Pulp Friday Actually on Friday (PF9)

I may actually stick to the Fridays, but we'll see. Pulp episodes continue...

Previously on Pulp Friday:

PF 1
PF 2
PF 3
PF 4
PF 5
PF 6
PF 7
PF 8

”It’s the last thing you did in Maui.”

H.P.’s words are still ringing in my head as he and the goons leave the court. I’m still not quite sure what he means yet, but I’ve got a nervous jitter in my veins that says it’ll come to me soon.

I’m still thinking about this when something obvious jolts me out of my reverie. As I watch H.P. and the goons walk across the baseball fields, it occurs to me that I should follow them.

I leave the tennis courts and walk toward my apartment and then stop behind the largest tree near the courts, hoping I’m stealthy enough.

I look out from behind the tree and see the three figures heading toward the gym parking garage. I walk parallel to them, but away from the sidewalk. The dusk has settled deep enough that the purple-pink glow from the sidewalk lampposts becomes the only available light in the park. I hope this will keep me unnoticed.

Keeping what I think is a safe distance from H.P.’s group, I follow for several minutes toward the gym garage. As they reach the garage, the three trench coats disappear into the stairway entrance. This allows me to make up the distance between us. I run up to the garage and enter through the vehicle entrance, running up the exit ramp as fast as I can.

It’s times like this that I’m thankful Jenny made me quit smoking. My lungs only burn slightly as I head up the first floor ramp to the second level. I listen for the stairway door’s echoing slam that’ll tell me when H.P.’s group has re-entered the garage. Hearing nothing yet, I decide to head up to the third level.

Seconds later, I hear a resounding creak of door hinges on the floor above me. They’ve moved faster than I expected. I move as fast as I can up the ramp to the third level.

As I near the top of the ramp, I hear the boom of the stairway door on the opposite side of the garage and the clopping of what seems like three pairs of feet. I get to the third level and head for the concrete dividing wall between the entrance and exit ramps of the garage, trying to tread lightly.

I reach the dividing wall in the middle of the garage and move quickly to the opening that will allow me to get to the entrance ramp on the other side of the garage where H.P. and his goons are. This will hopefully allow me to see where the getaway vehicle is parked.

Sure enough, I peer through the opening and see H.P. and the goons walking along the opposite wall of the garage. The parking lot is mostly full so I have plenty of vehicles to shield me.

There’s two lines of cars between me and the goons. I crouch low and follow parallel to them as they make their way to the corner of the garage. They stop at a glossy black sedan and H.P. takes keys out of his trench coat. I cross over one line of cars toward the group as H.P. fiddles with his very large key ring. I take up spying position a few cars down. Finally, the sedan gleeps twice at H.P., its slitted red taillight eyes flashing in sinister greeting.

Then, the car starts to lurch from side-to-side in a gentle rocking motion. The goon with the heavy, inexplicable accent barks out a laugh.

”I gersh that she’s avake nuw.”

”You’ll have some lively company for the ride back, then,” H.P. says in his soprano tone.

Weird Accent Goon opens the left-side passenger door and a pair of bound feet immediately appear through the opening. I can’t tell if they’re the same feet that were being dragged through my apartment door earlier today, but it seems like a safe bet.

I watch Weird Accent Goon palm the heels of the thrashing feet and gently lift them back into the car as he sits in the passenger seat. H.P. gets in the driver’s side and Lispy Trenchcoat enters the car opposite him. The three car doors shut simultaneously with a muffled thump and the black sedan is still.

Then the red slitted taillight eyes come to life again as the engine roars. The sedan whips backward toward the line of cars shielding me. I expect the sedan to come to a stop and make its exit. Instead, the sedan accelerates and smashes into the car parked in the row behind it, causing significant damage. Moving forward, the sedan takes a wide turn to the left as the accelerator roars again. The turn is wide enough to clip two more cars, leaving scratches and glass in the sedan’s wake.

As the sedan speeds off in a semi-straight line toward the exit ramp, I look at the license plate. There’s only three red numbers on the white plate: 924.

Normally, a license plate with only three numbers would be unusual, but not altogether strange. Instead, I ponder the weirdness of those three numbers being the same street address numbers of the apartment that Jenny and I bought just before we married. As I make note of this, the nervous jitter in my veins turns to a full jump when I realize what H.P. meant in his parting words to me.

The full implication of these words weighs down on me as I make the slow walk to my apartment, trying to decide what to do next.

