Stories That Ain't Quite Right

By Mark Kemp

Gnomes and death and complaints from a chair,

chickens and boots and secrets laid bare, weapons of ink and weapons of bone, aliens left drinking at parties alone, these are the stories, fantastic and new, collected here now for the curious few.

An eclectic medley of stories sure to please the seekers of fiction that strays from the norm into the realms of "What the hell am I reading?"

Mark Kemp is an experienced writer of many decades, drawing on his years of learning, knowledge, and experience to put together a collection never seen before.  

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mark Kemp
• Release date: Oct 31, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386998464

Mark Kemp

Mark Kemp has been writing about popular music and culture for two decades. He has served as music editor of Rolling Stone and vice president of music editorial for MTV Networks. In 1997 he received a Grammy nomination for his liner notes to the CD Farewells & Fantasies, a retrospective of music by '60s protest singer Phil Ochs. Kemp lives in Charlotte, North Carolina, where he works as the entertainment editor at The Charlotte Observer.

Book preview

Barstool

Out in a remote section of the Mojave Desert lies a community called Barstool. Barstool is not a city, town, or village, but just a few weathered buildings clustered along a dirt road that appears on no map. Along with a cafe, a grocery, and a vague building cloaked in rumors, there is, of course, a bar. This story concerns that business, and something that should never have been.

On a quiet Sunday afternoon, two men sat drinking in the Two Nuggets Saloon, while polka played on the boombox perched between the whiskey bottles. The bartender stood rubbing glasses with a stained towel tied to her apron.

The door swung open, spilling hot desert sun across the bar. The drinkers and the bartender turned to stare. In the doorway stood a wiry stranger wearing dirty denim and a tattered hat. His skin was wrinkled like old saddlebags, and his brows hung low over his eyes.

Can I help you? called out the bartender.

I need a drink, the stranger replied, his voice raspy with sand.

That I can help you with.

The stranger ambled up to the bar and pulled out a stool in the middle.

That ain't the best stool in the house, said one of the drinkers, a little guy in overalls.

The stranger faced him and said, I think I can pick out my own stool.

Suit yourself.

The other drinker looked over warily, and tipped back his glass. Another one, Mary.

Mary served the stranger a straight shot, then filled the drinker's glass. She turned to the other man and asked, How you doing over there, Chet?

Fine. But it's always possible I'll need more, like Bobby.

You been out there long? Bobby asked the stranger.

Name's Merle, and it's been thirty fucking years.

Chet whistled. A man can change out there.

A man can change in here, warned Merle.

Okay, just being friendly.

Merle turned back to his drink and sipped on it.

Suddenly he sat bolt upright. The other three people all nodded.

He looked around suspiciously, then settled back to his drink.

The he jumped up. What the fuck? Who the hell did that?

None of us did a thing, said the bartender.

Like hell.

Feel something funny? asked Chet.

The stranger took a step toward him, and Chet held up a hand. I mean no harm, I just wondered, the way you stood up quick like.

You mothers pulling anything, and there'll be hell to pay.

Merle sat back down and ordered another whiskey.

Hey, motherfucker, would I sit on YOUR face? Merle looked around and felt beneath him. Yeah, you, assface! He leaped off his stool and looked down at it. The stool looked back.

Thirty years in the desert, eh? Well I been thirty-three right here in this bar, and I ain't never lost a fight.

Merle backed away from the stool, but it walked toward him.

I told you, said Chet. Didn't I?

Merle looked at him, and then at the bartender. What the fuck kind of place is this?

It was a friendly bar until you came in, she answered.

The bar stool butted the stranger in the crotch and he doubled over. Come on, show me your stuff! Think you're better'n me? You and your ass cheeks couldn't take a fucking milkstool!

Merle straightened enough to shuffle toward the door, but the bar stool flung itself at his head and he went down. Merle flailed at it with his fists, but there was simply no contest. The stranger was finally able to fling himself through the door, and he was gone.

I told him, said Chet.

That you did, said Bobby. Like you always do.

I bet you boys are thirsty after that, said Mary. How about a round on the house.

They held out their glasses. The bar stool took its place again, and was quiet.

Texas Pete

Who are you? I asked.

I'm Texas Pete! he said with his chest puffed out.

And who is Texas Pete?

His chest deflated. It's me, he muttered. Nobody ever knows.

Well I'm happy to meet you, Texas Pete! So, you're from Texas.

No, he said quietly. I'm from Muskegon, Michigan.

Still, I said, That's a nice Stetson.

He took off his brown hat and brushed the nap with the side of his hand.

What can I do for you, Texas Pete?

I was hoping you could give me a job, mister. I saw your HELP WANTED sign in the window.

I am looking for a few people to help around the store. Do you have retail experience?

You mean, have I worked at a store? No, sir, I have not.

Tell me what you've done, then. What are you're good at?

I make things hot.

What do you mean, you make things hot?

After replacing the hat on his head, he placed his weathered hand over a counter display of meat sticks, letting it hover for a moment.

Try one now, he said.

I looked at his face, trying to puzzle him out. I've had them, I said.

So you know what they're like. A bit bland, right? Try one again.

I figured I might as well humor him and see where this was going. I peeled back the wrapper and bit off a chunk. It tasted the same, for a moment, then the fires of hell erupted inside my mouth. I spit it out and ran to the cooler, grabbed a milk and chugged it.

What the hell did you do to that? I yelled.

I made it hot. Lots of people like things spicy.

I don't believe this, I said, shaking my head.

The man held his hand over an antique wood box on the counter. His hand began to quiver, then he yanked it back as the box burst into flame. I ripped off my apron and smothered the flames.

Who the hell are you? I whispered.

