Author: Skeptifist

Tromp L’oeil, Year 2

The crash of the phone onto the wood floor woke me. I had that moment of wondering what the sound was, where the hell was I, what time is it, before my brain caught up. Even still, I sat up in the middle of the bed waiting for some kind of prompt.  

The phone vibrated against the floor. It seemed to shake the bed. I snaked my arm between the bedside table, groping around, thinking spiders.  

I found it. Jack. It was also 3:15 in the morning. I thumbed it on.  

“What’s up?”  

“The alarm went off at the gallery. Security called. Can you go over there?”   

“Sure?”   

“The Farm’s security guys have already checked out the space, and there’s no one there anymore.”  

The anymore had a weight to it. Moreso than if it were said by someone who didn’t work at a place with our particular inventory.   

He continued. “They said front door was shattered, and they boarded it up already, but they can’t tell if anything was stolen. Just go in and look around. Check the video recorder, too. Might need to delete something.”   

“Okay. I’ll call you after.”   

I sat there a moment, contemplating just going back to sleep. The bed was warm and the windows weren’t broken. I sighed, stood up, and started looking around in the dark for pants.   

***   

Twenty minutes later I pulled into the Farm’s parking lot.   

A police officer stood talking to the shopping center security guy by a police cruiser, lights spinning blue and red shadows across the parking lot. The guy leaned against his truck, arms flailing in storytelling mode. I pulled in next to them, nodded through the window and got out. It was warmer than it should’ve been in late October, but leaves still rustled in a light breeze. At least it smelled like Fall.   

“Went ahead and boarded up the door for you,” the security guy said, “but I didn’t go inside. I let Officer Jansen in.”   

“Thank you,” I said, then turned to the officer and tried to look grateful. I think I smiled, no teeth, and offered my hand. He shook it. Solid grip that matched his posture. I figured him former military.    “You the owner?”   

“No. He called me.”   

“Right …” he started, then paused, choosing his words. I thought he suppressed a shudder. “I did not see anything.”   

I nodded and looked past him toward the gallery. The interior lights had turned off. The orange LEDs lining the front windows made the broken pieces of glass glow like cooling embers on the gallery floor and sidewalk.   

“What did they break the glass with?”   

“I didn’t find anything inside. Might’ve just been smashed from the outside with a bat or a rock or something. Kids, maybe.”   

“Did anything look torn up?”   

“Not that I could see.”   

I fought the urge to poke at him, failed. “Anything unusual?”   

He realized about then I was questioning him instead of the other way around. His mouth tightened in a grimace, lips vanishing. “No.”   

I nodded. “Do you need anything from me?”   

Ah, yes. Paperwork. I filled in the blanks, answer the questions, thanked them both for their time, then assured them I could handle the rest myself.    

***   

I pulled the car around behind the gallery and went in through the back door. I flipped off the storage room light and stood in the doorway, letting my eyes adjust to the dark. The light switches for the main gallery were up front by the counter.   

I stepped into the gallery and paused. I smelled cigar smoke, and heard faint notes of blues to my left, seeping out of Jeff Ham’s multi-colored Mingus portrait. I ignored it and took five more steps further into the dark. Orange and white light from the front windows spilled back across the gallery floor and walls.   I heard a distinct plink of a piano key to my right and looked up at Pamela Wilson’s The Lyric of Chimerical Solace. The piano player shifted her hips, hooped skirt rustling, and looked back at me, then played another note. I turned and headed the other way, walking the perimeter of the gallery.    

I passed Scott French’s Nighttime Stories, the one with the nude girl with a schooner on her head riding a polar bear through someone’s bedroom. Did the polar bear have red on its muzzle? The girl on its back appeared to be sleeping, the small ship tucked under her arm instead of atop her head.    

I rounded the corner to head to the front of the gallery and could hear the dust and wind blowing out of David Shingler’s palette knifed Chico Basin landscape, could smell the salty air from the trio of Brett Lethbridge paintings, their satin fabrics popping and snapping in the gusts. I ignored it all as much as I could.   Another note from the piano echoed across the gallery, and I looked back at the player. She’d stood and turned, leaning back on the keys. She teased her hand across several of them and played another, eyes meeting mine. I looked away.   

