one of his fans, his reasoning being "You can't write 52 bad short stories in a row." I'm not sure about that, but here's one of those stories.

* Nate, in well-worn shorts and a faded t-shirt, searches for coffee in the kitchen he shares with three others. There are dishes in the sink, the pantry is bare except for some cans of spegetti, and the refrigerator only has moldy cheese in a baggie and some peanut butter. There’s actually more food caked on the walls, stove and oven that in the fridge and panty. No coffee in this drawer ... nor in that. Under the sink? Nope. He washes his stubbly face in the sink, and dries off with the dirty dish towel. Nate goes back to the kitchen table and his notebook and plops down in the chair. Tired, coffeeless.

The phone rings. He lets it go, he knows it’s not for him. “Answer the phone,” says room mate George. It’s probably for George, Nate knows. It rings again.

“Answer the fucking phone,” says Tom. It could be for Tom. Probably George though. It rings again.

“Goddamn it, answer the phone,” yells Derek. Derek is having sex right now with his girlfriend Mary, so he can’t bother answeringing up.

Nate picks up on the fourth ring. “Yeah?”

“Nate? This is Brandon.”

“Haven’t heard from you in awhile.”

“Well, Anna and I have been busy fixing up our last house.”

“How many do you have now?”

“Uhhmmm, I don’t know. Six? No, seven now. We just bought another one. Forty five hundred square feet. In fact, that’s what I called you about.”

“Yeah, I can paint it for you.”

“You read my mind! Anna loved the job you did on our last house. Here’s the deal: we got an estimate of five thousand from a local company. Will you do it for three? We’ll buy the paint, drop clothes, brushes, rolls, everything.”

“How long?”

“Actually, we’re going on vacation, touring Europe and then we’re visiting Anna’s parents. It’s just be you in the house. Can you finish in three weeks?”

“No problem.”

“I’ll stock up the panty with food before we go.”

“Do you have a coffee machine?”

“I’ll make sure your all set with a coffee machine . Thanks man, you’re really saving us a lot of money.”

“No problem.”

“Come over and Anna will tell you what paint schemes she’s got in mind. I’ll send the address. It’s about fifty miles out of the city. Take a taxi. We’ll pay for it.”

“I’ll get packed and be there in a two or three hours.”

* Anna, Brandon stand in the middle of the living room with Nate. The entire house is practically empty, but the floors are clean and the walls are dirty. Anna and Brandon look like a typical young yuppie couple in love. In old sorts and shirt, Nate looks ... well, like he’s about to start painting a house.

“Egg-shell white,” Anna says, indicating the gallons of paint and supplies in the corner of the room. Nate checks them to make sure he’s got enough. He nods, “White.”

All three move into the dining room. “Princess Ivory,” Anna says with a sweep of her arms, “a very soft yellow.” Nate checks the color sample on the cans and nods, “Light yellow.”

They pass to the neighboring kitchen area. “Summer Lily,” Anna says. Nate checks the color sample on the cans and nods, “Yellow.”

Brandon shows Nate the fridge and panty stocked with food. This continues on to the library, the foyer, and all the other rooms on the first floor. They all move up to the second floor. “All the bedroom will be two-tone, two walls one color, two walls another.” They move from bedrrom to bedroom, checking colors and supplies. The second floor also has a small reading room/office. “This one will be two-tones, but the upper half is Vienna Violet and the bottom half is Breeze Blue.” Nate nods, “simple enough.”

They go back to the first floor. “Any questions?” Brandon asks.

“Where do I sleep?”

“The basement, which is also where the coffee machine is,” Brandon says.

“There’s also a bed, bathroom, and the washer and dryer. You can paint the basement however you like.”

“Anything?”

“The limit is your imagination,” Anna says with a smile.

“Cool.” At this Nate cracks a small smile.

* Nate stands at the front door looking outside, waving to Anna and Brandon driving away. “Have fun on your trip!” Anna tooks the hork and zips down the road.

Nate shuts the door and heads downstairs. “First things first,” Nate says to himself. He gets a workspace set up for writing, makes coffee, sets a timer on his cellphone for 2 hours, and sits down at his laptop. Tap, tap, his fingers march a slow beat. Tap, tap. He types a sentence, then deletes it. This goes on for two hours. Ding, he cellphone alarm goes off. He finishes his coffee and heads upstairs.

“White room,” he says making his way to the living room. He lays painters cloth, applies painters tape to the edges, mixes the paint, and gets to work. By the evening, it’s finished. He cleans the brushes in the basement tub, then heads to the kitchen for food. He eats and reads a novel he brought along, turns out the lights and goes to bed.

The next morning, he gets up, makes coffee, sets a timer on his cellphone for 4 hours, and sits down at his laptop. Tap, tap. Same routine. He gets a couple of pages out, but he’s not happy. Ding, he cellphone alarm goes off. He finishes his coffee and heads upstairs.

“Light yellow,” he says making his way to the dining room. You know the drill.

Next day, same thing, different room. A few more pages. Each day on the first floor is about the same. The writing is difficult, and not many pages come out.

The second week, Nate starts painting the second floor. More colors to use when painting the bedrooms. Each room is two-tone, and the colors are a little more variety. Pages come out a little better, not much, but a little. His best writing effort is that day when he paints the small reading room/office in light purple and blue.

* The third week is his last week in the house. He can use whatever colors he likes in whatever pattern he wants. His creative side comes alive and his page production explodes. Each morning he gets up earlier and earlier and, each morning, and the words fly off the page non-stop until the alarm goes off. When he paints, he paints quickly and confidently, with a clear vision. He uses a variety of brushes, and colors but, on occasion, will paint over a section he doesn’t like or needs to be revisited. He paints everything using a different composiiton. Even the inside of a door to the bathroom is painted different than the outside.

Coincidentally, as he finished the last space, his cellphone rings. “How’s it going? We’ll be there tomorrow morning,” Brandon says.

“Just finished,” Nate says.

* Nate’s back in his kitchen, in the apartment he shares with Derek and George and Tom. The same dishes are still in the sink, but the panty is full and the fridge is well-stocked. Now, there’s actually less food caked on the walls, stove and oven than in the fridge and panty. Nate starts to brew coffee. He pulls out his favorite cub from the cabinet in anticipation.

* Brandon and Anna are downstairs with Susan Gessen, an art gallery owner. “Five thousand for the door,” Susan says.

“How much for that wall?” Anna asks, pointing to the large wall with an abstract mural.

“Fifty thousand, if I can get extract it safely.”

“We covered the wall with wallpaper then canvas over that,” Brandon says.

“How much for the whole thing?”

“Ninety thousdand.”

“Deal,” Anna and Brandon say at the same time.

* Nate sips fresh coffee from his favorite cup. His cellphone rings. “Hey, man, I still have your routing number, so I just did a direct deposit in lieu of a check. Hope that’s okay,” Brandon says.

