Stories from the Edges: A LongShortStories Collection

By Wayne C. Long

In this 2011 ebook debut collection of Wayne C. Long’s 34 miniature masterpieces, discerning adult short story readers will thrill to a rollicking roller coaster ride of fiction genres: literary, sci-fi, romance, dark humor, fantasy, Native American, and military. Add in cutting-edge stories that aggressively resist straitjacketing and you have the breakout Stories from the Edges.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wayne C. Long
• Release date: Mar 13, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458122773

Wayne C. Long

Wayne C. Long is an unusually gifted electronic short story teller. His love for and mastery of this delicious and powerful art form puts him right up there with the best! Having written all his life, whether as a copy writer in the business world or as a writer of edgy short fiction in the digital world, he does one thing particularly well: he mines the edges of human experience for those powerful ideas that no one is tapping into. He visualizes onto the page what other writers overlook, using his cinematically-trained mind’s eye. He distills down the creative essence of the short story, to where less is more. Wayne’s work has appeared in QST magazine where its international readership voted to honor him with the coveted QST Cover Plaque Award two years in a row. He has also written for the Wisconsin Writers’ Journal and is known throughout the blogosphere. For over six years now, his website LongShortStories has been his writing home. There, he offers two free sample stories. On the pages of his blog at www.LongShortStories.com/wayne/, he teaches and engages readers in the art of short story writing. Wayne C. Long is a graduate of Northern Illinois University and his wife, Diane is also an N.I.U. graduate. They recently built a home on a hill overlooking the headwaters of the Milwaukee River as it meanders into a charming century-old millpond occupied by hundreds of Canada geese. Wayne and Diane are proud of their two married children (a daughter and a son), one very special granddaughter and a brand-new grandson.

Book preview

SHE

Acrid blue smoke billowed from the fat slicks of the NHRA Funny Car Championship-bound nitro Funny Car. This was the final burnout of the final race of a very grueling drag racing season. The Barry Redman scarlet-painted Mustang SHE car rumbled out of the burnout box as its mighty carbon fiber brakes clawed at the asphalt. After reversing, its driver jockeyed his 7000 supercharged horses up to the electric eye of Pomona’s Auto Club Raceway starting line.

Emblazoned upon the voluptuous fiberglass body of this year’s points-leader car was its trademark.

A highly stylized semi-nude body of a world-class suntanned Annie Oakley, complete with cowgirl hat; her kittenish lips blowing a suggestive puff of smoke at her ravaged opponents from a six-gun.

Something to behold.

But tear off the layers of public relations and sponsorship veneer from this drag racing dynasty and you will find a dark secret. A well-kept secret in the macho world of motor sports.

Barry Redman was the only child born to drag racing icon Bill Buckshot Redman and his now-deceased wife, Helen. Helen had died of complications after Barry’s birth, leaving Buckshot and a series of nannies to raise the handsome scion of this world-class racing family.

Buckshot managed an ever-widening circle of global racing enterprises, ranging from his high-performance parts factory to his weekly ESPN drag racing show. Sitting in his Dallas office, he cut quite a figure. Trademark cigar, chiseled farm boy looks, and an almost venomous streak running through every fiber of his being.

Win! Win at all costs! By any means possible. Second place was for sissies. Take no prisoners!

Young Barry wanted more than anything else to be like his dad, to field a winning race car, to be idolized the world over by adoring fans and feared by all competitors. His immersion in the finest prep schools of Dallas had prepared his mind for the business side of the family enterprise. But nothing could prepare Barry for what happened that fateful day in September of his sixteenth year.

Hello, Dad? Do you have a minute? spoke Barry into his cell phone, calling from school.

What is it son? I’m kinda busy here right now. You know, CNN’s settin’ up right here in my office. Another interview, ya know.

Well, okay, can I make an appointment to see you? Maybe next Tuesday, say at 10:30 a.m.? I’ve got a break in my classes.

Lemme check my appointments. Hmmm. Okay, son, you’re on. 10:30 next Tuesday morning. Anything I should know ahead of time? No? Alright then. See ya.

Barry fidgeted in his dorm room study chair. How he was going to handle this was still not quite clear. The old man was bigger than life. He could slash with a word, a glance.

Barry’s body had felt the lash of Buckshot Redman’s Mexican leather whip as a child. He bore the more recent rhinoplasty of one who had experienced blunt force trauma to the face.

Of course, money could fix it all, right? Money could buy the finest plastic surgeon in the metro area, one who appreciated the value of discretion when it comes to the super-rich. Money could keep things out of the newspapers. Money could move mountains!

