Boxers & Briefs: Book of Shorts

By Stacy Bender

Boxers

Real Men Don’t Wax

Cinderella’s clueless. Prince charming, he is not. But that’s not going to keep one devil of a cat from having his happy ending. Join Mephistopheles as he tries to convince two people that their stars are well and truly crossed.

Bast Fantasy

 An ancient race lives among us. They hide in the shadows. Some are benevolent, others not. For Edwin Cole, an ordinary college teacher, a chance encounter reveals both on the same night. Will a whole new life begin, or will it crush him beneath its claws?

Briefs

First contact, bored technicians, demented seniors, and murderous pets. Here are a few short stories to make you laugh and wonder about the furry creature staring back at you.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Byrnas Books
• Release date: Mar 18, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386596868

Book preview

AUTHORS NOTE

EVERY AUTHOR HAS ONE. That box of cannon fodder stories that get thrown in a pile and threatens to crawl into the recycle bin, and unpublished 4 AM dreams that have you questioning late night pizza. This is my collection of rejected scripts and scribbles submitted to obscure publishers and magazines. It is sprinkled with experiments in writing, and includes a story written as a silly jab at a friend. (She loved it by the way.)

I could have easily hit the delete key, but friends and family say they’re too fun to toss. Seeing as I am my own worst enemy, I’ll let you decide.

BLUE MOON

OTTO PARKED HIS HARLEY Davidson trike in front of the bar close to a long line of other bikes and dismounted. He did not bother to remove his leather helmet or goggles. Bars sometimes had security cameras. A Bast could easily fool a human into thinking that nothing was amiss, but cameras revealed the truth.

With leather gloved hands he brushed off his full length duster and scratched at his long thick orange fur. The neon sign above the door advertising Guinness called to him. He didn’t glance twice at the skull and crossbones flag tacked on the door. It was a long drive to Traverse City, and he was thirsty.

The smell of alcohol and the sound of music intensified as he opened the door and stepped inside. He ignored the drunken laughter of the patrons and headed straight for the bar.

Otto set his money on the bar. Guinness.

The bartender leaned over the bar to have a better look at Otto and asked, Are you old enough to drink?

Otto moved his goggles and glared at the bartender, willing him to see Otto as a grouchy old man with a full beard and mustache. Are you dumb enough to think you can mess with short, fat people and not be sued for discrimination? Don’t make me get out my AARP card and smack you with it.

The bartender grimaced, but gave Otto what he wanted. Otto took a swig of the dark liquid as he looked around the room. Dim light and dark paneling was typical of most bars, but that never bothered Otto. His eyes were better than any human, and he could see everything as plain as day.

The banner stretched across the back wall announced it was karaoke night. A smaller banner advertised a wet T-shirt contest later that evening. Five hundred dollars went to the winner. A slim young woman on stage sang ‘Blue Moon’. It was one of Otto’s favorite songs, and he decided she wasn’t half bad.

Unfortunately one of the patrons didn’t think so. The heavily muscled man heckled the woman causing her to miss a note. Otto noticed the skull and crossbones emblem on the man’s vest. The image also adorned many of the current customers. The few waitresses in the place wore worried looks and scurried out of reach away from grasping hands. Most took refuge behind the bar.

Let’s start this party now. Come on, jump in the vat. It will make you sing better.

His buddies laughed while some of the other customers looked down into the bottom of their beer glasses.

Otto caught the attention of one of the passing waitresses and asked, What’s with those guys? The big one sounds like he’s had one too many already.

The waitress looked down at Otto, then glanced over at the drunken bikers. They call themselves The Pirates, and the lazy sheriff won’t do a damn thing about them. They’ve already ran off most of the locals. They’re saying the bar is theirs now. If that’s so, I’m quitting. I don’t care how badly I need this job.

The sound of a beer bottle shattering caught Otto’s attention. The young woman on stage had stopped singing and cowered on the stage. The drunks were not letting her leave.

