Dangerous Memories: And Other Stories

By John H. Hoel

A famous surgeon wakes up one morning to find that he cannot remember who he is or where he is or who the woman is who slept with him during the night and is now downstairs making breakfast. He only remembers one thing, the name of a man who turns out to be a criminal defense lawyer.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jan 28, 2015
• ISBN: 9781496966797

John H. Hoel

This author, John Hoel, has been having a lot of troubles for the last ten years in his attempt to write and finish a novel. However, he has been doing very well in turning out collections of short stories and has been writing about twenty of them a year, equally now approximately two hundred short stories in all. He figures that if he were to write a novel, it would have to have about eight hundred pages for it to be a satisfying read. But for the time being, he tells us we’ll just have to be satisfied reading his collections of short stories since they are as many people. This book is imaginative and very well written and full of unexpected twists and turns.

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© 2015 John H. Hoel. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 01/26/2015

ISBN: 978-1-4969-6680-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-6679-7 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

After Midnight

Armed Robbery

Back Stage

Best Friends

Brain Trust

Closing Time

Colony Earth

Dangerous Memories

Dark Love

Deadly Assumption

Dream Lords

Dusan’s Dream

Easy Money

Final Farewell

Fresh Start

Go Deep

Happy Street

Javaad Saharanpur

Living Love

Mountain Top

Mystery Girl

November Rain

Pretty Face

Red Stone

Running Free

Secret Recipe

Separate Realities

Simple Girl

Something Wonderful

Somewhere Warmer

Star Trooper

Sticky Fingers

Tablinko Zoofrado

The Pen

Thomas Greene

Tin Star

Village Idiot

Who’s Talking?

Yours Truly

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I wish to express many a heartfelt thanks to the following people: Sharon for her enthusiastic support and many countless hours of proof-reading and critique; Eric, Ron, Dave, Tony, Karen and all the rest of the Saturday afternoon barflies too numerous to mention who find good things to tell me about my writing; Tura for her motherly instincts; Sally for her timely praise; Claire for constantly being amazed at how I somehow seem to come up with fantastic story ideas without damaging my brain to any noticeable extent; Bob for his fatherly advice and my publisher for putting me on the right track when I was unsure of myself.

To these people I dedicate this book. Any errors that continue to lurk throughout this work are totally my fault.

I wish to add one more name to the cadre of folks who helped me write this book. And that would be Tammy who works at the Press Box. From her lips comes the words The usual? on Saturday mornings and she does a fine job promoting me.

NOTE FROM THE EDITOR

John has done it again! This is his third book of short stories, and they just keep getting better. John skillfully draws the reader into the wild world of his imagination. A world where anything can, and does, happen. So, climb on board and prepare to be entertained.

John’s imagination and creativity seem endless. I often wondered how he came up with so many ideas for so many stories, so I asked him. He told me that he seldom has an idea for a story until he actually sits down at the keyboard. He begins to type and the words just flow from his fingertips. This is an awesome talent and one that many of us would like to possess.

I want to thank John for the opportunity to share my thoughts and some of my favorite stories with you. I congratulate him on another great book and look forward to the next. Keep ’em coming, John!

In John’s first story, he tells the story of a man who, unwittingly, makes a deal with the devil. Often, what we think we wants comes at a price. Are we willing to pay that price? Something that we need to consider before going beyond the point of no return.

One of my favorite stories is, Dangerous Memories. It was suspenseful and kept me wondering what was happening to this poor man. Was he losing his mind? Was he dreaming? It had an ending that I did not expect and, often, surprise endings are the best. I was definitely surprised and intrigued.

Mountain Top is next on my list. It is a heartwarming story about a man whose doctor has given him some horrible news. He decides to change his lifestyle and attempts to lead a more productive and meaningful life, rather than sitting and waiting for death to claim him. The results of this man’s actions are amazing, and he just may have a thing or two to say to the Grim Reaper. John reminds us that we do have choices and sometimes the choice we make may be life altering.

An act of kindness, even though it may be small, can often alter someone’s life. We may not even think about it at the time. Something Wonderful is a good example and a wonderful story. A man does a good deed and, as a result, saves a life. How many times does this happen everyday, and we remain unaware of the repercussions of our actions?