“I saw it. Three thoughsand dollars really helps, thanks,” Nate says.

“No, man, thank you.”

“Anytime you need a house painter, let me know.”

“Funny you should mention that, we might be buying another place in a few months after doing so renovations on this place. New appliances, some landscaping, that sort of thing.”

“Cool, hit me up then. Later,” Nate says hanging up.

Goodbye Buddy (short story 26)

  Over a year ago, as an exercise, I started writing one short story a week. This was something Harlan Ellison (I think) suggested to one of his fans, his reasoning being "You can't write 52 bad short stories in a row." I'm not sure about that, but here's one of those stories.

*

 

In the back seat of their big old sedan sit three kids, 7 year old Tommy, 5 year old Carol, and 3 year old Debbie. Tommy and Carol are buckled in, while Debbie’s in a car seat staring out the car window in wonder. Tommy and Carol act silly. Tommy calls Carol a “Carol-Barrel-Feral-daryl-big-barrel” and Carol calls Tommy a “Tommy-orgami-commie-big-dommy.” When they both laugh, that’s Debbie cue to join in with her own high-pitched laugh.

Fred and Marcie are in the front seat, somber. It’s a humid, overcast day, and looks like rain, but it's holding back. Marcie strokes the greying hairs of their beagle-mix Buddy, who she holds in her arms. Buddy’s awake and stares blankly with his foggy grey eyes. He’s been blind for a few years and has been going deaf recently. 

Fred pulls in the parking lot of the Animal Hospital. “I’ll be right back,” Fred tells his kids in the back. Fred gets out and Marcie opens her door. Fred somberly takes Buddy in his arms and carries him inside. Marcie sniffs, shuts her door, and watches Fred and Buddy go inside.

“What’s wrong, Mommy?” Tommy asks Marcie. “Nothing,” Marcie says without looking at Tommy. Carol tickles Debbie and pokes Tommy in the arm. This starts another sequence of silly laugh-inducing behavior from the back seat, that continues until Fred returns without Buddy. 

Fred gets in the car, pulls out of the parking lot, and heads back home the way they came.

Eventually the silliness in the back seat dies down and Tommy asks, “Where’s Buddy?” 

“Buddy was sick, sweetie,” Marcie says.

“Is Buddy at the dog doctor?” Carol asks.

“We had to put Buddy to sleep,” Fred says, almost apologetically. “What does that mean?” Tommy asks. "He's sleeping?"

“Is Buddy sleeping at the vet’s?” Carol asks.

“Buddy was sick. The vet put him to sleep permanently. He’s not coming back,” Fred says.

“Buddy’s not asleep, he’s dead?” Tommy asks.

“Yes, sweetie, I’m sorry,” Marcie says. Carol starts to cry. Then Tommy starts to cry. When they both cry, that’s Debbie cue to start her own high-pitched, loud wailing.

“Couldn’t you wait until tomorrow?” Carol asks.

“It was his time, honey,” Marcie says.

“No it wasn’t!” Carol said, snot running down her nose.

“He’s not asleep. Why did you say he was?” Tommy asks, in between sobs.

“It’s just an expression,” Fred says. “He was fifteen. That’s a very old age for a dog.”

The rest of the ride home was like this - crying followed by occasional sobbing questions - but, deep down, Tommy didn’t believe Buddy was gone. Buddy has been around the house ever since Tommy was born.

That night, Fred came into Tommy's bedroom to tuck him in for bed. 

Tommy told his dad about thhe times he teased blind old Buddy, picking his up and placing him in front of a wall then loudly calling him from another room. Buddy would walk into the wall and Tommy would laugh like the immature, sometimes cruel, little snot he was. He thought nothing of making fun of Buddy, when Buddy was alive. Now that Buddy was gone, he couldn’t stop thinking of how mean he was. This started a new round of crying.

“I’m sure Buddy’s in heaven and he forgives you,” Fred says, handing Tommy another kleenex.

“How do you know?” Tommy asks in between sobs. 

“He was a nice dog, don’t you think?”

“He was the best.”

“It’s in his personality. Are you going to do that again, if we get another dog?”

“Never, dad. Will God forgive me for being mean to Buddy?”

“You know it was wrong and you promise to do better in the future, right?”

“Yes. I’m sorry.”

“I think God forgives you and Buddy forgives you. And you mom and I forgive you. I love you, kiddo. Get some sleep and let Buddy live a happy life in your dreams tonight.”

“I’m going to dream about playing with Buddy.” 

“Good night,” Fred says, kissing Tommy on his forehead, turning out the lights and softly closing the door. 

Outside, the rain finally stars pouring. And Tommy starts to cry again. 

An episode of "Gracious Gardens" (short story 25)

  Over a year ago, as an exercise, I started writing one short story a week. This was something Harlan Ellison (I think) suggested to one of his fans, his reasoning being "You can't write 52 bad short stories in a row." I'm not sure about that, but here's one of those stories.

*

Gracious Gardens is a soap opera for senior citizens. It's on TV or the web or cable or something. You've seen it. As you know, it takes place in a two story nursing home and hospice care facility in the Baltimore-Washington corridor called Gracious Gardens. Actually, it’s three stories if you count the basement, but that’s underground, for storage only, secured by sophisticated electronic locks, and only accessible by a special key card.

Stay tuned the latest episode...

On the first floor, in the nursing care wing, Alfred Jones is alone with Stanley Johnston in Alfred’s room. No one calls him by Alfred, he hates that. Everyone calls him Jonesy, even the staff, well except for the very busom, very uptight, and very by-the-book Mrs Margery Farnsdale, the head caregiver. She insists on Mr Jones. 

 Jonesy is an 82 year old with a bad back, prostate problems, and heart arhythmia. He walks with a walker, but that’s really just an act. He can walk fine. Stan has bad knees, poor circulation, and high blood pressure. Stan uses a cane. 

 “Stan the Man! I got percoset, tylenol with codeine, vicodin, generic cyallis, viagra - the real thing, twenty-three joints of medical marijuana –” Jonesy says. 

 “Give me a vicodin, three cyallis pills, and two joints,” Stan says. 

 “You got it. Who’s the lucky lady?” Jonesy asks. He gets the pills and joints from a hidden compartment in his dresser and hands them to Stan. 

 “Brenda,” Stan says. Stan hands Jonesy a roll of bills. 

 “Have fun,” Jonesy says, counting the bills and then putting the money in his hidden compartment. “Leave the door open,” Jonesy tells Stan as he exits. 

Leslie Smart enters and shuts the door. “At it again?” she snaps. Leslie has diabetes and cancer but as far as Jonesy knows the big C is in remission. 

 “I provide a public service,” Jonesy says. “How are you, Lee? Did your screening come back okay?” 

“Public service my ass.” 

 “What did the sonogram say?” 

 “It said fuck you,” Leslie says and hobbles to the door. “Leslie, what was it?” 