I kept moving, stopping in front of the door and looking at the spilled glass as the motion detector finally found me and light filled the room. The green haired child clown in Wilson’s Like Ghosts of Fish giggled and splashed water at me, and when I turned to look, returned a smirk and winked. It looked at me through its binoculars.   

I took a deep breath. “You can come out now. The police are gone.”    

I heard cardboard boxes tumble in the back of the storeroom where I had just been, and a few moments later, a tall, thin man in dirty black jeans and a stained white t-shirt, greasy hair parted to one side stumbled out. He looked like a junkie of some sort, and I knew him, though he’d been cleaner when last we met.   

“Walter. What are you doing?”   

He walked toward the Piano Player, never making eye contact with me. She was where I’d last seen her, leaning against the piano, the hoops of the skirt bulging out, arms crossed under her breasts, but she was looking at me, not Walter. She arched an eyebrow. I shrugged.   

“I needed to see her again.”   

“I thought you had decided against that.”   

“I …”   

I waited.    

“I changed my mind.”   

I sighed, and I overdid it, so he would hear.   

“Walter, you don’t get to change your mind. It’s a one-time affair.”   

He turned, raced across the gallery and slammed into me, pressing my back to the wall. I checked to make sure I hadn’t smashed into any of the paintings, then wedged my arm over and under his, pressing his chest back with my forearm.   

“I changed my mind,” he hissed, enunciating each word, face inches from mine. Up until that moment, I’d planned on talking him out of it, planned on helping the guy out. I never liked giving them over to the paintings. It made me … uncomfortable. But I’d never had a client pin me to the wall, either.   

“Get your hands off me right now, Walter.” I stared him down, noting his bloodshot eyes and how his chest was heaving. All that was missing was froth coming out of his mouth. I braced my heels against the wall, and shifted my weight slightly in case he didn’t let go.   

He released my shirt, but didn’t move. “I’m seeing her,” he said, then turned and walked toward the piano player. She looked over his shoulder at me, stuck out her tongue, and then offered Walter her hand. It was uncanny. She didn’t become more real, but maintained the tone and texture of the painting, and yet there was weight and substance to her limbs. The light on her did not look right.   

Walter took her hand, placed one foot on the bottom frame of the painting, and stepped up. He became oil and tone and texture. His feet pressed down on the carpet, his legs displaced the hoops of her dress. She led him out of the room, out of my sight.   

Nice knowing you, Walter.   

***   

The next half hour I kept my head down and cleaned up the mess. When I was all out of excuses not to, I walked back to the Piano player. I had to ask.   

“Is he coming back?”   

She smiled again. “The paperwork has been filled out. It is in the box under the counter.”   

“And the fee?”   

“Taken care of.”   

Right. “Okay, thanks?”   

“Would you like to visit one of the girls?”   

“I would not.”   

I turned and walked away, heading up the creaky wooden ramp to the front counter. Another of Wilson’s pieces, Pink Entropy, sat on the bar. The woman sat the antique black phone back in its cradle on her lap as I approached. She looked as tired as I felt. I wondered who she’d called, then laughed. The dog huffed a muffled bark at me, then licked its chops.   

I opened the Box, and took out the fresh set of parchment on top. The bloody signature still glistened in the yellow gallery light. The red letters, which looked as though they’d been written by a frightened third-grader, read Walter Havershim.   

I dug out the lighter we use for incense and heated up the black wax stick. I let it drip a puddle on the document next to Dwayne’s signature, then used our wrought iron LG stamp in the wax. I blew to cool it, started to put it back in the box.   

The ramp creaked and a man strode up it. The hair stood up on the back of my neck. He was not tall, nor was he short. He was textured. His body was hung with an old school brown suit, complete with silver pocket watch hanging from pocket on a red satin vest. His shoes gleamed in the dull light, as did the thick silver rings on his fingers. A black bowler had sat crooked on his head, and tufts of dirty blond hair stuck out around his ears and neck. His skin was pale, teeth bright as he smiled at me. His eyes were an almost iridescent blue.   

“I’ll take that,” he said, and held out his hand.   

I looked down at the document in my hand, then at the box, and felt my face heat up. I may have gulped, but I did not shiver.   