This will continue…

Pulp Friday Continues (PF 8)

And it's actually on a Friday this time, just like when I started.

Previously on Pulp Friday:

PF 1
PF 2
PF 3
PF 4
PF 5
PF 6
PF 7

“Any worse?” I ask. “My wife is dead, I’m broke, and you and your goons just trashed the front part of my building, so how’s it going to get worse?”

“Oh, you should know by now never to say that, silly,” H.P. says. “You’re a desperate man. Desperate people do desperate things; things they would never normally do. You’ve already proven that.”

“So you say.”

“You’ve got the documentation right there in your hands. Don’t you think that a judge and jury wouldn’t come to the obvious conclusion? You killed George Dean, disposed of his body somewhere in Kihei, stole his checks and credit cards, perpetuated the fraud just long enough to finish your honeymoon and scram from Hawaii before you were discovered. It’s black and white, dear. Admit it.”

I’d really like to have a response to that.

The goon to the right of H.P. pipes up: “Yes, and there’s plenty more evidence besides that, sailor.” He speaks with a heavy lisp. I’d comment on how hissy he was if he couldn’t break my bones so easily.

The goon to the left of H.P. reinforces their point: “Yersh, ve harve burxes and burxes of errvidunce.” His accent is so thick I can’t tell what part of the earth he’s from. But again, faced with easily broken bones, I keep quiet.

“Be good little silent henchmen now,” H.P. says with a trace of irritation. “We have business to finish.”

Here comes the boom. I say, “Fine. What do you want?”

H.P. casually puts his left hand out and Lispy Trenchcoat puts a cigarette into his palm. “To clean up your mess, of course.”

As H.P. lights his cigarette and takes a long, comfy drag, that same smoke craving from this afternoon jumps right back on me. I swallow and try to hide my envy.

H.P. exhales a jetstream of blue-gray fog. “Since it’s your mess, you’ll be doing most of the cleaning. We’ll keep close to make sure that you’re being thorough. You’ll be going through each of your transgressions individually, gathering the pieces, and putting them to rest. Think of it as a labor-intensive confessional.”

“Does it matter that I haven’t done everything you claim I’ve done?”

“Come now, dearie,” H.P. says, “we’ve done our homework. You’ve done it all. It’s best to cease the denial and focus on the cleansing. Don’t you think Jenny wants that?”

“Jenny’s not a part of this.”

“Still with the denial,” H.P. says, “but Jenny’s very much a part of this. Always has been. Haven’t you been feeling her on the back of your neck when your conscience hurts you?”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

The Trenchcoats shake their heads and make tsk-ing noises.

H.P. says, “Don’t you? Well, you’ve only got your word. We’ve got more than that and it won’t be hard for anyone to connect the dots.”

No more use in arguing. Never was. I fix my eyes on the net and wait.

I hear H.P. take another long, crackling drag before he says, “Good. Now to cleansing. We want you to go back to your apartment and get something for us. We were trying to find it there when you barged in early. It was right at our fingertips. We even had someone who, though unwilling, was very helpful in the search. She knows a little about you and your life, you see. Still, we couldn’t very well transport both her and what we wanted with your badly timed return.”

“Who are you talking about?”

H.P. says, “Be patient, dearie. You’ll see. We decided to take her and let you transport what we wanted since you were so rude.”

That explains the pair of legs that were being dragged through my front door this afternoon. Doesn’t explain who she is, though.

“So, that means this little meeting is over. Time for you to be a porter.” H.P. and the Trenchcoats turn and begin to leave the court.

“What’s my cargo?” I ask their backs.

H.P. looks over his shoulder at me. “It’s the last thing you did in Maui. You'll know what I mean.”

Next on Pulp Friday: PF 9

Pulp Friday's next (PF 7)

Yes, I know it's not Friday. I'm just maintaining the title for consistency of text, not consistency of time. I'm hoping to finalize the first installment of this series in ten entries (or so) here as a basis for something bigger. Again, useful comments are encouraged and appreciated from the three confirmed people I know who have seen this blog. Anybody new, you're also welcome to comment. Thanks.

Previously on Pulp Friday:

PF 1
PF 2
PF 3
PF 4
PF 5
PF 6

Knowing full well my dumb act won’t work, I ask, “What do you mean, what I did in Maui?”