Otto downed more of his stout and told himself it wasn’t any of his business. Another bottle flew through the air and shattered close to the terrified singer. The sound she made reminded Otto of the mewing of a three day old kit.

With a heavy sigh he sat the remainder of his Guinness on the nearest table and walked up to whom he assumed was the leader of The Pirates. Otto ignored the fact that the drunk towered over him.

Hey, I was listening to that song, said Otto.

It took a minute for the leader to realize Otto was talking to him, but when he did, he roared with laughter. A butterball decided to come to your rescue, girl. That’s just too funny. What are you going to do, little man?

Hit what I can reach. Otto followed through with a punch straight in front of him. The strike brought the big man to his knees. Haven’t you heard, the bigger they are, the harder they fall?

Before Otto could land another punch, the other members converged on him. Two of them grabbed his coat along with a good chunk of his fur and tossed him into the vat of water that sat next to the stage. When one of them tried to hold Otto’s head under the water, the man screamed in pain and pulled his bloody hand back.

Otto shot out of the vat like a bullet and landed on the barroom floor. He stood, sopping wet, fur plastered to his body making him look a good 150 pounds lighter. His helmet and goggles sat askew on his head, and his trench coat dragged the ground. Somewhere along the line he had lost his gloves.

I hate water, snarled Otto. He bared teeth and claws. Otto looked like a demon from hell as his pupils shifted in the dim light. With a high pitched scream Otto leaped into the center of the group. As a Bast, he was quicker than humans, and using both teeth and claw, made short work of those closest to him. He ignored the ones that ran for the door. Who would believe a bunch of drunks? The teeth and claw marks he’d left behind on the fallen would most likely be attributed to a large cat. Something akin to a bobcat or a lynx.

It was the patrons not willing to enter the fray that concerned Otto. The ones who hid in their corner booths, or crouched behind the bar to stare wide eyed at him. They saw him for what he really was, a Bast.

Where did I put my Guinness? asked Otto. He growled when he saw the overturned table, smashed beer glass, and dark liquid covering the floor.

The sound of a beer glass scraping across the top of the bar caught Otto’s attention, and he looked up.

On the house, said the bartender.

Much obliged. Otto drank deep, and licked the foam from his whiskers. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell anyone I was ever here.

I never saw nobody. Neither did anyone else.

Several other people shook their heads in agreement.

Otto finished his Guinness, set the glass on the bar, and walked out the door.

He was on his Harley, just about to start it when the young singer burst out the bar doors. You forgot your gloves. Her big eyes filled with awe as she held out the gloves.

Keep them. It will give me a good excuse to come back. Hopefully next time, you won’t get interrupted when you sing Blue Moon.

The woman smiled at Otto. My name’s Holly.

Otto adjusted his helmet and placed his goggles over his eyes. The name’s Otto. He started the trike.

She clutched the gloves to her chest with one hand, and waved goodbye with the other as Otto drove down the road. His trench coat flapped in the wind like a cape as the rushing wind dried his fur to its usual orange poofiness.

BRUNO

MARIANNE BAKER STORMED up the steps of the old mansion. Like its owner, the house was ancient but still standing. Both refused to make way for the modern world.

The heavy oak door was unlocked, and she barged through the entry without a word.

Louis Feathertree had grudgingly accepted her cleaning of the house after several heated arguments with both Marianne and his great nephew. Marianne half hoped Feathertree’s nephew would carry out his threat and put the old man in a home where he belonged. There was no reason for him to be wandering about the place. It was filled with crappy oil paintings with frames so gaudy and intricately carved they were a pain to clean. Who gave a rat’s ass if some of them were painted by someone who cut off his ear? The statues and figurines were no better. They filled the rooms to capacity. It took an entire day to clean one room.

She hated Feathertree, his house, and cleaning. The only reason she took the job was because her landlord handed her an eviction notice. It wasn’t her fault that her stupid boyfriend busted his knee during football practice and lost his scholarship. He hadn’t bothered to pay her rent after he went back to his parents.