I held out the paperwork. He snatched with thumb and forefinger on his left hand, made a production of reading the pages, then folded and creased the parchment with a practiced motion. They vanished inside his jacket.   

He offered me his right hand. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”   

I shook it. “I don’t believe I want to.”   

He didn’t let go. The skin was smooth as an infants, but cold, the shake firm, like he could crush my bones. He said, “Nonsense. You’re my employee of the month.”   

I felt sick. “What?”   

“Employee of the month.” He smiled, all teeth, and I noticed the canines were pointed. “You know, that cheesy award they give out for the month’s best performer? That’s you, boy. Employee of the Month.”   

My brain started doing math. “But we’ve only had … six, maybe seven this month? Aren’t there warlords in Africa doing better than that?”   

“It’s not always about quantity, is it? Wouldn’t you rather sell one $30,000 painting than a bunch of $1,000 ones?”   

I shut my mouth.    

He reached inside his jacket with his left hand and pulled out a small silver pin, some sort of sun with a broadsword pointing down through the middle of it. He turned my right hand, which he had not yet relinquished, palm up and placed the pin in the middle of it. It was almost uncomfortably cold against my skin. He closed my fingers around it, finally letting go.    

“I’m not really … comfortable with this work.”   

He arched an eyebrow at me, tilted his head. “Do you really believe that? Do you not think that each one of our guests gets exactly what is coming to them? Did our boy Walter not deserve his second visit?”   

“I don’t know. I’m not a judge. I don’t know about his life, what brought him here.”   

“Ah yes, but I do.”   

I stood there, eyes locked with his, afraid or unable to look away. I had nothing to say. I had the feeling I didn’t want to anger this man.    

“Good! I’m glad we’ve come to an understanding.” He fished the pocket watch out of his vest and checked the time. “I have to be off. Keep up the good work, and remember, I’ve got my eye on you. Let me know if you’d ever like to advance your career.”   

He turned and walked down the ramp, whistling to himself. I never heard any of the gallery’s doors opened, but I knew I was alone in the building. I shivered, then locked up and went home.  

Author’s Note: I wrote this somewhere between 2003-2005. Don’t really remember when for sure, and I’ve had it stashed in my cloud for years. Found it again looking for a Halloween story to hang up. Reread it, and … I kinda like it. Knowing what I know now about Urban Fantasy … I wish I’d tried to get it published. Alas.

Mrs. Cottingley was 103 years old and ready to go. Maybe tomorrow. Each day was much like the next at her age, and she thought she’d made up her mind. As such, she’d gotten up that morning and set about putting her affairs in order. She had family to think about, after all. 

There was her son and his family and her daughter and her family, both back in London and doing well. She’d take their weekly calls and occasionally get post cards and such. They never sent e-mail, which irked her because she loved her computer. Then again, she wasn’t sure they even had computers. 

She tottered around the house in her baggy Gap jeans and a fuzzy pink sweatshirt, sipping a Bloody Mary and humming “Enter Sandman.” Her dog, Tinkerbell, a 22-year-old mastiff with a mottled black coat and flat teeth, sat on the sofa and alternated between watching the small woman teeter back and forth across the front room and the “Westminster Dog Show” on Animal Planet. Occasionally, Tinkerbell would sigh or mash the remote with a large paw to change the station to the Weather Channel. 

The dog had just done such a thing when Mrs. Cottingley shrieked from the hall closet. Tinkerbell sighed, climbed down off the sofa and went to see check on her. 

“Tinkerbell, lookit this,” Mrs. Cottingley said, tugging a frayed pink photo album out of a slightly smashed and taped cardboard box marked “Old Stuff” in fat black magic marker. The dog peered around the corner of the door, first looking eye level with Mrs. Cottingley, since they were the same height, then down at the album. To be nice, Tinkerbell leaned over and gave the pink book a good sniff then headed back for the couch. 

Mrs. Cottingley ignored the dog and tried to wipe some dirt from the album’s cover. She felt herself smiling as she trudged into the living room and plopped down in her big black leather Lazy Boy recliner. 

She opened the album and cackled. The dog looked her way then resumed flipping channels.  