“Please, dear,” High-Pitch Smirk says. He snaps his fingers and Trench Coats #2 and #3 withdraw manila envelopes from their coat interiors. They both whip the envelopes at me like Frisbees. They come sailing at me over the tennis court net so fast I barely have time to put my hands in front of my face. There’s a loud whack as both envelopes hit my hands and slap to the ground. I look at my hands, expecting to see puncture wounds.

“Pick those up and you’ll see everything you need. Be thankful the boys were tossing envelopes and not cinder blocks this time.”

At least now I know who to bill once my landlord Chung discovers the wreckage of his building’s front door.

I bend down to retrieve the envelopes, feeling very awkward. I stand back up and attempt to convey non-chalance.

“Fine, so you know everything about Maui. Why should I care?”

I try to rip open one of the envelopes and give myself a paper cut. My wince draws grins from the other side of the net.

“Honey, Maui was quite a mess. You’ve been getting away with murder since you got married.”

“Oh please,” I say, “If you really know everything about Maui, you know that I haven’t killed anybody.”

Smirkface keeps smiling.

”Fine, keep smiling,” I tone. “I’m no nun, but I haven’t committed murder.”

“You can keep that up as long as you want, but we know better. See for yourself. Hope your little finger doesn’t bleed on the evidence too much.”

I scowl and withdraw the contents of the first manila folder. Sure enough, they’ve got plenty of pictures. They’ve got pictures of me taking the cash out of safe deposit boxes, signing checks, and handing over credit cards for purchases. These pictures aren’t of concern until I get deeper into the folder’s contents. There are photocopies of bounced checks with my name and signature, rejected credit card notices (also from me), and copies of checks with questionable signatures. A long line of my payment and credit wreckage. The last page is a bank statement of a Mr. George Dean, showing a long list of fraudulent charges from Kihei (“Key-hay?” my neighbor Brian would say), Hawaii.

I stop sifting through the contents. “Good for you,“I say, still trying to affect aplomb. “You’ve documented my bad credit. I won’t charge any purchases to you.”

”You missed the last page, sweetie.”

I thumb back through the stack and discover what I skipped: a missing person’s report from Maui on a Mr. George Dean, filed three days after Jenny and I started our honeymoon there.

”Interesting coincidence that Mr. Dean disappears right around the time you started having money problems on your honeymoon. Even more interesting that you and Mr. Dean had a meeting the night before he disappeared and incredibly interesting considering you started using Mr. Dean’s checkbook and credit cards after he went missing.”

”That’s quite a stretch you’ve made there,” I say with no assurance.

“Open the second envelope, dear.”

I tear open the second folder without making myself look any sillier. Sure enough, the pictures in this folder show me and a man having an animated conversation; I’m gesticulating like a crazed Woody Allen character and the man has his arms folded.

High-Pitch Smirk sounds very smug. ”If Mr. Dean had known he’d have less than 24 hours to live, I doubt he would’ve been the calm one.”

I continue to flip through the pictures that H.P. Smirk and his Trench Coats have given me. They’ve been oily enough to include pictures of Jenny and me, happy and smiling on the beaches and patios of Maui, clinking glasses, gazing into each other’s eyes, Jenny jumping on my back and biting my ear, both of us sharing kisses with hands on each other’s faces, the surf wind blowing her hair through my fingers. Other photos paint a less happy picture: Jenny and I sitting far apart, worried looks on our faces, or Jenny and I engaging in angry conversation. The contrast between the honeymoon’s early-week and later-week photos.

”Looks like there was trouble in more than one place. Did Jenny know how bad your credit was? Did she ever find out how you solved your little money issues?”

They’ve got everything neatly arranged. I decide I’d better play along.

”What do you want?”

H.P. Smirk affects surprise. “Don’t you want to ask me about the photo that brought you here?”

”It’s a fake.”

”Actually, sweetie, it’s not. You should know that. We know you’ve been getting away with more than one murder. I just gave you the documentation of your first, and rest assured, we have plenty of documentation on the second.”

I take a few seconds to ponder this. “So what’s next?”

H.P. Smirk casually folds his hands together, demonstrating his own practiced aplomb. “I’m here to make sure your mess doesn’t get any worse.”

This will continue…

Next on Pulp Friday: PF 8
PF 9

Pulp Friday Comeback (PF 6)

I've made some edits to the previous installments of the Pulp Friday series and I'm trying to pick it back up. Obviously, today isn't Friday, so I'll just try to keep updating this, regardless of the day. It's still going to be Pulpy and it'll still be called Friday to keep to its roots. Now, back to the series.