Dressed in his navy blazer and khakis school uniform, Barry sat nervously in the back seat of a taxicab as it rolled down the freeway toward the sprawling fifteen acre Redman Motorsports headquarters complex. His father’s firm employed nearly 2000, worldwide. All this empire would ultimately become his, his father would say. A prince, and his father, the king.

The cab pulled up to the Texas-size entrance area, complete with its banks of security cameras and richly carved Mexican wooden doors.

Barry walked through the vast trophy-walled reception area to the teak and glass desk of his father’s secretary, Joanne. She was nice enough. Smiled respectfully at the young heir to this fabulous enterprise. Potential step-son, if she ever let Buckshot follow through with his many amorous promises of someday marriage.

Hello Barry! My, don’t you look handsome today! He’s expecting you. May I bring you a Coke?

No thank you, Miss Fletcher. I’ll just be a few minutes. Gotta get back to school for afternoon classes.

And with that, young Barry pushed open one of the French doors of the boss’s plush office.

Cigar smoke greeted his slightly bent nasal passages. A twenty-foot semicircular teak and glass executive desk was laden with papers, advertising tear sheets, and engine performance printouts strewn across the top. On a credenza behind the desk, a bank of computers simultaneously displayed data from London, Tokyo, Berlin, Johannesburg, and Sydney. Remington western bronze sculptures flanked the computer bank.

The leather executive chair’s occupant was facing the screens. A suntanned right hand maneuvered a wireless mouse.

Dad? Hello? It’s me, remember?

"Huh? Er … ah … hang on a min, son, gotta send this stuff to my London shop before their quittin’ time. Five minutes, okay?

There! said the country boy-turned global racing magnate. The rust-colored leather chair spun around to greet the visitor.

Hi, Dad! I need about fifteen minutes. How’s business? he asked, buying time.

The king rambled on about all his latest conquests, throwing in just one compliment to his visitor.

You look good, Barry. Been workin’ out?

Dad, I have something important to talk to you about.

Okay. Shoot!

I respect you, Dad, and I don’t want you to ever doubt that. I want to fill your boots someday, like we always talked. I want what you want, Dad!

His busy father gave him an approving, though slightly puzzled look through those trademark graduated-tint eyeglasses.

Go on ….

Dad … I’m gay!

There. He had blurted it out. Released a Hoover Dam of pent-up angst.

What?

The horror of disbelief crossing that sun-etched forehead of the king was like a Texas flash flood bearing down on a tiny adobe peasant village.

You CAN’T be fuckin’ gay! You’re Buckshot Redman’s kid, you stupid son-of-a-bitch!

Dad, Barry stammered, I had my therapist check me out. I took a battery of tests. I’m attracted to males … not women. I’m sorry ….

Buckshot cut him off at the knees with a stinging retort.

I’ll fuckin’ kill ya with my bare hands, Barry, if this thing gets out! This’ll ruin me!

Fighting for air, for calm, the young prince pulled at his school tie and looked into his father’s fiery eyes.

Dad, I never intended to hurt you with this news. It just is what it is. I’ll make it up to you, somehow. I promise. I love you, Dad.

The glass eyes of mounted big game hunting trophy heads -- elk, mountain lion, and buffalo -- gazed at the now-steaming hulk of global racing kingship seated across from his only son. A son who was now gay.

After a pregnant pause in this gnashing-of-teeth event playing out in the hallowed halls of Redman Motorsports, the king responded.

"Hahahhahahaha! Ya had me goin’ there for a moment, son! Phew! I gotta say. Ya had me goin’ there!

Tell ya what. I’m gonna fix this mess ya just dropped at my feet. We’re gonna turn lemons inta lemonade, right here and now!

How’s that, Dad?

The king of the professional drag racing world made his only son, the heir to the throne, an offer he couldn’t refuse.

Barry, here’s the plan. You’re gonna sign a document that I draw up, promising you’ll keep this gay business a total secret. Not a fuckin’ peep! Ever! And then, I’ll promise to build ya the finest, state-of-the-art nitro Mustang the world has ever seen! I’ll even commit ta havin’ it ready to roll out for trials two years from taday. You’ll drive this baby. And son, you will fuckin’ break every record on the NHRA books! How’s that sound, huh?

Barry was stunned as he sat in the rich leather guest chair.

The king continued.

Like all good contracts, there’s always a little sweetener thrown in. In the fine print. The Devil’s always in the details, someone once said!

And those devilish details? Ahh, yes.

Two weeks later, Barry Redman stopped by the front desk of his dorm to collect his mail. The school secretary had had to sign for a registered letter the postman had presented earlier in the day. It bore the logo of Redman Motorsports.

Up in the quietude of his student quarters at the toney Todd Academy, Barry sliced open the envelope and flopped himself down on his bed.