The pictures were still there, as well as the extra glass plates and negatives Elsie and Frances had taken. Her two cousins had been so fascinated by her pictures they had gone out and made their own. Of course, everyone knew how that had turned out; even Arthur Conan Doyle had been fooled. 

She cackled again, sounding not unlike the witch from the old Bugs Bunny cartoons. She tried to remember the name of the Fey in the picture but it proved challenging, which troubled her because she’d always had a keen memory. 

Then, as if conjured, it came to her, and she spoke it aloud: “Morrigan.” 

The name seemed to echo in the room, collecting momentum as it bounced off walls, repeating and gaining speed. Mrs. Cottingley hopped up from her chair, dashed over and flung open a window. The sound whooshed past her, ruffling the red Venetian blinds. 

Mrs. Cottingley cackled. 

Tinkerbell barked. 

Mrs. Cottingley decided to make a pitcher of margaritas and head for the patio. 

# 

She was sitting on her patio, staring off at the Gulf, sipping margaritas and eating cucumber sandwiches when she heard the knock on the door. She ignored it. 

But it came again, louder and faster. 

“Probably those Jehovah’s Witnesses again.” She considered, for a moment, digging her warhammer out of the coat closet and telling them about Thor. Or was it Zeus this month? She also contemplated not getting up at all. It was a good margarita. 

The knock came again. Tinkerbell barked. 

“Well why don’t you answer it then?” 

Tinkerbell barked again. 

“Fine.” Mrs. Cottingley climbed out of her patio chair, slipped her feet into a pair of worn pink bunny slippers and started for the front door. The dog flipped channels as she trod by. 

The knock sounded again as Mrs. Cottingley arrived at the door. She paused, thinking she heard a whisper, then stepped up on an orange crate to peer through the peephole. Not seeing anything but sunshine and sidewalk, she started to climb down from the crate. 

The next knock shook the door beside her head. 

“What do you want?” she asked. 

“We’d like to speak with you about an important matter, Mrs. Cottingley.” 

She climbed back up on the orange crate and again looked out the peephole. Nothing. 

“I already have a God. His name is Thor!” 

“This isn’t about that, Mrs. Cottingley.” 

“What’s it about then?” 

“The pictures from near Bradford, from 1917.” 

“Oh, those.” 

She climbed down off the box, realizing why she couldn’t see them through the peephole, kicked the box out of the way, pulled open the door. 

Two small men stood pressed to the side of the house in the shadow of the eave. Each wore a black suit, white shirt, black tie and sunglasses. Each had coal black hair — the kind that reflected almost blue highlights — pulled back tight against his scalp into a long pony tail. The one on the right clutched a small briefcase. 

“May we enter?” said the one on the left. 

Mrs. Cottingley thought about it for a moment, then pushed the door the rest of the way open. “Sure,” she said. 

The two small men entered, made their way down the narrow hall then stopped in the living room. Mrs. Cottingley could hear Tinkerbell growling as she locked the door’s two deadbolts. She smiled. 

As she moved into the living room, she said, “Why don’t you have a seat,” and motioned toward the sofa. Tinkerbell growled again, low in her throat, and it seemed to shake the walls. They started to sit. 

“Or we could go sit on the patio. I’ve a pitcher of Margaritas.” Without waiting, she marched outside and climbed back into her patio chair. She took a gulp of margarita and smelled the sweet summer air. 

She heard the men step out onto the patio, then stop. She knew why they stopped. They were not comfortable with direct sunlight. But that was their problem not hers. She waited while they inched their way along the sliding glass door, careful to stay in the small amount of shade. 

“Mrs. Cottingley, you know why we’re here,” said the small man without the briefcase. 

Mrs. Cottingley sipped her margarita, nodded. 

“Mrs. Cottingley, Morrigan has prepared a substantial compensation package for you in exchange for the, ah, pictures.” 

“They aren’t just pictures, you know.” 

“Excuse me,” he said. 

“They aren’t just pictures.” 

“I don’t follow.” 

“Where are your wings?” 

“They are covered with an enchantment, but that’s …” 

“An enchantment? Really? Did she do it?” 

“That’s neither here nor …” 

“She’s gotten much better since I saw her last. Used to, she couldn’t hide much of anything from me, but you know that already, since otherwise, I wouldn’t have the pictures, now would I?” 