 “Fuck you, you fucker.” Leslie opens the door and leaves. Jonesy uses his walker to get out to the hallway. He watches Leslie limp away. 

Bill Harding comes up behind him and pats him on the shoulder supportively. Jonesy turns and greets him. “Hey, Bill.” Bill’s had a series of mini-strokes but gets around with a walker. He thinks and speaks okay but has problems processing TV. Somehow the audio and video don’t sync together in his brain. 

“Wanna talk?” Bill asks. 

 “Not in my room,” Jonesy says, heading to Bill’s room next door. Bill follows him in. 

 “I heard her cancer’s back,” Bill says. 

 “She told you?” Jonesy asks. “No, she told Marge. Do something for her. Flowers, whatever.” 

 “She wants a puppy.” Bill laughs. 

“No way in hell. They aren’t even getting a comfort dog in this place. Marge is allergic to dogs.” 

“That battleaxe? I thought she was bulletproof.” Jonesy says. 

 “Everyone's got a chink in their armor, Jonesy. Maybe even you” Bill hands Jonesy a roll of bills. 

“What can I get you?” 

 “Vicodin." ...
It’s 2:15am and Jonesy’s alarm buzzes him awake. He pulls out a small flashlight, flicks it on and pulls an ID smart card out of his hidden compartment. The picture on the face looks nothing like him. Because it isn't. He pockets the flashlight, cracks open his door and looks out. He knows the shift change is now and they are having a staff meeting of the guards, so no one is monitoring the security. He goes down the hall to the “No Admittance” door and swipes the smart cart. It clicks up and he slips down the stairs to the basement. He cracks open the basement door and walks to the storage room. He opens it and swipes the card again on the refrigerated medicine cabinet. He grabs a few pills from each of the bottles and puts each different type of pill in a separate baggie. Then he retraces his steps and hides the stolen pills in his hidden compartment. 

Lastly, he grabs a huge wad of cash from his stash of bills and stuffs it in his pocket. It’s all his money, and he’s been saving for awhile. He uses his walker to go out to the front desk. A bald guy, in a Gracious Gardens monogrammed jacket, is manning the phones. 

 “Busy night, Smooth?” Jonesy asks. 

 “Hey Jonesy, what are you doing at this hour? It's past curfew.” 

“I gotta request.” 

 “Shoot.” 

 “A puppy for Leslie. Flowers for Marge. White roses.” 

“Roses for Marge?"

"So she'll stay quiet about Leslie's puppy."

"About that puppy? No way.” 

 Jonesy pulls his roll of bills on the desk. “Count it.” Smooth counts it and whistles softly. “Wow.” 

“You and the missus can take a trip with the kids.” 

 “What kind of puppy?” 

“The cute kind. And deliver it tomorrow night after lights out.” Smooth nods. 

Jonesy hobbles back to his room with his walker. He’s crying. Everyone's got a chink in his armor. Even Jonesy.

Zander and Zoe get a "C" (short story 24)

 Over a year ago, as an exercise, I started writing one short story a week. This was something Harlan Ellison (I think) suggested to one of his fans, his reasoning being "You can't write 52 bad short stories in a row." I'm not sure about that, but here's one of those stories.

*

One fine fall day at Pinewood University, mad Professor Mu hands out his midterm test to his class. One question is

Kappa the kitty cries more loudly the higher she climbs in her favorite tree. Her volume changes at a rate of f (h) = h + h2 decibels per meter, where h is Kappa’s height above ground measured in meters. Find the integral of f(h) from h=1 to h=5 and explain what it represents in the context of this problem. 

Another question is

Adam the Ant stands at the origin. He begins walking 1 unit in the +x-direction and then turns 45◦ counterclockwise counterclockwise and walks 1/2 units in that direction. Adam Ant then turns another 45◦ counterclockwise and walks 1/3 units in that direction. The ant keeps doing this endlessly. How far is the ant’s final position from its initial position?

He hands out one test to each of his 23 students, included the worst of them, Zander and Zoe. Zander has a scratches and insect bites on his face and neck. Zoe has cat scratches on her arms and insect bites on her face and neck. What are those from?

*

The previous week, Zander and Zoe separately roamed through the stacks in one of the upper floors of the school library. Each wears a book-bag slung over their shoulder, and neither has yet earned the scratches they wore to the midterm. Zander listens to music through earbuds attached to his cell-phone. Lots of students are studying in small cubicals, but a few cubicals, full of books, have been abandoned. Presumably the student studying there went to the bathroom or to go get a coffee from the kiosk on the first floor. Zander and Zoe make a round and meet by the stairs.

“There’s one near the zoology section,” Zoe says. “Looks like a calculus book. New.”

“I saw a chemistry textbook by the oversized books,” Zander says. “I’ll take the zoology desk.”

“I’ll take the oversized,” Zoe says.

The next morning, they go to the textbook store and trade in the chemistry, calculus, and several other textbooks for cash. 

They go straight to Yuri’s room in the international dorm. His door is open and his girlfriend Yancy is doing yoga. Zander knocks on the door frame.

“Que pasa?” Zoe asks.

“Buenos dias. Come in,” Yuri says.

Zander and Zoe enter, and shut the door behind them. “How’s molly?” Zander asks, using their codeword for MDMA.

Yancy smiles. “She just arrived from Barcelona,” Yuri says, as he pulls a baggie of pills from Yancy's purse. 

Minutes later and now high, Zander and Zoe walk through the nearby suburban neighborhood along a street lines with elm trees and brick single family homes. Soon they hear a “meow” and look up. A cat is stuck in the tree.

“Poor thing,” Zoe says.

“I gotta help it get down,” Zander says. Zander climbs the tree, grabs the cat, who scratches him in the face and neck. Zander yells and drops the cat.

Zoe thinks Zander is yelling at her to catch the falling cat. “Here kitty,” she says, arms raised to the falling animal. She catches the cat, who scratches her arms. “Ahhhh! Dammit, cat!”

The cat runs off. Zander loses his footing and falls, out of the tree. THUD! He lands on the grass with a groan. 

Unfazed, Zander and Zoe wander over to a wooded park a few blocks away. Students often use it to hook up for sex at night, but this is the daytime.

“Feeling frisky?” Zander asks Zoe.

“Let’s go behind that big tree over there,” Zoe says as she heads deeper into the woods.

Behind the big tree, an elm by the looks of it, Zoe and Zander settle into some very passionate kissing.

Zoe scratches her legs, takes a breath, and returns to kissing. Zander scratches his back, then gets back to business. Soon, Zoe and Zander scratch a lot more. They both break away from each other at the same time.

“What the fuck?” Zander says, seeing a ton of ants swarming all over both or them.

“Ahhh!” Zoe yells. They both stand up and try to shake, slap and stamp all the ants. “Dammit, ants!” 