Previously on Pulp Friday:

PF 1
PF 2
PF 3
PF 4
PF 5

After giving Brian more bewilderment by abruptly leaving, I'm on my way to Welles Park, which is within 10 minutes walking distance of our building. Nice to know that whoever broke into my apartment hasn't gone far, but unsettling to get a call from them them right after receiving a photo of my dead wife mailed via cinder block delivery through front door.

The dusk is gathering as I walk east towards the park. The rain has stopped, but the gray still lingers and seems to latch on to the coming dark.

There’s very few people venturing out in this weather. Welles Park is huge and wide-open, but the drizzle will make this a pretty private meeting.

I’m hoping that, in the next few minutes, I’ll be able to make sense of what’s happened in the last half-hour. Getting smacked by my front door and finding a handkerchief with a photo of my (I think) dead wife sewn inside just before four cinder blocks crash through my apartment building’s front door is strange enough. Add that to my downstairs neighbor Brian overhearing a conversation I wish he hadn’t and a high-pitched voice telling me that I need to meet in Welles Park or something wouldn’t be good for my wife that I thought was dead. Top that with a photo of my wife (that I know is dead because I saw her die) attached to the cinder blocks and I can’t keep anything straight.

The street lights look purple instead of their usual dark pink. Is that from a blow to the head or the confusion of the events of today? Probably both. I could really use a little order and coherency at this point.

As I approach the tennis courts in Welles Park, I see three figures standing together in the center court. This would probably be the three people who broke into my apartment earlier today, but then I remember one person was being forcibly dragged out by the other two. Still hoping for order and sense.

I go through the gate to the courts. I head for the center court, where the three figures in black overcoats are standing with their heads down and their hands in their coat pockets. As I get to mid-court, one the figures says, “That’s far enough, dear.”

I stop and stare at the figures standing on the other side of the net, just beyond on the in-bounds line. No one says anything for a while. I wait for someone to serve.

I lose my patience and finally bark, “What’s this about?” I’d hoped to sound tough and intimidating, but when I say “about” my voice cracks like I’m the middle of puberty. I curse my genes for not making me taller, manlier, and more threatening.

The middle figure lifts its head a little bit, and I can see the same smirking mouth from earlier today.

The high-pitched voice coming from the smirking mouth says, “Well dear, it’s a little complicated. It was going to be easy, but somebody didn’t give me what I wanted and you broke with your normal work schedule. Both of you have made my work much too hard.”

I ponder how cryptic this is and say, “’Kay.” When none of the figures say anything, I add, “Sorry?”

The smirk gets a little wider. It says, “How sweet. But you know that won’t quite be enough, right?”

Hoping for a hard-biting, sardonic reply, I droll, “I didn’t expect so.” My latest attempt at toughness makes me sound like a stoner valley boy because I say “Ah didn’t expect so-wah.” Damn.

“Well, you’re a real pro then,” the sarcastic smirk says. “Here’s what I want from you.”

The two other figures take two steps toward the net and me, keeping the high-pitched smirking mouth between them. High-pitch smirk-mouth figure finally removes his hat, revealing a thin-faced, black-haired man with a daggered nose and wide ears. The smirk disappears and his face darkens. His formerly wide mouth now looks like a beak. It’s strange to see the full face matching the voice. Then he speaks again, and the pitch seems higher and more piercing, like a field mouse as talons sink into its flesh.

“You’re going to clean up the mess you made in Maui.”

I was afraid he’d say this. Depending on how much my neighbor Brian heard, I may have to kill him if I live through this.

This will continue...

Next on Pulp Friday: PF 7
PF 8
PF 9

The Next Pulp Friday (PF 5)

Pulp Friday continues...

Previously on Pulp Friday:

PF 1
PF 2
PF 3
PF 4

Brian stares at the wreckage of our building's front door while I look at a a picture of Jenny, my dead wife. The door of our building being smashed in is one thing wrong, but the other is I've never seen the picture of my wife that I hold in my hands. I'd be more concerned with the latter except that the picture I'm holding was taped to the cluster of cinder blocks that were thrown through the door. I have to give equal attention to both abnormalities.

Brian, my downstairs neighbor in this building, shakes his head. "Jesus Christ," he says, "Chung's going to flip."