Thomas Greene, is a story involving witches and witchcraft. In the past, I didn’t usually read this type of story. Well, John won me over. This story tells about three witches who want to change their lives and they begin to set the plan in motion. Something happens to make them reconsider and say……. hmmmmm, maybe not! Very entertaining and thought-provoking.

I can’t discuss the details of Tin Star, as I don’t want to give too much away. But, it is a great story about a man who thinks he has just stepped onto the set of an old western movie. Maybe, maybe not. You’ll have to see where John’s imagination takes you. It’s always an enjoyable and entertaining ride.

Some of John’s story revolve around the theme of love and the joy of finding love. Many people don’t even know they’re looking for it. In fact, love often finds them. One such story is, Armed Robbery. It is a story about something that starts out badly, ends up quite differently. John seems to strongly believe in the power of love and it’s ability to change people and lives.

Another such story is, Closing Time. Although the intentions of the young man in this story may have started as something less than honorable, love changed everything. Everyone involved led a productive and happy life, doing what they most wanted to do. Even selfish motives sometimes produce good results.

Dark Assumption, is a story about someone, again, who is looking for and trying to attain something that she really doesn’t want, but thinks she does. When love comes along and convinces her that she has been wasting time chasing the wrong thing, her life and the lives of others takes a definite turn.

John also delves into the world of science fiction. Some of his stories introduce new ideas and thoughts of what the world could and, maybe someday, will be. The possibilities are endless. One such story is, Red Stone. Are there other beings, other civilizations, that are trying to involve Earthlings in the process of creating a peaceful and loving universe? Are we too blind to see and understand? Or, once again, is it all just a part of John’s imagination. It makes you think and leads you to draw your own conclusions.

I can’t possibly, nor is it my purpose, to share all of John’s ideas and stories here. I have touched on some that I recall as being on my list of favorites. It is up to you to dive in and decide whether you agree or disagree, and come up with your own list of favorites.

When I see John he never fails to ask me, So which is your favorite story. One time I asked him which story was his favorite. He replied, I don’t have one. They’re all like my children-I can’t pick a favorite. So now, when John asks me I say back to him, I don’t have a favorite. They’re like my nieces and nephews, I love them all.

I think I have rattled on long enough about the creativity and talent of John. He is truly a great author and I could probably continue to sing his praises for a lot longer. Chances are, however, that I was so long-winded that you became bored and may not have even read this far. If you did, thank you.

Thank you, John, for giving me the opportunity to share some of my thoughts and favorite stories with your readers. Also, thank you for sharing your imagination with me and the rest of the world. I hope the creativity continues to flow from your fingertips and that we will all soon be enjoying another book of yours.

Sharon Davey

Editor

INTRODUCTION

Wanted: Person to do proofreading for local author. Call XXX-XXXX. I read the ad again. It still said the same thing and it was still in our local Shopping News. It sounded interesting. In truth, it sounded too good to be true. I debated whether or not to call. It was Sunday. Oh, but I really wanted to know more about that job. I called my roommate and asked her what she thought. She said call, so I did. An answering machine clicked on, so left a message with my name and numbers and further said that I was really interested in the position. A few hours later, while watching a tractor pull, I got a call back. It isn’t easy to hear your phone or talk, while at a pull, so I had to leave the viewing area so that I could do just that. The gentleman who called me gave me more information about the position and asked if I was still interested. I said that I was very interested. He asked if I had easy access to e-mail and I said yes. He then asked for my e-mail address so that he could e-mail me a story that I was supposed to read, proofread and edit, then e-mail back to him, so I gave it to him. He said that he had had several calls about the job and had decided that this was going to be how he ‘interviewed’ us. I thought it was an interesting way to do an interview, but I also thought it was probably the best way to see what kind of work we were each capable of doing. I mean, if you are looking for a proofreader and/or editor wouldn’t you want to see what the person who wants the job would do with a raw and unedited story? This gentleman did and I decided I was going to do my best so that I could get the job. After ending the call I went back to the tractor pull and told my roommate who had called. I told her what we had talked about and that he would be mailing me a story. We spent the rest of the afternoon watching the pull and wondering what the story, that I would be having mailed to me, would be about and when it would come. I was so excited to be doing something that held so much interest to me that I could hardly wait for the pull to be over so that I could check my e-mail. It wasn’t there….