So that's how they got the scratches.
*

Back in the classroom taking the midterm, Zoe and Zander have no idea how to answer the test questions. They look at each other with panicked eyes. Zander shrugs and starts writing a but of bullshit. In response to the Kappa the Kitty question, he tells the story of the cat in the tree. Zoe shrugs back and, in response to the Adam Ant question, tells about the aborted sexcapade in the woods. She even scratches her legs, the memory being so vivid.

*

That night, after a marathon grading session in which he, of course, gave both Zoe and Zander an F, Professor Mu had a dream about his crazy mom and dad. 

We need a little background on his poor old parents. Mu would visit them every week in the mental institution they were confined to. Usually Dad thought he was god or George Washington or Humphrey Bogart. Usually Mom thought she was god or Florence Nightingale or Lauren Bacall. The days he visited when they both thought they were god were bad days. But one day he visited when his dad thought he was Humphrey Bogart and his mom thought she was Lauren Bacall. That was a good day. That's the background.

Professor Mu wakes up from his dream because, for some reason he can't fathom, Zoe and Zander reminded him of his mom and dad. He gets up, erases their Fs, replaces them by Cs, then goes back to sleep. He dreams of his mom and his dad - he's Humphrey Bogart and she's Lauren Bacall.

Even Steven for Steve (short story 23)

Over a year ago, as an exercise, I started writing one short story a week. This was something Harlan Ellison (I think) suggested to one of his fans, his reasoning being "You can't write 52 bad short stories in a row." I'm not sure about that, but here's one of those stories.



*
Steve doesn’t like his neighbor Rudy. There were lots of reasons. Some- times Rudy would go into his garage while Steve was at work and “borrow” something. If it was gone, Steve knew where to go. And it doesn’t matter if Steve tells Rudy to ask first. Rudy does what he wants when he wants to. Sometimes Rudy would dump his yard waste behind Steve’s bushes in the back of his yard. Is there any point in listing all the reasons? Not really. The point is, Steve doesn’t like Rudy.
Don’t think Steve was an anti-social type, nor that he’s just a stingy miser. His friend Leon comes over frequently, and when he’s over he eats from the friedge like it’s his food. The point here is that Steve also goes over to Leon’s and acts the same way. Even Steven, as the cliche goes (yes folks that pun was intended).

In fact, just the other day, Steve made a big pot of turkey soup and vegatables and invited Leon over for a meal. “Good, but a little plain,” Leon says.
“Add what you want,” Steve says, pushing salt, pepper, spices across the table.
Leon adds a lot of pepper, “That’s it,” Leon slurps with a satisfied smile. Steve looks at the amount of pepper Leon added with disapproval.
“Say, can I borrow a tupperware bowl and take some home with me?” Leon asks.
“Why not just come over? I love sitting down with someone else over soup,” Steve says. “Or, just come over can grab some yourself, if I’m working in the yard or something.”
“Hey, thanks Steve. You’re cool,” Leon says. Leon lives in the house behind him, and can just cut through their backyard.

So when Rudy “borrows” something from Steve without asking, or has his pets take a crap in his yard, Steve takes offense. It’s rude. So, to teach Rudy a lesson, Steve’s has taken to devising an appropriate response. An eye-for-an-eye sort of thing.
When Rudy took a hammer for the third time without asking, Steve pounded a nail into one of his tires. Then, Steve’s the first to tell Rudy about the “vandal attack.” Steve walks over to Rudy’s house, and knocks on the door politely.
Rudy opens, “Hi Steve, what’s up?” Rudy asks.
“Did you see what some asshole did to your car?” Steve asks. “Come here.” Steve leads Rudy to the back left tire of Rudy’s car. There’s a flat tire with a nail in it, and a hammer lying nearby.
“Holy shit!” Rudy says.
“I know. Hey, is that my hammer?” Steve asks, picking it up. “I thought it was lost.”
“Oh, I might have borrowed it from your garage and forgot to return it.”
“No, problem,” Steve says. “Sorry about your tire.” Steve walks back to his home with his hammer.
You get the idea?
Later that day, Steve has some soup. Leon wasn’t around, so he ate alone. Then he got a tummy ache. 

Was it a guilty conscience related to his vandalism, he wondered? He'd hear of these psychosomatic illnesses. He's a little worried.
But the Rudy’s car vandalism also gave Steve a sense of calm, as though the balance of the scales of justice has been restored. Steve says to himself “The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice.” He thinks of himself as the arc. So when Steve got a stomach ache after the latest action of his moral arc, he figured maybe that's the price he has to pay to balance moral order in world.
The next day, after Rudy took a power drill for the second time without asking, Steve drilled several holes in each of Rudy’s Bonsai trees decorating his back porch. Steve walks over to Rudy’s house, and knocks on the door politely. Rudy opens, “Hi Steve, what is it this time?” Rudy asks.
“Did you see what that damn woodpecker did to your Bonsai garden in your back yard?” Steve asks. Steve leads Rudy to Rudy’s back yard.
“They’re all going to die now,” Rudy says. “They took years to grow and cultivate.”
“Bummer, dude. Hey, it that my power drill?” Steve asks, pointing to Rudy’s picnic table.
“Oh, maybe I borrowed it from your garage and forgot to return it.”
"Why is it wet?"
"It rained last night. Maybe I forgot to bring it in."
“Water under the bridge,” Steve says. “Sorry about your tree.” Steve walks back to his home with his drill. Later that day, Steve has some more soup. Leon wasn’t around, so he ate alone. Then, as before, he got a tummy ache.

Again, the nagging question, does he deep down feel sorry for killing the bonsai trees? He's a lot worried now. He calls up Leon. Leon would know. “Hey Leon, I have a question for you,” Steve says into the phone.
“I’m glad you called, I wanted to thank you for the soup,” Leon says. “You already did, the other day.”
“No, for lunch. You were over in Rudy’s back yard, so I helped myself. I love it with lots of pepper.”
“You added pepper to my soup?”
“Yeah, it’s too plain, don’t you think?”
“No, pepper gives me a tummy ache.”
“I’m sorry dude. Did I put in too much?”
Now Steve knows, it’s not a guilty conscience, it’s just pepper. Steve realizes where his tummy ache is coming from and is happy it isn’t from guilt at all. “Thank God for the pepper,” Steve says.
“What? You like pepper or you don’t?” Leon asks.
“Don’t woory, man. I’ll make a new pot of soup tomorrow. Come on over,” Steve says, hanging up the phone and smiling. He goes to his window and looks at Rudy’s house. “The moral arc of the universe is long and it bends towards fucking you up some more, Rudy you asshole.”

Mad Professor Mu (short story 22)

Over a year ago, as an exercise, I started writing one short story a week. This was something Harlan Ellison (I think) suggested to one of his fans, his reasoning being "You can't write 52 bad short stories in a row." I'm not sure about that, but here's one of those stories.