Bruno.

Marianne heard Feathertree out in the hall. In three days of grueling work, she had yet to see the damn dog. She jammed the feather duster at an Easter egg sitting on the table.

Do be careful of that. It’s a Faberge.

Marianne turned to see Louis Feathertree scowling at her. She pulled her earbuds out of her pocket and stuck them in her ears.

Whatever.

Her smartphone was in her pocket. Marianne pulled it out and tweeted, creepy old men are gross, before selecting her favorite music. She could still hear Feathertree’s comment, but ignored him.

You were supposed to be here this morning. It’s after four o’clock in the afternoon.

Marianne whisked the duster over several other items on the table. In the reflection of the mirror, she caught the old man wince. The tailored suit he wore would have looked better on a younger man. Wrinkles, white hair, and age spots ruined the look.

When she glanced back over her shoulder, it was to see him leaving the room.

After an hour of dusting, Marianne flopped on the couch, exhausted. She still had to find the vacuum cleaner and do the floor. Why didn’t the old man have a robotic vac? That way she wouldn’t have to do it.

A sound like nails tapping on linoleum, gained Marianne’s attention. She pulled her earbuds out and looked around the room. Thick rugs covered every surface of the floor. The noise started again and traveled to the far side of the room. Marianne got up off the couch and stepped toward the noise. She picked up a heavy bronze figure and held it ready to strike. There was no way she would stay on and clean if the house was infested with mice. Maybe someone would condemn the place if it were.

Two feet in front of her a bright orange rubber ball rolled out from under one of the low wooden tables. The ball looked like it was well chewed and covered in a thick gooey slime.

Oh, that is so gross. Marianne lowered the bronze she held and stepped away from the ball. She didn’t want to get dog drool on her shoes. The clicking noise sounded again, followed by a high pitched whine. Using the head of the bronze statue Marianne pushed the ball closer to the table. Four black furry appendages shot out from under the table and snatched the bright orange orb. Marianne screamed and dropped the bronze. Her scream was joined with a high pitched yowl as a dark shape bolted out from under the table and streaked across the floor toward Marianne. She jumped and backed away. In her haste, she tripped over a porcelain vase. Her head hit hard on the cast iron radiator, stopping her screams.

BRUNO.

Louis ran into the room and stopped dead before Marianne’s still form. Her sightless eyes open wide. A high pitched screech and series of clicking noises caught Louis’ attention.

He saw movement underneath the couch and stepped forward.

Bruno?

Louis knelt down and opened his arms. A dark form shot out from underneath the couch. Eight limbs encircled Louis’ chest as a barbed tail whipped the air. Pincered jaws clicked as eight eyes glinted red in the waning light.

Louis brushed at the prickly dark hairs of the beast.

There, there, Bruno. Everything’s all right now. The big scary lady isn’t going to hurt you.

Louis glanced at Marianne’s still form.

Not anymore.

A thin dark tongue rolled out from between the jaws and licked at his face.

Yes, Bruno’s a good boy. Now why don’t we get you a nice mouse. Would you like that?

Bruno squealed, and Louis stood with the beast still in his arms.

Let’s get Bruno a treat.

CAR POOL

WILL THIS TAKE LONG? I need to get back to the office.

Just a few minutes more. Ben pointed with his pen and asked, What was he thinking of, Doc?

Doctor Emily Frank looked at the car in the pool. The front end of the Lincoln Continental was facing the bottom of the in-ground pool while the tail lights tipped toward the sky.

It looks like he was attempting suicide. Emily took another drag on her cigarette. She knew it was a filthy habit, but it was a stressful day. When Ben Harris offered her the cigarette, she didn’t blink. Now she held the nicotine filled smoke in her lungs long enough to help calm her nerves.