The small man blinked at her. 

“Margarita?” she said, motioning toward a pitcher with her glass. 

The man wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. 

“How is Morrigan doing?” 

“She’s, well, she’s Queen,” he said, verbally capitalizing the Q. 

“Really? Well, good for her.” 

“We’re getting away from the matter at hand here, Mrs. Cottingley.” 

“Are we?” 

The small man without the briefcase took in a deep breath then motioned to the other man. The other flicked open the briefcase and pulled out a scroll. Each end of the scroll was capped in gold and a thick glob of black wax bearing a stamp of a large calligraphic M sealed it shut. It looked just as Mrs. Cottingley remembered. 

She took a drink of margarita. 

His hands moved in a blur, and Mrs. Cottingley was mildly surprised when he stopped moving and held what looked like a small sword. 

“I like your letter opener,” she said, then sipped more margarita. 

He looked up from the scroll and scowled. 

“Something the matter?” 

“Your agreement with the Queen expires at Midnight tonight,” he said, then started to go on when Mrs. Cottingley interrupted. 

“And as of then I can do whatever I want with those pictures, as per our agreement.” 

The quiet small man seemed to tense, and she thought she heard the knuckles of the other man’s sword hand pop. She smiled. 

“That is unacceptable to our Queen.” 

“I imagine it is at that.” 

“We’ve been instructed to come to terms with you or …” 

She glanced at him and arched one of her eyebrows. “Or?” 

“I think you get my meaning.” 

She flourished her hand, snapped her fingers and giggled. 

The talking man blinked and she watched his face slowly turn red as he tried to move his abruptly immobile body. Beads of sweat started in his hairline then raced down behind his glasses. One bead perched on the end of his nose but did not fall. 

She snapped her fingers, smiled, then took another drink of margarita. The quiet man’s sword seemed to appear in his hand, and he began to lunge forward but was stopped by the talker. 

“Do we have a problem?” Mrs. Cottingley asked, clomping her dentures together. Her mouth felt numb, probably from the alcohol. The talker shook his head. “Good. Let’s see it.” 

He reached back into the briefcase and produced another scroll, handed it to her. Mrs. Cottingley noticed his hands were shaking. She unrolled the scroll, scanned the contents, said, “Not good enough. Tell her I said, ‘no.’” 

“But …” 

“She didn’t expect me to live this long, did she?” 

He said nothing. 

“She knows what I want.” 

His brow tightened and Mrs. Cottingley knew he was trying to … persuade her. 

“Your powers don’t work on me, and if you try it again, I’ll have your Name.” 

The small talkative man stepped back. 

“You wouldn’t dare.” 

Mrs. Cottingley took a gulp of margarita. 

“I can, and I would. She knows what I want. You go talk it over with her then come back and we’ll see what we can do.” 

“She knows?” 

“Yes.” 

“You’re certain?” 

“Yes.” 

“Would you tell me, just in case?” 

Mrs. Cottingley sighed, then said, “Another 100 years. Another 100 years, or I make sure the world sees those photos. And knows the truth about them. Now, scadoodle. You’ve only got ‘til midnight.” 

Mrs. Cottingley listened to Tinkerbell growl at the two men as they left the condo. 

# 

By 11:30, the two men had not returned. Mrs. Cottingley, however, wasn’t concerned. She’d made her final preparations that afternoon. She’d gone about her nightly routine, slipped into her Victoria’s Secret pajamas, grabbed a Hemingway novel, and climbed into bed. A highball glass loaded with amber liquor and several cubes of ice sat next to her on the nightstand, but she did not drink from it. Every couple of minutes, she’d reach behind her back, under her pillow, and pat the old pink photo album. 

By midnight she had made up her mind to wait until the next day, clicked off the light and snuggled under the covers. Tinkerbell lay on the bed beside her, snoring, and the cacophony lulled Mrs. Cottingley to sleep. 

She did not appear to see the two small black shapes leap the rail to her patio, cut their way through her glass patio door and quietly slip inside her dining room. Nor did she appear to hear them creep down the hall and step into her bedroom. 