Chung's our landlord. A very stiff fellow who hates to spend money on this building.

I say, "Now we don't have to nag him about replacing the broken panes."

Still shaking his head, Brian says, "I'm worried because now we have to actually convince him to buy us a new front door."

That is a tall order, but I'm too immersed in this photograph to attempt any sort of conversation. My wife is in this photo, but her face is distorted, as if she was crying out in pain. It's just her head and neck, nothing below that. I can't imagine what's causing her face to do that.

Brian says, "Hey, there's a number on the back of the photo."

I turn the photo around and, sure enough, what looks like a phone number is neatly written on the back.

"Call the cops," I say to Brian, "I'm going to try this number."

I go back upstairs to my apartment and dial the number.

After four rings, there's a click and the ringing stops. No voice speaks on the other end.

"Hello," I finally say.

A high-pitched whisper on the other end says, "Sorry about your head. We weren't expecting you home for another hour at least. Make sure you use some ice."

"Who the hell-" I begin.

"Better just listen, rather than talk. There's a problem we need to discuss. It involves you personally."

"Swell. My day gets better."

"No talk, dear. Meet me in Welles Park on the tennis courts in ten minutes and come alone. Company wouldn't be good for Jenny."

Then the voice is gone and the dial tone growls at me.

This will continue...

Next on Pulp Friday: PF 6
PF 7
PF 8
PF 9

Some More Pulp Friday (PF 4)

I really, really do want to make a regularly scheduled time of this, but that's proving difficult. This next week should see an actual Friday of pulp. Now, on with the show...

Previously on Pulp Friday:

PF 1
PF 2
PF 3

"Well, goddammit if there wasn't a helluva lotta hollering by some guy and moaning by some woman the past 20, 30 minutes," Brian says. "My kid started screaming ten minutes ago and I started pounding on the ceiling, but you just made more noise. Sounded like you had three people up here having a wrestling match."

My downstairs neighbor Brian is chewing me out for making a racket above his apartment. My only contribution to the racket was getting clobbered by the three intruders in my apartment who are really responsible for Brian's screaming kid. Brian's kid is notoriously light sleeper, but Brian would say I'm a notoriously heavy walker. It's a neighborly mutual disagreement that we don't deal with too well in this building of creaking floors and thin ceilings. This time, I'm hoping the standard Brian tirade will help me figure out what three unknown people were doing in my apartment.

I say, "I haven't been yelling and I certainly haven't been talking about honeymoon plans, like you said I have, but I sure as hell have money problems. So I don't know where you're-"

"Well, someone was hollering and some woman was crying and mumbling about how she didn't do it and you were only making more noise-"

"How do you know it was my voice? You always chew on me for my heavy feet, not for my conversations."

"Well...okay, but who else could it be but you?" Brian says. "You're the only one who lives up here."

"Yes, and I never have company, and I'm at work until this time, so it wasn't me you heard yelling."

Brian's face goes bewildered. "That doesn't make sense."

"I know," I say, "so can you help me with that? What exactly did you hear?"

Brian's bewilder-face gets tighter. "I don't know, you can't hardly tell with noise from upstairs."

"Yes, but you mentioned something about a honeymoon and money."

"Yeah," Brian says, "You, or whoever, was saying that the honeymoon was supposed to be where you left something. That Maui was the spot and she failed and was going to be really sorry."

"Who failed?" I ask.

"I guess whoever that girl was who here. Ginny or something."

I take a beat. "Ginny?"

"Yeah, something like that," Brian says.

"Could it have been Jenny?"

Brian frowns and says, "I don't know, maybe. Why does it matter?"

"My ex-wife's name was Jenny."

"So?" Brian asks. "Pretty common name for women."

"We had our honeymoon in Maui."

"Oh." Brian takes a breath. "Still, that's nothing, I mean-"

"Did you hear anything about Kihei?"

"Key-HEY?" Brian says, "What the hell's-"

"Did you?"

Brian stares at me and says nothing, so I add, "It's a place in Maui. It's on the middle of the island, but still on the seashore."

A little something clicks and Brian says, "Oh, that was it. Okay. Yeah, now that makes sense. Yeah, I did hear that word a few times."

I say nothing because I hope this doesn't mean what I think it means.

Brian finally says, "You're not actually thinking your ex-wife was up here arguing with someone else, are you?"

"Couldn't be," I say, "She's dead."

"Huh?"