Ben walked around noting the damage to both car and pool. He might have accomplished it if the pool wasn’t drained. On the surface, the car had minor paint damage, and the airbags were deployed. The pool carried the brunt of the destruction. Tiles were broken, the lining ripped, and the concrete sides needed serious repair. If Mr. James was trying to immerse the car in water, he should have used a smaller car.

James had some wonderful ideas, but his planning skills needed work.

Do you mind telling me about him?

Emily gave a weary smile. You’re not the police.

I’m an insurance investigator. Granted, you could always invoke patient confidentiality. But?

Are you going to try begging, or bribing?

Ben smiled. Whichever works. If it makes my life easier, or satisfies my burning curiosity, I’m willing to give it a go.

Emily inhaled another round of smoke and thought about the situation. James, she knew, wouldn’t mind. Not now. It wasn’t James’ first attempt, nor his second.

Shouldn’t he have been hospitalized?

The question made Emily laugh. You work for an insurance company. Do you really think insurance companies like to pay out anything? James was lucky when they kept him in the emergency room for eight hours. The first time he tried hanging himself from the bathroom shower curtain. Unfortunately, or maybe I should say fortunately, it wasn’t mounted to the wall. It was one of those spring loaded things you get at the hardware store. He ended up falling into the tub. Other than a few bruises and a dislocated shoulder, he was fine.

Not in the habit of keeping still while talking, Emily paced. The next time he decided to try, he wanted to gas himself by using the stove. James had his head in the oven for a good half hour before he called me to ask why it wasn’t working. You can’t imagine how tiring it is explaining the difference between gas and electric.

Ben stopped his note taking to look up at Emily. The disbelief riddled his face.

Trust me. People like James do exist. Reaching the end of the cigarette, Emily dropped it on the cement and ground the stub beneath her high heeled shoe. Let’s see, next came asphyxiation by plastic bag. He used a vegetable bag. You know, the ones with the holes in the bottom to help the produce breath so they last longer. I think it was a grape bag or something. I don’t know where he found one big enough to put over his head. Then again, perhaps he didn’t.

How could he do such a thing? asked Ben.

How could James commit suicide or how could he screw it up? I’m not the type of doctor that hands out prescriptions. His regular doctor was in charge of that. To my knowledge, he was on antidepressants. Did they work? Emily motioned to the car laden pool. You have your answer right in front of you. James’ history of depression is well documented. And it goes all the way back to childhood. Even his mother, before she died, would tell you he couldn’t do anything right.

She glanced over at Ben. I met the woman once. That was enough for me.

Wicked witch of the west?

More subtle. The snake in the garden would be a better example. James tried jumping off a roof the day after her funeral.

And?

Emily shrugged her shoulders. He spent the next few months with his leg in a cast. The building he jumped from was only one story.

Seriously?

Emily nodded. Seriously. When I asked him why he chose that particular building and not a higher one, he said he was afraid of heights.

Did he ever try to electrocute himself?

Oh yes. James put the toaster in the dishwasher, but the cord on the toaster wasn’t long enough, and climbing into the dishwasher made his claustrophobia kick in.

Why didn’t he try the bathtub?

He did that once, when he tried cutting his wrists.

Ben stepped over to one of the deck chairs and sat down on the metal frame, void of a cushion.

With a weary look, Emily sat down on the stone bench next him. There is a reason they’re called safety razors. She pulled at the edge of her sleeve as she talked. I was elated when I thought I finally got through to him. He was actually smiling when he left my office, saying that he was going to start living.

Then he gets run over by a city bus.

They say the bus driver had a heart attack and died. That’s why the bus jumped the curb. Such a shame.

Ben finished his paperwork and gave Emily her copy. Make sure you keep that for your records. You’ll need to give the companies you use to do the repairs the processing code.

I will.

CHESTER

THE CAR’S TIRES MADE crunching noises on the gravel as Justine drove up the winding drive.

Thanks for the ride.

Anytime.

Maurine smiled. Would you like a tour of the farm?