One of the small shapes motioned the other toward the dog then they both approached the sleeping figures. Each paused, produced a small sword and tensed. She did not appear to be awake. One nodded to the other. 

Mrs. Cottingley opened her eyes, which were level with that of the small man on her side of the bed, and winked at him. Then she pulled the trigger of the shotgun she’d had stashed beneath her pillow. The small man’s face vaporized. 

At the same time, Tinkerbell rolled off the bed and onto the other man, who was so shocked, had dropped his sword. Tinkerbell licked the man’s nose then bit off most of his face. 

Mrs. Cottingley pulled back the covers and flicked on the shotgun’s safety. She looked down at the small man’s headless body, nodded, then reached back under her pillow and removed the photo album. 

She glanced over at Tinkerbell. “You all right?” 

Tinkerbell barked affirmative. 

Mrs. Cottingley nodded again then tottered down the hall to her computer room. Earlier she’d scanned the photos and had even put the webpage together in Dreamweaver, but she hadn’t sent the files to her service provider. She figured she’d do that then go back to bed. 

Tomorrow, or even the next day would be as good a day to die as any. Maybe that would be time enough for Morrigan to reconsider. 

Ned sat in the hotel room, watching the weather, Travis Meyer pointing and gesturing to Crayola colored computer cartoons of storms that moved across the screen in staggers. Outside, thunder and wind buffeted the walls of the Super 8, and Ned thought he heard hail, which was good. 

Ned listened, rapt, to the word of Meyer, specifically for words like supercell and wall cloud. He knew, knew, the dew point was right today, that the jet stream was in proper alignment. He studied, as directed, the Doppler 8000 images, looking for the hook. 

It was just a matter of time. 

Then Meyer said: “There’s a Tornado on the ground. People in Luther, Wellston and Chandler need to take cover now.” 

He reached over, snatched his sat phone off the nightstand and dialed without looking. The phone rang twice, three times in his ear. 

“Yeah?” the voice on the other end said. 

“Get ‘em loaded up.” 

“Right.” 

Ned thumbed off the phone, stuck it in the right front pocket of his overalls, then snatched up his white cotton robe from the dresser. He slipped it over his head and checked to make sure the imprint of Meyer’s head was centered. Ned brushed some lint off Travis’ forehead, looked into the mirror and smiled. 

He snatched up the keys to the bus, grabbed the laptop, and strode out the door and into parking lot, rain pelting his freshly shaved head. He noted the green tint to the clouds, inhaled deeply, and smiled. 

He pushed the folding door to the bus open with a foot, bounded up the steps and slid into the seat. He turned the key and smiled again when the engine sputtered to life. In a matter of minutes, he had the laptop Velcroed to the dash and plugged into the bus’s satellite system. He tapped a few keys and linked into Travis and the Doppler 8000 feed. More keystrokes and Travis’ voice echoed through the speakers in the back of the bus. 

“…our spotters on the ground say the tornado is at least a mile wide, maybe larger. This could be an F-4, possible an F-5. I repeat, people in Wellston and Chandler need to take cover now…” 

Ned smiled. This was the one, after all this waiting.  

Ned tuned Travis out, then glanced around. Where the hell was Buddy? His foot tapped the floor in time with the hail and rain. He flipped on the four windshield wipers, his own modification to the bus, and was satisfied as they swathed the glass clean. He didn’t figure he’d need them, what with the Rain-X he’d applied yesterday, but it was good to have a backup plan. 

He started to dial Buddy again, when he saw the fat man lead the tour group out from the Hotel’s tiny lobby. 

“Hurry and get ‘em in. We’ve got to get to Stroud!” 

Buddy nodded and waved the group along. Ned tried to remember where they were all from. He knew six or eight were from France, but after that… Hell, it was Buddy’s job to keep track. 

Buddy appeared at the bottom of the steps, looked up at Ned, then stopped. 

“What’s with the robe?” 

“What?” 

“The robe?” 

“What robe?” 

“The one you’re wearin?” 

“What the fuck are you talking about, Buddy?” 

“Your fucking robe man!” 

“What robe!?” 

Buddy’s head turned an apple shade of red. Ned thought it looked funny. 

“Buddy.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Get’em on the bus. Now. You want your tornado, right?” 