He read:

… And you hereby agree in writing to fulfill your end of this agreement with your father, William Redman, Esquire, the undersigned. …

… In exchange for taking possession of the Barry Redman SHE nitro Funny Car for strip trials and then joining the 2007 NHRA championship season series TO WIN, you must agree to the following proviso …

Barry’s mind started to tilt. He breathed heavily at the words he read next.

… Over the ensuing period leading to the roll out of this car, Barry Redman agrees to help build said dragster. The aforementioned Barry Redman agrees to provide incremental proof that he has engaged in sexual intercourse with females of his choosing, each time sending a six-inch lock of their hair in a FedEx mailer to said William Redman, father of said son.

… Upon receipt of the first lock of hair at Redman Motorsports, my chassis team will fab the necessary framework for this project car. Upon receipt of the second lock of hair from a new female sexual partner of your choosing, we shall commence building and dyno testing a complete race engine for this project car ….

And on and on and on.

This world-class championship-winning Funny Car would literally be built upon the backs of young females, willing or not. One component part at a time, until it was ready to run. All in all, it would take some two-dozen successful heterosexual encounters (all paid for by Daddy’s hush money), to build this machine.

A fuck here (and a lock of proof there) would net Barry a chassis, an engine, a drivetrain, an electrical system, a roll cage, a carbon-fiber Mustang body, a fabulous scarlet metal flake paint job, a set of Goodyear slicks and so on. The coupe de grace would be the hand-painted cowgirl laid on by the best in the business. Two dozen component parts from two dozen sex acts. Buckshot Redman was going to get his revenge as he always did.

The crew chief of the Barry Redman SHE team was long-time professional Cary Proudfoot, a wrencher of the first magnitude. A Navajo Indian. He had fielded winning teams before. Buckshot paid him handsomely to retain his loyalty in this highly competitive business where it was winner-take-all. There were no excuses for taking second, ever, at Redman Motorsports.

The months and seasons wore on as the prince secretly fulfilled his side of the bargain. And, at Headquarters, a strange collection of wispy locks of hair, not unlike those woven into family tapestries by pioneer women, were piling up inside a locked teak box in the CEO’s trophy case.

On November 13, 2006, the final proof was sent and received. The 7000 horsepower supercharged dragster was, at last, getting her final clear coat. SHE was a masterpiece of automotive engineering, a winner from a stable of winners. Buckshot Redman beamed with pride at his creation in the paint room.

Fuckin’ awesome, eh Jerry yelled the king to his paint foreman.

Yeah, another winner, boss! echoed the master painter.

In the meantime, the prince, in holding up his side of this devilish agreement, had made a few tactical errors along the way in his quest to sow some Redman seeds.

It seems that he had dipped his unprotected pen into a few inkwells of questionable quality. Just to get the job done; to get the lock of hair; and then pay to shut her up about the whole thing. And move on.

He never figured any of these young women for intravenous drug users. Or was it his parallel track of sexual exploits in the gay world that were coming back to roost? Roost hard. Hard enough to make him HIV-positive.

Fuck, indeed!

The rollout ceremony for SHE was like a Broadway fashion show, complete with klieg lights, a thumping techno-beat soundtrack and oodles of shapely young females posing in, on, and around the Barry Redman Funny Car.

Photographers were there from Dragster World, Hot Rod, and every mid-to-minor motor sports magazine that provided the massive fan base for this worldwide thing called Championship Funny Car racing.

Sterling silver fountains bubbled with champagne, wine, and the finest Swiss chocolate. Invited guests were flown in on Redman Motorsports’ business jets from the far corners of the Redman Empire.

As the din and the bright lights of the rollout party faded into memory, Cary Proudfoot, wearing his trademark ‘Billy Jack’ hat and Foster Grants, gathered his world-class crew for the job at hand. To get this dragster into the 2007 winner’s circle.

Track trials went well, except for a few minor glitches. Nothing money and steady, experienced tuners couldn’t handle.

Barry Redman was now eighteen and had graduated Todd Academy with top honors. He had suffered in silence, upholding his side of the silent contract with the king. He wasn’t a fool.

Clad in his Nomex flame suit, head sock, gloves and helmet, Barry looked every bit like his father at that age. Fearless and a born winner. A thoroughbred.

And, yet, an aberration, running against the line of Redman thoroughbreds. A secret stain that threatened to reveal itself. Somewhere. Somehow.

Race after race, region after region, Barry racked up the necessary wins at tracks all over America. SHE was wildly popular in the pits as well as in the burnout boxes of quarter-mile tracks showcasing quick-reacting, wild-assed champions like Buckshot Redman had been.