A few days later I found it in my spam folder. I quickly moved it to my inbox and saved the address to my contacts. Then I opened the mail. I read the brief note and opened the attachment. I scanned the story and decided to print it so I could do a better job on my ‘interview’. My boyfriend at the time and I sat down to read it together that night. We read it through twice, giving each other curious looks and asking each other ‘Where is this story going?’. When we got done reading we were both wondering where this man had come up with the idea for this story. A few days after first reading my ‘interview’ I mailed my edit back and started waiting again….

Not long after the wait started I got an e-mail saying that the job was mine if I wanted it. If I wanted it?!? Is he kidding I thought? Did I want it? I craved it! I longed for a chance at a job that involved something that I loved. To be paid to read?!? Joy! Rapture! Yippee!! To me, this was a chance to follow a dream. A dream that long before I had put on the shelf as being yet another unattainable pipe dream. I called him and told him I wanted the job. He decided it was finally time to meet in person. So I followed his directions and drove to a house in a part of the county that I wasn’t overly familiar with. That is where I finally met and was introduced to John Hoel. Sitting at that kitchen table discussing my interview and my thoughts and reasons behind some of my suggestions is where my journey with this book Dangerous Memories officially began. But the story started long before that.

‘Where’s the book?’, that was my first sentence. My parents taught me from little on to love and appreciate the written word. Bedtime meant a story must be read and if I could manage it, two or three. A car trip meant grabbing a book before leaving the house, even if all we were doing was going to town. I’d either grab the one I was already reading or grab a new one off of one of the many bookshelves in the house and sometimes I’d grab a spare. When we would leave on vacation my two sisters and I usually had at least three books each and our parents would check to make sure we had them! They were to keep us occupied until we got to where we were going, at least that is what they said. My theory was that if all three of us were reading our parents didn’t have to listen to ‘Are we there yet?’ or to the fighting that can and will happen when three kids are confined in seatbelts sharing the backseat of a four door Dodge.

That love of reading carried over into my English classes in high school. I used to be asked by classmates what had happened in the sixty pages or whatever it was that we had been assigned to read. There were always questions that had to be answered in class and if not answered to the teacher’s liking then a quiz was a very real possibility. When I got to college I studied English and History. I was an assistant editor and then editor of a student literary publication. It was a position that I took seriously and loved thoroughly. Now here I was some fifteen almost twenty years later and I had just been hired to do something that I already knew I loved and enjoyed. Just ask my friends and family, or even my co-workers: I’m always reading. Break time at work is spent with my nose in a book. Even at family gatherings you can find a book or two in my car. When I go out to eat I always have a book with me since I’m usually alone and if I’m reading I don’t see the other patrons of the eating establishment looking at me and wondering why I’m alone and not with someone.

Why read you ask? To learn. To entertain yourself. To travel somewhere that perhaps you can’t personally afford to travel to. To take a journey forward or backward in time and space getting a look at the past or taking a glimpse at what one person thinks the future may bring. For me reading is all of these things. I get to learn. I get to travel to far away lands now, in the long ago past, and in the far distant future. I get to go on an adventure.

When he hired me, John gifted me with his first two books: 29 Short Stories (2005) and Utopian Dreams & Other Stories (2008). He said that he hoped I would enjoy them. I have. Before I started reading the stories that you will find here in Dangerous Memories, I read four random stories in each of his other books. I wanted to get a better feel for his writing style. I wanted to see if I could find a pattern in what he wrote. I got a better feel for his ‘free flowing thought’ process way of writing. I have to admit though that he still surprises me with where he takes some of his stories. I’m hoping that he always will. As for a pattern of what he writes about? I haven’t found one yet. John doesn’t write Westerns. He doesn’t write Historicals. He doesn’t write Dramas or Comedies. He writes it ALL. Yes, I said ‘all’. I don’t know too many writers with the courage to even try that. Most writers find a genre with which they are comfortable and stay with it. Say author X starts out writing Westerns because he loves Westerns. Author X, will in all likelihood, always write Westerns and only Westerns because that is what he feels comfortable with. Not so with John. John writes something for every reader. His stories are from the past, the future, and the wild west. He writes stories that could possibly happen to you or me today, tomorrow, or a year from now.