Buddy looked at robe, then nodded. He motioned the group onto the bus, telling them to fill in from the back and to use the seatbelts. He reminded those who’d forgotten their cameras, that Wind Raider tours offered disposable 35mm for $30. 

Ned reached over, flipped the button, and the doors closed with a mechanical flop. He dropped the clutch, and the big blue bus lurched out of the parking lot. In a matter of moments, he hit the open road and pointed the bus down the Turner Turnpike. 

* * * 

Ned could hear Buddy behind him, chit-chatting with the tourists, telling them his standard tornado stories, how he’d watched one from his grandpa’s front porch as it mowed through the houses in the next block. 

It was a lie, of course. All Buddy’s stories were lies. But he told them well, and the tourists didn’t know the difference. They wanted the romantic thrill of the storm and Buddy dished it out for $1,000 a week that didn’t include hotel or food. 

It was initially why Ned had signed up with Buddy. He’d needed someone to finance his chasing. 

Ned checked the laptop while dodging around a Toyota filled with scared octogenarians. Or he imagined they were scared. He considered slowing beside them, opening the doors and waving, but thought better of it. The radar showed the front crest of the storm just outside of Stroud, and the storm was all that mattered. 

He felt Buddy kneel next to him. 

“Hey, seriously, what’s with the robe?” 

“What fucking robe?” 

“What the hell is the matter with you?” Buddy hissed. 

Ned pointed out the front of the window. The sky before the bus was angry, swirls of blues, blacks, grays and greens. To the north, Ned’s right, they could see clear blue skies, and to the far left, but the middle of their field of vision was a giant, swirling mass. 

“Is that a tornado?” Buddy said. 

Ned nodded. 

“It can’t be. It’s too damn big.” 

Ned smiled. 

“Ned, stop the bus.” 

Ned smiled again. 

“Ned. Stop. The. Gaddamed. Bus.” 

Ned could hear movement behind them, a push forward of clothes and mass and gentle swearing, maybe a “merde” here and there.  

Buddy grabbed Ned’s shoulder just as Ned blew through the Toll Tag plaza and aimed the bus for the Stroud exit.  

Ned turned his shoulder loose from Buddy’s grip, reached forward and mashed the door button, then shoved Buddy down the steps and out the door. He watched Buddy bounce and twist along the shoulder of the road in the side mirror, then glanced up at the round convenience store mirror over his head. The tourists all stared out the back of the bus, watching Buddy. 

Ned drove up the exit ramp. He mashed the brakes, ignored the stop sign, then slid the behemoth around the corner, somehow managing a slight fishtail that straightened the bus out north/south. A mash of the accelerator and he was at the turn for the old outlet mall parking lot. He took the turn. 

The tourists had begun to shriek behind him.  

“What?” he shouted. “You paid to see a tornado, right?” 

Ned drove the bus in a wide circle around the weed-filled parking lot, eyeing the approaching tornado. It now nearly filled the entire sky in front of him. He pointed the nose right at the beast, and stopped the bus. 

He quickly reached into the glovebox and pulled out his Velcro slippers. He looked back over his shoulder as he pushed is bare feet into the slippers. The tourists were massed at the back door, shouting at each other and frequently casting furtive glances at Ned and the tornado. Ned howled. Some began crying. 

Ned scrambled out the front door and onto the hood of the bus, then onto the roof where he had attached a square of Velcro. He faced the tornado, smiled, then fastened his feet on the square and threw out his arms. 

The tourists spilled out the front door of the bus and ran in all directions, seeking cover that didn’t exist. Some ran in circles. Some sprinted for the turnpike. One man ran laps around the bus.  

Ned hooted. “Look at what I bring you, mother! The Travis has guided me well, and I am ready to receive you!” 

Ned could feel the wind beginning to pick up, the bus bouncing and wobbling beneath him. He wished he could do a dance, but his feet wouldn’t move. He glanced back toward the tornado. 

He heard a whistle, felt a sting, then looked down to see a red and yellow McDonald’s straw sticking out of his leg just below his knee. A glance showed him the straw also stuck out the back of his leg. 

“Oh, thank you, Mother,” Ned screamed, his last sound before being gift wrapped in blue bus.