*
One cold winter day, Mad Professor Mu sits back in his chair in his comfy den and looks at his desk covered with exam papers. ACHOO! He just manages to cover his mouth. He's alone, but he likes to be polite even at home alone. He gets a kleenex from the third drawer on the left of his desk and blows his nose. All this dusk affects his allergies. From outward appearances, it’s a disorganized desk. But to Professor Mu, every kleenex box, every paper, book, pen, pencil, and even eraser dust is where it should be. It is a microcosym of the world. Everything should be be as a result of logical cause-and-effect. He daydreams of his perfect world, where everyone’s rational, we all think about our actions and their consequences like a chess master. We all understand and respect each other, because it’s only logical - disrespect leads to unbalance and disharmony. Everyone knows what they know and what they don’t know. What they don’t know, they admit. Professor Mu would certainly admit it if there was anything he didn’t know. But, of course, in his mind, a perfect brain if there ever was one, there wasn’t. As much as he knew his humongous talents, he also knew that bragging was a form of disrespect, so to be avoided.

In his 10th year at a small liberal arts college, Mad Professor Mu finishes grading his last calculus exam.

He sets his red pen down, adds the last exam to the stack of finished ones on his desk, and sighs. But it’s not a sigh of relief as much as it’s a sigh of disgust. To avoid giving everyone an F, he lowered his standards so far below what he thinks is reasonable, that he wonders if he has any standards left at all. What is he doing to the world by passing all these students, ones he considers the weakest of any class he’s ever taught? Of course, he says this about students each class at the end of each semester, and he knows that he does, but he shudders anyway. Zoe and Zander come to mind, the morons. And they've selected electrical engineering as their majors! What audacity. The won't get admitted, not with their weak math skills they won't be, not if he has anything to do with it.

That is his world and that is when his momentary peace of mind was interrupted. RING! It’s a call from his best student, Ariel. She and Aaron were the only students who got an A. She flatters Professor Mu with news of how much the class loved him and hated the semester to end. Of course, he didn’t tell her the feeling wasn’t mutual, because, like the chess master he was, he calculated that would put and end to more flattery. “Isn’t that nice,” he says. With Professor Mu, flattery will get you brownie points. Ariel has an idea: an end of the semester party, a week after the final exam, and the party is to be held at his house. Earlier in the semester, he let it slip to Ariel that he rented a house for the semester near campus. Now he regrets that, but he has to admit that, of course, his house is the logical location. Anyone with a basic understanding of two-dimensional geometry and constrained minimization problems could see it was the optimal off-campus location for a large end-of-semester party. He had to say yes, it was the only rational decision.

The final was earlier that day. He had just a week to prepare. As if he was starting a new class, a new semester, and a new topic, Professor Mu prepared like, well you know, mad. What would they do at the party? Well, eat of course. He computed the amount of food and drink and ordered it all online. These grocery delivery apps are great, he thought. Then he thought of the entertainment. Hangman? No, he’s done that so many times before. Hide and Seek? No, too time consuming. Wink Murder? Yes!

Wink Murder is a game in which a secretly selected player, called the Killer, is able to “kill” others by winking at them, while the surviving players try to identify the killer. There is a variant with a publicly selected player, called the Detective, whose job it is to guess who the murderer is. The detective gets only three guesses. He plans to have the students select the Killer by drawing straws. However, Professor Mu will arrange the short straw to be picked by Aaron, so he’ll be the Killer. Professor Mu will select Ariel to be the Detective. He definitely didn’t want Zander or Zoe to be the Killer or the Detective. They were his worst students. Probably cheaters as well, he worried (without any evidence). Otherwise, how could they possibly qualify to be allowed into his class, the great Professor Mu?

It's the week after the final exam. Prof Mu gave a test question on diffusion equations and absorption rates on his final exam. A simple equation, which he explained over and over again. The solution is the simplest of functions, an exponential function. That test question was a “gimme,” a question so easy that it was a gift to the student. Unfortunately, that generosity was lost on every student but Aaron and Ariel, and everyone but those two got it wrong. Professor Mu knew one thing: those students must pay for not understanding diffusion rates. He has a special chemical in mind to dissolve into their bloodstream. It’s of his own invention - he calls it EverSleep. It will put them to sleep, but without the antidote, they will continue to sleep forever! Especially Zander and Zoe. He’ll bake his EverSleep doses into a cake. That will teach them to understand diffusion equations and absorption rates, the morons.

Mad Professor Mu also gave a test question on the electric force on his final exam. He bent over backwards to try to give Zoe and Zander a chance. And it had a simple solution, if you were paying attention. Again, all but Aaron and Ariel got it wrong. Professor Mu has a shocking surprise for some of those poor students who can't understand the differential equations governing electricity. While wearing a special glove of his own invention, he can deliver a deadly shock to his students, yet he feels nothing since the inside of the glove is insulated. The glove is attached to a small high-capacity battery, also of his own invention. It’s really rather ingenious, as it gathers it’s electrical charge via Wi-Fi. He'll patent it one day and make millions. Professor Mu can’t wait to see the look on Zander’s face when he shakes his hand and gives him the shock of his life! That will be the test of the battery's effectiveness. Of course, he’s only do it after Zander has his fair share of EverSleep cake.

Hours before the party is to start, Professor Mu pulls out his special glove, and charges it's Wi-Fi battery. Then he goes to the kitchen and starts to bake the cake with the special EverSleep doses. He's about to put it in the oven, his hands covered with EverSleep powder when -- ACHOO! He turns away from the cake and covers his face with his hands to catch the sneeze in his palm. He wanders to his den to get a kleenex from the third drawer on the left side of his desk when he suddenly feels drowsy. He realizes too late that he's accidentally dosed himself with his own EverSleep. He collapses in his chair.

Ariel and Aaron, accompanied by Zoe and Zander, arrive at the party early, with beer and wine. They knocked and knocked, no answer. Zander walks around to the back yard and sees Prof Mu unresponsive in his den. He tells the others then, being the most athletic of them, climbs in through a window. He discovers Professor Mu is merely asleep. But he notices the Wi-Fi battery and Professor Mu’s notebook on his experiments. He may not know a lot of mathematics but he knows a Wi-Fi battery has never been invented that small. He stuffs the battery and notebook in his jacket, then climbs back out the window.

“Professor Mu is sleeping. I think he’s tired from all the grading. Let’s party at Aaron’s,” Zander says.

“Sounds good, Zander” Aaron says. Ariel and Zoe nod.

“Zoe and I will meet over there. Ariel, can you ride with Aaron?” Zander asks.

“No problem,” Ariel says. Ariel and Aaron get in their car and take off.

Zander and Zoe get in theirs. Zander turns to Zoe. “Zoe, we are going to be very, very rich.”