Team Redman pulled into the pit area of Pomona’s Auto Club Raceway with its semi-tractor trailers loaded with SHE and a full complement of replacement parts, right down to two extra of everything, even the one-of-a-kind nitro-burning $50,000 motors. A fully-customized motor coach served as Barry and his father’s residence on the road. The full power of the Redman Motorsports Empire’s fleet of jets and technical people was standing by for any calls. It was almost as if Buckshot himself was fielding an army of world conquest, the way this entourage massed in the pit area of the raceway on that sweltering day.

The early runs of the day had Barry and SHE delivering low 4.50-second E.T.’s and speeds in excess of 325 mph. Fantastic runs! Buckshot was beside himself with fatherly pride for his twin creations. His twin masterworks –

Barry.

And the gorgeous tempest -- flamethrower to the stars – SHE.

With the last run of the day still looming, Buckshot received a cell phone call from Barry.

Dad?

Hi, son! Ready ta make history here taday? Ready ta take the Championship?

Dad.

Barry’s voice sounded stressed. Was it the heat? Nerves?

Dad, I’m sick!

Whadaya mean, sick? You’ve got one last race ta win ta take it, son!

Dad ….

A long pause, before he let go with devastating news.

"I’m sick with AIDS!

Dad, you’ve gotta drive the car to the win. I’m calling you from the hospital.

Bill Buckshot Redman fell back against the posh interior of the air-conditioned motor coach and tried to collect himself and his empire that was about to come apart at its very seams. He placed an emergency call to presiding NHRA officials and the track boss to explain his predicament.

Would they allow him to substitute for his son Barry for the final run to win? Yes, he could still drive. Hell, he was the living legend of drag racing, for Christ’s sake. He’d lay down a run that would be remembered for years and years to come.

Alright, you guys! Huddle and call me back in five. I’m dressing as we speak. Thanks!

Buckshot Redman had made many friends over his racing career. And more than a few enemies. He was counting on his highly-placed buddies in the governing body of the sport to give him what he deserved in the next five minutes, to pay him homage for all that he had brought to the sport . All the millions that he had put into its promotion, its charities, its image worldwide. But he was not counting on something so simple it couldn’t be imagined.

The GO call came down from drag racing officialdom.

With Cary’s help, Buckshot Redman squeezed his body into the roll cage of the Funny Car. Moments later, crewmembers lit up the SHE car’s massive power plant in the pit, attentively hovering around their baby, tweaking and shouting to each other over the din.

The track announcer keyed his microphone.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I have an important announcement! Barry Redman has been taken to the Emergency Room with a high fever. Today’s final run for the Funny Car Championship will go on, in spite of Barry. His father, the legendary Bill Buckshot Redman will be piloting the mighty ‘SHE’ car for its final run of the season. Let’s give a big Pomona round of applause for Buckshot as he brings his car up for his burnout and final match against the Tommy Paulino Team’s ‘RED RED ROSE’ car!

The capacity crowd let out a deafening roar of approval as they jumped to their feet. TV cameras zoomed in on the two world-class competitors ensconced behind Lexan windows, as the two cars danced and pranced on the heat-softened asphalt, their behemoth engines belching nearly-visible white flames in the waning light of the long race day.

Acrid blue smoke billowed from the 18-inch-wide slicks of the two nitro Funny Cars. This was the final burnout of the final race of a very grueling drag racing season.

The Barry Redman scarlet-painted Mustang SHE car rumbled out of the burnout box as its mighty brakes clawed at the asphalt. After reversing, the driver jockeyed his 7000 supercharged horses up to the electric eye of Pomona’s Auto Club Raceway starting line.

Both drivers applied maximum revs to their respective machines, braking to hold them from redlighting, as the electronic NHRA Christmas Tree signaled them for the run.

Amber.

Amber.

Amber.

Green!

As the giant, specially-compounded Goodyear slicks squatted deeply upon the sticky asphalt at the starting line, both Funny Cars roared off in smoky, heart-pounding magnificence!

Even up, the first 500 feet down the track!

This was gonna be a photo finish, with only the electronics being able to tell who the winner was!

And then, in lane one, chosen by Buckshot Redman himself, SHE did a kind of shimmy as her screaming motor let out an ominous ‘bang’ and a telltale puff of smoke.

It was as if the car had become possessed!

In fact, the car was possessed.

Possessed by the souls of those twenty-four faceless young women who had sold their bodies to Barry Redman -- to part with a lock of their hair; to take his hush money and never reveal to anyone what had been taken from them.

And inside the SHE car, so aptly named by the mighty king of drag racing, in mockery of his only son’s carefully hidden homosexuality, the driver was bleeding profusely. His Nomex suit, shredded by a metallic hurricane of clutch parts that blew after its explosion-proof housing let loose, its bolts intentionally untorqued by Cary Proudfoot, Crew Chief.

Cary’s only daughter, Raven, had come to him