Justine parked in front of the white clapboard farmhouse and glanced at the weather beaten red barn. Do you keep chickens and rabbits like your Aunt May?

The anger on Maurine’s face was too hard to miss. No. Those damn Henderson’s next door have ruined that.

How? You have every right to keep animals on a farm.

Not with that horrid dog of theirs. Not only did that creature get into the henhouse but we had to put old Red down. Maurine’s eyes glistened with unshed tears.

The Morgan horse? What happened?

That evil sadistic dog is what happened. He went into Red’s paddock and tortured the poor old thing. Between Red’s age and dog bites. Maurine slammed the car door when she exited. The vet thought Red had a stroke. We didn’t have a choice but to put him out of his misery.

Justine was too astonished to complain about the car and wanted more information on the situation. Did you call the police? Can’t they do anything?

We did, and that’s when we found out that Lyle Henderson’s uncle is the chief of police. Not only has our complaint about that dog killing our chickens been chalked up to coyotes. John and I have been labeled ignorant city slickers and Lyle’s darling mutant German Shepard, Spike, can do no wrong. I don’t dare bring another animal onto our property because of that thing. John wants to shoot the dog and bury it out in the back woods. With our luck we’ll get fined, or worse. They’ll have him arrested on some trumped up charge.

Maurine stepped toward the house, stopped, and turned to the barn. I wonder if Chester’s all right.

Who’s Chester? And why does that name sound familiar?

When John retired from the lab, BioTech allowed him to take some of his test animals. They were going to be put down anyway. I never realized that a test animal was only used once.

That’s standard procedure.

Most of the animals died within the first two years. Rodents don’t seem to live long. I guess that’s why they have such large litters. Chester is the only one left. He makes a wonderful barn cat. Though John would prefer him to stay in the house. But Chester adored our horse, and now he won’t leave the barn. Maurine marched toward the big red building, worrying her fingers as she talked. We’ve been afraid to keep the barn door open ever since Spike attacked Red. If he kills Chester, John will be devastated.

Justine hurried after Maurine and helped her unbar the large wooden door so they could enter.

Chester, are you in here? Chester? Sweet pea, come to mommy, baby.

Both women looked around the deserted barn. Spider webs filled every corner. Stacks of baled hay filled one side of the barn waiting to be used. Justine ran her fingers over the bright yellow paint of Red’s empty stall. A feathered cat toy was jammed between the bars.

Where could he be? asked Maurine as she paced the wooden floorboards.

Don’t worry, he’ll show up. Anything else Justine was about to say was interrupted by a low growl. Both women turned to face the open barn door to see a huge German Shepard.

Oh my God. We’re trapped.

Do you have a pitchfork? Where is it?

Over there. Maurine pointed to the end of the line of horse stalls. The pitchfork stood in the corner, tines pointed down. Don’t make any sudden moves, but don’t turn your back on Spike.

Don’t worry, I won’t. Thirty years of working with exotic animals, remember. Justine stood still, her eyes riveted on the dog. Has Spike ever attacked a person?

Maurine edged toward the pitchfork. John and I have heard rumors. Aunt May said the Henderson family ran the town.

Maybe you should’ve sold the farm.

The dog moved closer barring its teeth.

John was appalled at the offers. The land’s worth ten times as much.

I can guess why. Justine moved her hand, gaining the dog’s attention. I take it the Henderson’s are greedy and as mean as their dog?

Maurine stretched out her hand toward the pitchfork. You have no idea. Her fingers wrapped around the handle, but before she could do anything a broken hay bale shifted. Long hairy legs shot out from under the dried grass and grasped hold of the dog’s hindquarters. With a hiss, they yanked the huge canine into the hay. Yowls, yelps, and high pitched animal noises mixed with the women’s screams. Both Justine and Maurine raced toward the hay. Maurine held the pitchfork and bounded from foot to foot as she debated the best place to bury the sharp tines in the rippling stack.

Within seconds the hay stopped moving, and the barn was