O'Ryan's bark (short story 19)

Over a year ago, as an exercise, I started writing one short story a week. This was something Harlan Ellison (I think) suggested to one of his fans, his reasoning being "You can't write 52 bad short stories in a row." I'm not sure about that, but here's one of those stories.

This story was inspired by old film noirs such as The Big Combo and who doesn't love dogs?

*

Detective Leon O'Ryan drives his new 1940 police cruiser on a downtown street in the neo-noir majestic city of Dogsville. He's a Leonberger, a kind of cross between a St Bernard and a German Shepard. A thick-coated gentle giant, unless you cross him. In the distance he sees the Opera House. He parks under the neon art deco-styled sign "Opera House" and barks once as he gets out of his Ford. He wants everyone to know he's on a case. Well-dressed patrons pour into the entrance from the sidewalk.

O'Ryan, wearing hang-dog expression, approaches Tina, a frizzy-furred Terrier-mix ticket-taker in a theater uniform. He flashes his police badge with a hungry growl. "Rough night, Tina?" O'Ryan’s already headed backstage.

"Oh, Detective O'Ryan, so nice of you to ask ... but just ignore me and go right in" she sniffs. She's in love with him. The feelings not mutual.

O'Ryan enters a hallway and spots Lucky Lewis, an energetic and independent Irish Setter, and Bella Blade, a strong-willed alert Kerry Blue Terrier. They're sitting on their haunches outside an office having a spirited discussion.

"Give me that wink one more time I will cut you," Blade says to Lewis. YIIIPPP! Blade yelps, gently nips at her bottom, and growls at Lewis. He looks at her innocently, but as she stares him down, his stare breaks into a smirk. WHAM! She slaps Lewis right across the face. Her claws leave a mark.

O'Ryan approaches them, Blade confronts him. "Tighten your lease, big boy."

Knife Nickels, a bold and boisterous German Shorthaired Pointer, joins them from another direction wearing a tux. He brushes Blade back. "I'll handle this, Blade. Can I help you, Detective O'Ryan?"

"I'm looking for Mr Biddel."

"Who says he’s here?" Nickels asks.

"I do, dog-dammit!" O'Ryan barks.

Lewis and Knife bark back. "Say the magic word," Blade yaps. The thugs snicker.

O'Ryan reaches into a pocket of the tux and pulls out some poker chips. "Back off or I'll raid the Biddel Casino. I've seen evidence of your poker games ..."

An image of a Dogs Playing Poker painting on velvet flashes in O'Ryan's mind. They all see it. The dog thugs’ smiles vanish.

"And when I say raid, I mean I'll pee on every poker table and slot machine in sight. Accidentally." He growls and lifts a back leg in a threatening manner.

Knife Nickels takes a perfect Pointer stance in the direction of Mr Biddel. "Amazing. You know the magic word, Detective. Follow me." Nickels trots.






In the Opera Center's rehearsal room, Mr Biddel’s musical trio is playing. It consists of:

-- Guitarist Ivan, a blue-eyed Siberian Husky whose friends say is outgoing and friendly. His enemies know he's got a vicious bite and doesn't issue a warning growl first.

-- Drummer Marco, an Andalusian Hound whose excellent sight and hearing makes up for his scrawnny looks.

-- Pianist Frita, a very intelligent, curly-haired Spanish Water dog who daydreams of swimming in a lake.

Some may call Mr Biddel, a "blue" Bedlington Terrier, spirited and some may call him intelligent, but no one, I mean no one, calls him affectionate. His bodyguard Charla the Choke, a sturdy female English Bulldog with slobber on her big jowls, sits nearby. They both watch Susan Meropy, a high-strung but friendly Papillon, on a rehearsal platform. Other singers, also in fancy dress, stand to the side on the platform waiting their turn in line. Meropy is expertly howling a beautiful aria. Everyone but Mr Biddel and Charla smiles while listening to her.

Mr Biddel leans over to Charla. "Have her start working at the Casino tomorrow."

"Yes, sir," Charla says.

Lewis, Blade, O'Ryan and Nickels enter. Nickels trades a glance with Charla. She gives him a tiny smile. They've got something going on, after hours doggie style.

Charla signals to Meropy and she suddenly stops. "Wonderful, thank you, Miss Meropy. You can start tomorrow."

Meropy sees O'Ryan and laughs nervously. O'Ryan looks at the racy Dogs Playing Strip Poker painting hanging on the wall behind Mr Biddel. One of them looks like Susan.

"Thank you. Glad the opera lessons my parents paid for weren’t completely wasted," Susan says.

"Yes, they were. It won't be here," Mr Biddel says smugly.

Charla tosses Susan a skimpy glittery harness with a silvery chain-collar. "You’ll be working the Casino." O'Ryan growls. Susan just whines a sad note.

"Next!" barks Charla. One of the other singers, a Poodle mix, gets on the platform, yapping happily, brushing Susan aside. The Poodle mix gets the nod from Charla and starts singing her song.

"Mr Biddel, Detective O'Ryan wants to see you," Nickels says. Mr Biddel growls and stares coldly at O'Ryan for a moment before he turns on his characteristic charm with a friendly yap. "Detective O'Ryan, what a pleasure this is. What can I do for you?"

"There was a murder at the von Dyck mansion this morning," O'Ryan says.

"Horrible," Biddel says dryly.

"I appreciate your concern, considering your father was ..."

"Murdered there by a hit-and-run driver." YOWWLLL! Biddle howls at the moon. "So, you think there's a connection?"

O'Ryan examines the jowls of the other dogs, especially those in the band. "This one was reported yesterday."

"You're confused, Detective. How could the murder be reported yesterday but occur this morning?"

"Yesterday morning, a letter arrived at the von Dyck mansion demanding a ransom. If a million dog-bones wasn't paid in twenty-four hours, it said one of them would die."

Mr Biddel turns to Charla and Nickels. "Do you either of you think they paid the ransom?"

"Couldn't say, boss," Charla says.

"No clue, boss," Nickels says.

"I'm guessing they didn't. Such a dog-darned shame," Mr Biddel says.

"So, you had nothing to do with it?"

"Nothing whatsoever."

``Whoever did it killed one of your own family members," O'Ryan growls.

"It's a dog eat dog world out there," Mr Biddle says.

"Well, everywhere, actually," Susan correctly him. Mr Biddle stares her down. Charla adds to it a low growl. "Sorry," she whines.

O'Ryan tosses Mr Biddel a poker chip, which bounces off Biddel's nose and rolls over to Blade who sniffs it cautiously. Some dogs can't fetch worth one dog-damn. "I've got proof of illegal gambling at your casino. If I see you're connected with the mansion murder, you're going down."

"Illegal gambling? I have no idea what you are talking about," Mr Biddel says.