Just then, there's a huge crash from the landing below. It sounds like something big just plowed its way through the front door to the building. As the sound of the crash and tinkling glass end, there's a high wailing sound that fades away after a couple seconds. The sound could be from a car's tires or engine, but it could come from a person, too.

Brian and I run downstairs and see that four chained together cinder blocks have broken down the front door, causing quite a bit of damage. There's no one in sight outside.

"How the hell did that happen?" Brian asks. "That must weigh a few hundred pounds."

I'm not thinking about this because I'm staring at a large photo taped to the center of this cinder block missle that somehow came hurtling through our building. I want to look away, but I can't. It's a familiar photo, but there's something strange and different about it that I don't want to investigate.

Brian gapes at me and the cinder blocks, then finally removes himself from his transfixed state and tears the photo from the cinder blocks. He looks at it and then holds the photo to me.

"You know this girl?"

I do, but there's something very wrong with the picture.

My voice does something weird as I speak. "That's my wife."

"That's your dead wife?" Brain gawps. "Did she always look like that?"

"No," I say, "but I know that's her. I just have no idea how she got that way or where this picture came from."

The wind gusts through our smashed door pretty hard.

This will continue...

Next on Pulp Friday: PF 5
PF 6
PF 7
PF 8
PF 9

Pulp Friday Delayed

A little trip to Minnesota for some unsuccessful ice fishing necessitated the delay. Now, on with Pulp Friday, even though it's Tuesday...

Previously on Pulp Friday:

PF 1
PF 2

It's absurd.

It doesn't make the slightest lick of sense.

How could I find a photo of my dead wife sewn into a damp handkerchief I just found on the floor of my apartment after I'd just been clocked in the head by own front door by some unwelcome visitors?

Things are just getting too weird when there's a knock on my front door.

On instinct, I go to open the door, but the large identation in the wood reminds me I've just had intruders. I snatch up the baseball bat from the floor, put on my gruffest voice and say, "Yeah, who is it?"

"It's Brian. You wanna keep it down in there? My kid's trying to sleep."

My downstairs neighbor. Him and his loony wife don't believe in babysitters, and like everyone else in the building, they're a long way from wealth. So one of them works days and the other works nights so that someone's with their child all of the time. I don't think it's helped the kid's development any and it's certainly damaged the parents. Brian works from 4 a.m. until 3 p.m., so he's always grouchy by early evening when I return to the building. I'm inevitably disturbing some combination of him and/or his kid, so this is nothing new.

"Sorry, Brian. Bad day at work."

"That's no reason to take it out on my ceiling and my kid's nap. You and your old lady just work out your bad days some other way."

"My old lady's been gone a while now, Brian. Thanks for the painful reminder."

"Yeah, you and your new girlfriend have been doing lots of damn painful grieving the past 30 minutes. Enough's enough. Quit pounding on each other."

"I don't have a new girlfriend, Brian."

"Whatever. You and her and her pals been making can stop your thumping and screeching. No one cares about your honeymoon plans and money problems anyway, so stop yelling for all the building to hear."

I take a moment and, still holding the bat tightly in my hand, crack the door open and ask, "What exactly did you hear, Brian?"

This will continue...

Next on Pulp Friday: PF 4
PF 5
PF 6
PF 7
PF 8
PF 9

Pulp Friday Continues...

Previously on Pulp Friday: PF 1

I finally sit up from my floor. Both the front and back of my head both throb. I smell pepper and there's a black spot in my vision for a few seconds. I start to think it would have been easier if I had been knocked out completely. Then I think about how I ended up this way after coming home expecting some relaxation time with a much needed drink.

Several people had been in my apartment. No way of knowing how long. One of those persons got dragged out while the other few (or was it several?) left in a hurry once I came home. Why were they here? The one with the sneering mouth, who pounded me with my own door, said something to me before I left. Or he left. It's fuzzy.

I decide I've really earned my drink by this point. I make sure front door is locked and walk slowly back to my kitchen. There's nothing in the fridge to mix with vodka except mayonnaise and soy sauce, so I just splash some water into the full tumbler and call it even.

Who were these people? How did they get in? What did they want and why was one of them being forcibly removed?

Sipping my drink, I walk back down the hallway to the front. There's a crack in the door where my head kissed it. I'd call it shoddy carpentry if my head wasn't so hard and thick.