I'm Texas Pete! he proclaimed. I already told you that.

Pete, I said.

Yes?

Pete, get out of here. Now. Please.

He looked crestfallen, and pulled his hat down low over his forehead.

They always say that, he murmured, and walked out the door.

Nad on the Moon

Nad tensed behind the wheel of his racer on the barren moon, waiting for the starting gun. Time slowed. Then with a hiss of rockets they were off, skimming across the sand.

The modulator asked the first four-dimensional calculus question, and gave them thirty seconds to answer it. He could hear his fans chanting, Go, Nad! Go! This was a tough question, and with his attention diverted, he spun out, clipping his nearest competitor causing both racers to tumble and explode in flames.

He was okay. Not so his competitor.  As was the custom and his right, Nad ate him.

The Gnome in the Kitchen

The gnome was standing in the middle of the living room when I switched on the light, looking like a gnome caught in the headlights.

I'm not here, he said gruffly. You are dreaming. Go back to bed.

I'm not dreaming, and I'm not stupid. Is there something you want?

Pancakes would be nice.

I suppose you want butter with them.

And syrup. Very important. If you make pancakes for me, I won't make your cow go dry.

I don't have a cow.

Oh. Well, bad things won't happen.

Okay, okay, two am pancakes it will be, I sighed, walking to the kitchen.

Somehow the gnome followed me. I couldn't actually see legs moving, but he glided across the rug. He was kind of a stiff little fellow.

Well, you would be too, he said, If you had to spend all day pretending to be a fricking lawn ornament!

He hopped up on a kitchen stool. Again, not sure how he hopped that high, but he got there. I pulled out a griddle and all the ingredients and got to work.

Coffee?

I shouldn't this time of night, because people don't like it when lawn ornaments pee, but go ahead. Maybe it will rain tomorrow.

Soon a bead of water popped off the griddle with a sizzle, and I poured batter.

Not too thick! Not too thin! the gnome warned me. And the name's Yster, if you don't want to keep referring to me as 'The Gnome'. You have real maple syrup for those? And real butter? I don't eat that fake crap."

You're in luck, I said. If my cow had gone dry, you'd be getting margarine.

Yster made a face, and if you haven't seen a gnome making a face, count your blessings.

So, Yster, just what were you doing in my house? Why did you come in?

Gnomes don't have to explain themselves.

And gnomes don't have to be fed pancakes with butter and maple syrup at 2 am.

I was cold outside.

Oh, okay. Thanks for telling me the truth.

Yster looked at me with a cold stare, which took work since he was now in a warm kitchen.

I don't want to tell you.

Ah, now we are getting somewhere.

I am your father, Zeke, the gnome said.

I laughed so hard the pancake I was flipping shot across the room, narrowing missing Yster, and slapped against the wall and slid down, leaving a slug-like trail.

Oops.

So, are you warming the syrup?

No.

Okay, just asking. Do you know what your neighbors do when you aren't looking?

Oh god, I don't think I want to know.

Well in that case, I won't tell you.

I admit I felt a little disappointed, but I didn't press him on it.

You're probably wishing now I had told you, but it's too late, he said. He took off his red cap and set it on the counter. I was surprised to see his head was totally bald, and quite well polished.

What are you looking at? he asked.

My reflection.

At that his eyes opened wide and he looked like he was going to jump up. But then, it was a long way to the floor, and I know he really wanted the pancakes.

Don't push it! he said.

Can I rub it for luck?

That time he jumped down and kicked me in the shin.

Ow! You little shit!

I warned you!

Okay, okay! Maybe we can try to be friends.

I wouldn't take it that far, but maybe we can get along for a few minutes.

So where did you come from? And why were you in my house?

I told you, I don't want to tell you that. But I came from next door. How do you think I know what your neighbors do? They don't always close their curtains at night.

Stop!

Haven't you ever seen me there? Next to the porch, with flowers growing around me. Except in winter, like now, when there are dead brown plants next to me. Geez, I wish they'd clean up a bit out there.

Isn't there a lawn jockey there?

Good god almighty, I'm not a fucking lawn jockey! Aren't those things illegal now, anyway? Racist pieces of ceramic crap! I do have some honor and pride, you know! You really can't tell the difference, huh?

I just never payed attention, honestly. Those neighbors are kinda creepy, and I avoid them.

For good reason. Say, you wouldn't want to adopt a gnome, would you? We require very little care, beyond a spray with the hose now and then, and a few pancakes.

You want me to steal the neighbors' statuary?

I'm not a statue!

But don't they think you are?

What do they know? But really, they don't pay enough attention to notice I'm gone, probably, and if they did, I'm sure you'd get probation. But you could slip in another gnome and they wouldn't realize it. Get a plastic one at Walmart – those guys aren't real, at least, so you wouldn't be involved in slavery. Keep me in here for a few weeks before you set me out front, until they are used to the new one.

And what do I get out of this?

I won't make your cow go dry.

I don't have a cow, remember?

I won't make your milk turn sour.

Well, there is that. But you must be able to do better.

Okay, let me think. How about I make it so all your steaks are flavorful and tender, even the cheap ones.

That's getting closer.

You drive a hard bargain. Okay, I can make it so Santa really does put stuff under your tree.

Reindeer poop?

I wasn't thinking that! At least, not out loud. Okay, okay, real presents, things you'll like.

Okay, deal. You'll need to go back to the neighbors' yard tonight, and I'll go find a replacement tomorrow.

Are those pancakes done yet?

Here you go. Do you need help pouring the syrup? With those short arms, you know?

Little bastard threw a fork at me. Luckily it stuck in my belt and not my belly.

Sorry, he said. "I get a little hot