The cell-phone dangling from O'Ryan's collar rings. "You still have a 1939 cell phone, Lenny?" Susan asks. O'Ryan's cell phone looks like a box with a seem in it. Dogsville has always had cell phone, even in the 1940s. "I'll upgrade when I get around to it," he says as he flips it open, looks at the caller ID and closes it with a growl. "I gotta go. Thanks for nothing, Biddel" he says sarcastically.

O'Ryan looks at Meropy, who braves a sad "Call me," then he exits, growling as he passes Nickels and Charla.

Mr Biddel turns to his band. "You two, go prepare another dose," he barks. Frita and Marco nod and run out, barking excitedly, their nails clacking on the tile floor.

"Deliver another letter," Mr Biddel barks to Ivan.

Ivan nods. "At the usual time?"

"Yes."

Ivan bounds towards the door with a yap.



*

The Dogsville Police Department is a concrete and steel structure. Two uniformed German Shepherd cops enter the glass and steel double doors.

Typical glass-walled police office. Wanted posters on the walls, messy desk with a large desk plate reading "Commissioner Lockberg," overflowing bookshelf, scattered chairs. Commissionor Harvey Lockberg, a old Bloodhound, sits at his desk, sniffing the von Dyck case files. He's dressed in a three piece suit which doesn't quite hide his big beer belly.
Wearing a wrist watch and a uniform, Renee Molina, a female Doberman Pinscher with a mean disposition, stands at attention. Clayton Alton, a hard-working Hungarian Puli, enters with Ron the Rubberneck, a Dachshund, who he pushes down into a chair.

"Here’s Rubberneck, like you asked, Commissioner Lockberg," Alton says.

"Good work." Lockberg picks up a thick phonebook. "Back from Dogsville General already, Molina?"

"Sir, the doctor pronounced me fit and ready for duty," Molina says. She snaps at an imagined fly in the room.

"Glad you have you back on the force."

"Glad to be wearing the blue again, sir," she says.

"I'm not guilty. I had nothing to do with it," Rubberneck says innocently.

"I didn’t even ask you anything yet," says Lockberg.

"The news of the von Dyck murder has has every tail in the city wagging, but I don't know nothing," Rubberneck says.

Lockberg takes a practice swing at Rubberneck's head with the phonebook. "Just warming up," he growls.

"Poisoning is not my thing. I have simpler methods," Rubberneck whines.

"He burns his victims with acid," Molina says. Rubberneck's face stretches into a proud smile.

"True. It’s not his M.O., boss," Alton says.

Lockberg slams the phonebook on his desk. The phone rings. "Get this freak out of here. Question other other inmates."

"Mind if I borrow your phonebook?" Molina asks.

"I like the way you think, Molina, but get your own dog-damn phonebook!" Lockberg picks up the phone, held away form his jaws.

"Yes, sir." Alton and Molina leave with Rubberneck.

Lockberg speaks into the phone. "Dogsville Police, Lockberg. ... Son-of-a-bitch, another letter? ... Be right there." Lockberg grabs his coat and trots out.


*


Against the night time sky, the marquee of Biddel's Casino shouts:

Iceberg Casino! Beautiful Dancers! Gambling!

O'Ryan exits his parked car, runs to an alley neighboring the entrance, climbs the steps up the side entrance, and throws open the door with his teeth. Too late, he sees the sign "Careful! Don't leave bite marks on the door knob!"

In her casino dressing room, Susan, still wearing her tiny dancing outfit, sips a drink and strips off glitter and make-up. KNOCK, KNOCK! O'Ryan enters.

"Some audition, huh, Lenny?" Susan says.

"From opera dreams to casino dancer. Mr Biddel sure stuck a pin in your ballon, doll face."

"Hostess, is the correct term, thank you," Susan says with a sarcastic laugh.

"Glad you can laugh about it. Do you know what's Mr Biddel up to?"

"All I know is what he pays me to know, which isn't much." Susan rubs up against O'Ryan. He smells her soft fur, then grows cold.

"This isn't a time for cuddles and kisses, cutie pie," he says. Susan backs off with a sniff.

"I’m waiting, Susan."

"He thinks his father was murdered by family members," she says.

"The ones still living in the von Dyck mansion?" he asks.

"He wants revenge and he wants the von Dyck mansion for his new headquarters."

"Lenny, get me out of here. Can't you do anything?"

"Right now, I’ve got a forest fire. I can’t save every tree."

``You better come back real soon, Mr Fireman.''

O'Ryan leaves her dressing room and runs out the side exit.


*

Beautiful gardens surround the Wainer mansion. Below a balcony, Sally, a graceful Basenji, heads towards a back door.

In the mansion's library, Penworth, a Welsh Corgi, enters with a serving tray, accompanied by Detective O'Ryan.

"Mister Wainer, Detective O'Ryan is here," Penworth announces. Penworth serves Bucky Wainer, a black French Bulldog, and Skip Foxman, a Smooth Fox Terrier, drink bowls.

"I saw you called and came right over," O'Ryan says.

Bucky looks at Skip. "Mr Foxman, head of Wainer Research, detected a break-in."

"Some chemical formulas from a compromised computer server were stolen," Foxman says.

"Any suspects?" O'Ryan asks.

"A hacker leaves paw prints on the computers they break into. Not real ones, of course, just little tell-tale signs that enable investigators to distinguish one hacker from another. This one has the pianist's paw prints all over it," Foxman says.

"Frita?"

YAP! "Sorry, I mean yep," Foxman nods.



*


Molina and Alton escort Rubberneck though the bullpen. Alton nips Rubberneck. "Rubber?" Alton asks. "I felt it," Rubberneck whines. and pushes him. "Move it. Back to your cell, Rubberneck and shut your yap."

Alton's cell-phone rings and he looks at the number. "Sorry Molina, I gotta take this. My kid was sick this morning."

"Go, Alton! Catch up with me when you can. I got this," Molina says with a snarling smile.

Alton leaves. Rubberneck and Molina walk through the rows of desks. She spots a phonebook on the desk of Detective Winona Eppie, West Highland White Terrier Molina passes Eppie's desk as she's questioning a Pekingese suspected of perpetrating a purse pick-pocketing.

"How are the kids, girlfriend?" Molina asks Eppie. Eppie drops a pen on the floor and leans over to pick it up. Out of nowhere, Rubberneck pulls out a knife. Molina picks up the phonebook and slams him beside the head, who, now dazed, drops the knife.

Eppie sits up, pen in hand, not seeing a thing. "Good. My littlest just started kindergarden."

Molina pockets the knife and tosses the phonebook to Eppie. "Phonebook fell. Is it time for indergarden already? I see a proud mommy!"

"That I am. Thanks, Molina. Be good now."

"I'm good, when I'm real good, I'm bad." They laugh. Molina pushes Rubberneck along.






Molina, with Rubberneck, walks up to the burly jailhouse guard, Tommy Teagle a Beagle mix, at the cellblock entrance. After he buzzes her in, she looks back to the guard.

