Undercarriage v.1

By Matt Lloyd

A trio of twisted tales from the elusive Matt Lloyd, Undercarriage v.1 invites you to share a smile on a cold winter's day, to share a ride with a friendly passenger, and to share some Halloween cheer with a lovely group of youngsters. In "Under the Shadow of a Smile," you'll meet the swellest bunch of drinking buddies you've ever had engaging in a fascinating conversation about the meaning of absolute darkness and where it can be found. In "...And No Potatoes," hitchhiking entrepreneur Steve has made the decision to embark upon a new career, although his driver Curtis isn't quite sure he agrees with the choice. In our final story, "Goblins, UNLTD," stalwart hero Nick Walters has had enough of the destructive Halloween pranks played upon his family and home year after year (after year), responding to a newspaper advertisement from an unusual company who promise to solve his problems in a delicate and good-humored manner.

You'll receive all of this, along with a very subtle recipe for a hearty one-pot meal!

Matt Lloyd thanks you for your patronage, and invites you to keep an eye out for Undercarriage v.2 (although he advises you put it back in after you've seen it).

None of the aforementioned is a lie.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Matt Lloyd
• Release date: Nov 11, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301117086

Matt Lloyd

Matt Lloyd writes offbeat genre fiction, such as the strange tales found in the Undercarriage series. He does not exist, but if he did he would tell you he lives in North Carolina, and once painted the apartment of a man who had been dead so long a crime scene cleanup crew wearing hazard suits had to sterilize it first.

Book preview

UNDERCARRIAGE v.1

a trio of twisted tales

by MATT LLOYD

UNDERCARRIAGE v.1

Copyright 2012 Kevin Parrott

All Rights Reserved

Cover Illustration by Richard Eller

Smashwords Edition November 2012

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, trademarked products, events, and locations are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual events or persons, living or dead, are entirely coincidental, but would be pretty funny.

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. You're a Peach.

Table of Contents

Under the Shadow of A Smile

...And No Potatoes

GOBLINS, UNLTD

Under the Shadow of A Smile

I can remember a time when you could walk down the sidewalks of a small town after nightfall and not have to worry about what might be hiding in its nooks and crannies.

This town has its eyes on everyone, I think. We can all feel it, these sensations like centipedes skittering on a hundred fibrous legs up our spinal cords, where they will curl to rest at the bases of our necks. Doesn’t seem like anyone wants to make eye contact with anyone else they are unfamiliar with, but you can sense the watching, even though the stare is fixed elsewhere, anywhere but into your own. You can pick up the wary sizing up out of the corners; you can sense the question on the edge of every pair of lips.

Maybe it’s just nerves. It’s always just nerves, though, isn’t it? A harrowing morning of rush and worry before work? A desperate day of scrambling to stay a toenail or two ahead of the guy next to you? A panicky flight home to make it to the couch in time for the news? And the news, it ain’t good. Not around here, it ain’t, and in the final moments before the sign-off they aren’t even bothering to do cute human interest fluff anymore. These nerves, they’ve been all over the news lately, both TV and the morning paper.

The Gentleman. The name comes partially from an incident early on, before anyone figured out the thread sewing every other rendered piece together.

Her name was Holly M, and I assume that’s a pseudonym. They probably aren’t stupid enough to print even part of her real name, but I wouldn’t ever bet real money on a journalist’s intelligence. Holly M was walking home from her restaurant job downtown, taking the same path she’d always taken, the shortcut between the savings and loan building and the high-dollar antique furniture place, and it had just turned dark, that bluish dark where you can still make out details, but she told the reporter when she stepped into that alleyway all of a sudden the world fell to midnight.

Holly M took a few more steps in, and halted. It was early November, around here it doesn’t get cold until much later in the season, and stepping inside that alley had felt as if she just stepped inside the walk-in freezer at her restaurant. The air had a sudden snap to it.

There was a clatter-scratch against the sides of the cluster of rolling garbage cans midway down, and Holly M dropped her handbag as she put a hand over her mouth, stifling a startled shriek. All sound stopped. She composed herself, turning to pick up her purse, which had struck the ground and bounced a couple of feet away.

It was hovering in front of her.

Holly M’s mouth flew open again to try that shriek on for size again, but before it had the chance to come out the man said

I’m sorry I gave you such a start. The voice was plain and measured and friendly and indistinguishable from any other voice you might hear throughout your day. The hovering purse was extended towards her as he spoke.

There is no description of the man who had picked up the bag; her eyes couldn’t focus on any features in the dim light. She told the reporter she couldn’t even make out his shape, really. He might have been dressed head-to-toe in black, and wearing black face paint for all she knew. For all she knew it wasn’t a man at all; only the voice was masculine. He could’ve been hunched or crouching, or he could’ve been a small man standing straight; to Holly M there was no real sense of depth, breadth, or width about him. All she could see the least bit clearly was the purse held out to her. And the ridiculously white, even smile above it.

Like he bleached his teeth, she is quoted as saying, they were almost glowing in the dark.

She took the purse from him, glanced to the direction of the dumpster, and realized that it was much too far away. She turned to the man, to both thank him and ask him how he got over to me so quick like that.

There was no one there to ask. Holly M felt the air around her frost even further, deciding to walk out of the alleyway and take the longer route home that night.

Her decision resulted in never having to walk past the dumpster and see or step in the small wet wad of clothing and gristle once known as Thomas Dobbs, aged 66, the owner of Dobbs Fine Antiquities furniture store. He’d just stepped out to the side door minutes before, to dispose of a small bag of office trash before going home for the night.

That would have been the fifth; going by the timeline established by the forensics and beat investigators. They find them out of chronological order. There were more, six in all spaced over the last few months, with the possibility of two more added to the count depending on whether or not remains or whole persons were found.

What they know: He is quick, quiet, and efficient - but much too quick, quiet, and efficient for the process, the grinding, that has happened in each case. There are never any signs of struggle.

He is meticulous and clean. There are no fingerprints, no flakes of skin, and no clothing fibers; there is no saliva residue. This is the other reason he is called The Gentleman.

No driver’s licenses, wallets, papers, or jewelry, are ever left at the scene. There seems to be a conflict of opinions as to whether this aspect is simple robbery, or to blur the trail. The argument against maintains that he has purposely left a small means of quickly identifying each bundle of remains – a finger or foot with the prints intact, the clothing; or in the case of Thomas Dobbs, his upper denture plate.

There is no specific pattern to the times or the places, only that they all occurred after sunset and in populated areas within the town limits. In each case there were any number of people awake and going about their business within the surrounding areas, unaware. Holly M was the only one who had seen or heard anything near any of the crime scenes, and she didn’t really have much to offer. All she’d heard was the scratch and clatter of bones against the garbage canisters (although she had no way of knowing that’s what the sound was, at the time).

They have absolutely no leads, or so they say.

All of this was spelled out in lurid detail in the special feature section of this Sunday’s paper. Towards the end it was more of a plea for information than an article, really. And, well, a lot of what was in it was bullshit.

I try to keep my eyes and ears open. I read a lot, and watch a lot, and listen. Whenever something like this has happened in the past, some series