There's one overturned chair in the living room, but nothing else has been disturbed. Nothing's broken or missing. There's small pieces of paper on the floor, but that could just as easily have come from the cats in one of their crazy playtimes. If it wasn't for the chair, I wouldn't think anyone had been here.

I drink some more and walk through the living room slowly. My head's starting to feel better. I stop when I see something poking out from under the couch.

It's a little white piece of cloth. I pull it out from under the couch and turn it over in my hands. It's about the size of a handkerchief. It feels damp, but even stranger, the cloth is more like paper than a handkerchief, even though it's made of cotton. The material doesn't bundle when I hold it in my fist. There's a slight crinkling sound and I can feel something other than cotton. My slightly bruised brain asks me what the hell this is.

I find the answer as I spread the cloth out flat on my table. There's something inside the cloth. I can see the outline of something square and dark inside the white material. It must have been sewn in there.

I use scissors to cut open the cloth and find out what's inside. I rip off one layer of the cloth and see something that looks like carbon paper with crumpling creases all over it. I pick it up and turn it over feeling that shudder in my spine for the third time today as I do so.

It's a photograph of my dead wife. Jenny's smiling and creased face looks up at me. There's no sound but I hear high-pitched noise from somewhere.

This will continue...

Next on Pulp Friday: PF 3
PF 4
PF 5
PF 6
PF 7
PF 8
PF 9

Pulp Friday, Part One.

The Pulp:

It's impossible to breathe through the lingering smoke of fifteen intimate years with tobacco. Still, the cigarettes really gave me joy when they were around. The smoke still lays on my lungs, choking me, drowning me in my own junk, and I wish I could have another cigarette and smother myself some more.

The problem is, my wife Jenny made me quit them a couple years back. She died a few months later. I'd still love to grab a pack and smoke my way to bliss, but that would feel like cheating somehow. Either that, or I believed my wife when she told me she'd haunt me if she died before me. I feel that she may be watching, probably waiting to catch me the moment I light up.

I still feel like grabbing that one magic pack as I walk by the dim and dirty general store on my way home. I stare at the cigarette posters in the window that beckon with attractive women and smiley men clutching their tiny white rods of joy and death. Christ, how I'd love another drag.

I feel a shudder in my spine and I wonder if that's Jenny giving me the nudge home, even though she's no longer there. I shove my hands into my overcoat and walk faster.

Today is wet. As I walk to my back door, the dreary drizzle continues, adding to the cobalt puddles littering the alley's asphalt. Beads collect everywhere; on the surface of my coat, the brim of my hat, the wire mesh on the buildings in the alley, even on the bare branches of former trees and shrubs between buildings. My feet squeak as they hit the bottom step of the stairs to my apartment.

The wooden stairway to my apartment is covered, but the water has managed to squirm its way through every slat, and slow drips fall, adding to the dark lines that run down all sides of the stairs. A loopy image of a weeping building flits through my mind, making think I've waited too long to have my first drink today.

I shake a little layer of water off me and put the key into my lock, feeling that shudder in the spine again. I silently tell Jenny to quit it and slosh inside my dark apartment and close the door.

Then, I'm feeling something else. There's a shift in the air, like someone's thrown a thick blanket. I turn around, hearing a faint huff from down the hall as I do. Now there's a larger, stronger shudder going through me. I step carefully toward the hall, wishing I had a weapon on me to greet whoever's come in uninvited.

I hear a low groan, the creak of wooden floorboard, then shuffling and dragging. Feeling ice in my fingers, I reach for the hall light switch. There's a baseball bat just inside my bedroom door partway down the hall. If I can surprise whoever's in here with a sudden light, I should have time to grab the bat and start swinging with the strength of holy murder.

As the hall light comes on, there's certainly surprise, but it's mine as I see a pair of legs being dragged out my front door by two others. I grab the bat from my bedroom and head towards my door. It's being pulled shut from outside by one of the three pairs of legs. As I reach the door, it suddenly swings inward again, catching me square in the forehead. The door wabbles back and forth, I slip and go down on the back of my head.

I wince and grab my forehead, opening my eyes to see a head peeking around my front door, a wide rimmed hat obscuring all the face in darkness except a thin, sneering mouth.

The mouth says, "You're home early."

The door slams shut with whip-speed. I don't know how long it takes me to pick myself off the floor.

This will continue...

Next on Pulp Friday: PF 2
PF 3
PF 4
PF 5
PF 6
PF 7
PF 8
PF 9