"Lockberg wants to see you. Now, Teagle," Molina says. Doors slam behind Molina and Rubberneck. Teagle woofs, puts his night-stick on his table and trots out.

Right away, the inmates start with the hooting and cat-calls. Molina picks up the night-stick. The more Molina swaggers the worst the jeers get. After a dozen yards, she slams Rubberneck over the head with it, knocking him against the bars of a cell. That left a mark.

"In there," Molina barks. She points to his cell. Rubberneck enters, a dent in his head turning into a growing red bump. He moans. The cell door slams shuts.Molina looks at the other inmates. "Which one of you bitches wants it next?"

She walks over to the biggest and baddest of them all, Kurly, a King-Kong sized Komondor mix. "You, Kurly?" Kurly growls. Molina throws the knife into his leg so hard it disappears. Kurly yowls, drops to his side, and howls. She opens his cell door. "Those howls had better be dog-damned prayers. I have questions about the von Dyck mansion murder and you’d better have my answers."





Alton and Molina stands at the rim of a huge pool of bloody water. Well-lit from below, we can see three large sharks. Kurly stands cuffed by the edge of the pool. Rubberneck the Dachshund is beside him, shivering. "Why do you have a shark tank inside a jail?" Rubberneck asks.

"That's for the good dogs to know and the bad dogs to fine out," Alton barks.

Molina yanks on Kurly's fur. "Sharks love Komondors."

"What do you want, Molina?" Kurly asks.

"Do you know how long it takes for three freshwater bull sharks to eat a full-grown Komondor?" Molina asks. Kurly shakes his whole body.

"Rubberneck, do you know?" Molina asks.

"I don't know nothing," he whines.

Molina smiles invitingly, softly stroking Kurly's thick, curly hair. "Not even a guess?"

"Thirty minutes?" Kurly guesses.

Molina nods to Alton. He barks, grabs Rubberneck, who starts yapping loudly, and tosses him into the pool. The sharks get busy.

"Even a shark's gotta eat. Oh, they're hungry. Let's time it." Molina looks at Kurly, smiles coldly, then at her wrist watch. "He must be tough, they're still chewing," Alton says.
Rubberneck's painful YIPES! echo the walls. "They're just chewing," Kurly says.

"You're next, Kurly," Molina says, "unless you talk." Molina starts to push him into the pool.

"Stay away from the chew toy --" ACCKK! Kurly drops dead of a heart attack, right on Alton's front paw. Alton checks Kurly's pulse. "He's dead," Alton says.

"We've learned two valuable lessons today, Alton. First, the bigger they are, the harder they fall." Molina nods to Alton's sore paw. "Second, it takes at least three minutes for three freshwater bull sharks to eat a full-grown Dachshund," Molina says, checking her watch.

Alton peeks into the pool. "I think they're still chewing," Alton says.


*


The sun shines over a large grassy lawn in front of the von Dyck mansion.

Ivan silently slinks up to the front of the van Dahl mansion, with a letter in his teeth. He checks his watch and places a letter on the welcome mat. He paws the doorbell and vanishes around the corner.

*


In Biddle's laboratory, Marco and Frita wear lab coats. "Why don't we use the poison stolen from Wainer Research? Worked like a charm last time."

"Because, I have invented the perfect poison," Marco says. "I call it Tango Powder. The victim dances the tango until they drop dead of a heart attack." Marco does a little manic happy feet tango dance then stops when Frita shakes her head, then her neck, then her body.

She's totally unimpressed, and scratches behind her ears while growling to prove it. "How about a delayed action poison in a delicious chew toy?" Frita says. "Using the poison we just stole."

Marco lays down flat, his chin on the ground, and whines.

"What will get you nowhere," Molina snaps.

*

The large dining room of the von Dyck mansion is one big crime scene. Lockberg and several cops gather evidence. Shaka von Dyck, the Australian Silky Terrier, collapsed dead in her chair at one end of a long dining table. Molina and Alton, question Shaka's brother Carl and mother Gloria at the other end.

"When did she collapse?" Lockberg asks.

"Shaka collapsed right after dinner. Was it something she ate?"

"The victim has partially eaten asparagus on her plate," Alton says.

Lockberg absent-mindedly scratches behind his ear. Molina snaps at an imaginary bug in the air. "Did you eat the asparagus?" Lockberg asks Gloria.

"No, I gave mine to Shaka. She loved asparagus so much!" Mrs von Dyck starts to cry. Alton gives her a tissue. "What about you?" Alton asks Carl.

"I gave mine to Shaka as well. I hate asparagus," Carl says.

"I don't believe this guy," Molina whispers to Lockberg, eyeing Carl.

"What did Kurly tell you? I mean, before his heart attack in jail?" Lockberg asks Molina.

"He said don't touch the von Dyck’s chew toys," Molina says. Molina flips on her back.

"I'm not giving you a tummy rub, Molina," Lockberg says.

Molina barks at Carl. "Me neither," Carl says to Molina. Molina flips back on her feet and growls at Carl. "Did you kill her?" Lockberg barks at him.

"I swear didn't kill my sister," Carl whines. Carl grabs a chew toy. "That's mine!" Gloria von Dyck whines. They fight over the chew toy, growling, snarling and biting. Mrs von Dyck wins.

"Eat the asparagus then, Carl von Dyck!" Lockberg barks.

"I want my lawyer!" Carl howls. Lockberg and the other dog cops exchange yeah-they’re-guilty looks. Then .. AACCKK! Mrs von Dyck and Carl both gasp for breath, then collapse, dead.

Molina breaks the stunned silence from the dog cops. "Maybe they are innocent after all?"

"Bag that chew toy," Lockberg growls, "and let's get Biddel."

*

Lockberg, Molina, Alton and O'Ryan burst into at the Opera Center's rehearsal room, barking excitedly. Mr Biddel is listening to his musical trio playing jazz. The musicians stop.

"You're all under arrest," O'Ryan barks.

"We know how you poisoned your family, Biddel," Lockberg barks. He cuffs Biddel.

"We've got proof you stole the poison used from Wainer Labs, Frita," Molina growls. She cuffs Frita.

Ivan and Marco drop their instruments and run. Alton collars them both. O'Ryan cuffs Marco while Alton cuffs Ivan.

RING! O'Ryan checks his cell-phone. "I gotta take this" He answers his phone. "Susan, you okay? ... Good, tonight? Yeah. Can I call you right back? I've got my paws full. ... Two large dog bones and a gallon of toilet water? ... Okay!" O'Ryan hangs up.

"You lucky dog," Alton says. O'Ryan tries to hide an embarrassed smile.

"You bad dogs aren't so lucky," O'Ryan says to Biddle and his pack. "Bad dog!" Molina adds. Then she snaps at an imaginary fly in the room.

"But think of the bright side, you'll play all the music you like, in the Dogsville Cellblocks," O'Ryan growls.

Biddel and his cronies all howl to the moon.