I have asked John a few times since I started this journey with him where he gets the ideas for his stories. The truth is, it was more than just a few times. It was lots of times. It wasn’t until I had told him that one story had made me cry and that the next one had left me completely baffled as to where he had come up with the idea that he told me anything about it. His answer was: Having lived a lot of life I guess. Then he told me a little bit about that life. He was in the Air Force. He painted portraits to get money for school. He attended a few different colleges. He was married and owned and operated a few businesses over the years. He has lived in several different states and even sailed, yes sailed, on the Pacific Ocean. To me the one thing that told me even more was that he is a reader himself. That, kind reader, is just the tip of the iceberg that is John Hoel. I can’t wait to learn more about this man.

So what will you find here in Dangerous Memories? You can get a taste of the wild west in ‘Tin Star’. Or maybe you want to take a trip into the future with the characters of ‘Star Trooper’ or ‘Colony Earth’. You can find a hint of romance in ‘Dusan’s Dream’ and ‘Somewhere Warmer’. Or maybe you would like to read the first story of John’s that I read and fell in love with: ‘Mountain Top’, the story of a man who is told he only has months to live so, ‘make the best of it’.

Wherever you choose to start, I know that you will enjoy this book of short stories. My best advice to you the reader is to find your favorite spot to sit, grab yourself a drink and something to snack on, and then just sit and read. So, ‘Where’s the book’? Right here. Just turn the page to start your adventure.

Marilu Miller

AFTER MIDNIGHT

I put my favorite fountain pen down on the drawing table. The cartoon was finished. It was great, I thought. Probably my best one yet. It was sure to be accepted for syndication. My work would, then, be in every newspaper across the nation.

I had been drawing cartoons ever since I was six. It was my thirtieth birthday today. I had just celebrated it by drawing what was to be my eight thousand, seven hundred and sixtieth cartoon. I had been in the habit of drawing seven a week, one each and everyday.

I did several drafts of the one I had in mind to do, until I got just exactly what I wanted, or what seemed to work best as I was developing my idea. I saved all of them since the age of six and then, ten years ago, I bought myself a scanner and put them into my computer. I listed them by date of their creation and a brief phrase which best described the subject matter.

The subject matter of my cartoons was on the darker side of life, something that wouldn’t ordinarily be accepted for publication. But they were so great, I had no doubt that one day someone important would notice their merit. Then, everyone would want to see them, on a regular basis.

I have a website on the internet. I put some of my cartoons on it with the hope that they might become popular, and get into print that way.

I downloaded the cartoon I had just created onto my website, hoping that it would garner some attention. It did.

The next day I got an email from someone I did not know, telling me that they wanted to purchase all of my cartoons and would pay two hundred dollars for each one. Eight thousand times two hundred was a lot of money.

I immediately wrote back and told him how many cartoons I actually had and that it would be a lot of money. About one point eight million, to be more exact, if I sold them to him for what he had quoted me. I then, told him that I would be willing to sell at a lot less than what he was offering.

He emailed me back on the same day. He told me that his offer stood, and that he was sure about what he was doing. He reminded me that the cartoons’ copyrights would be his in the bargain.

He then informed me that to make the sale, I had to bring my cartoons on a CD to a location he gave me just north of San Francisco, in exactly one week from the time I had received his first email. He never explained why he was so particular. I didn’t bother asking him in my reply, in which I told him I would be coming. He stopped sending me emails after that, not even sending back a confirmation.

For some reason, about an hour later, I started to develop a hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach after thinking about the man’s email and my reply, and I didn’t know why. Perhaps it was the thought of getting nearly two million dollars all at once, from a stranger, for unknown reasons or purposes. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but the feeling was very ominous. It was the same kind of feeling I had when I drew my cartoons.

Most cartoons were supposed to make people laugh. Mine didn’t. My intent was to give people nightmares, for a thrill they couldn’t scrape from the innermost caverns of their minds and couldn’t escape thinking about. That was my intention, and that’s probably why I was never published. But I liked what I did, and I thought if there were spooky novels people enjoyed, then there should be spooky cartoons, as well.

After sending the email, I quit drawing cartoons for the next week and attempted to rest on my laurels, with the satisfaction of a job well done, at least for the time being. It had taken me twenty-four years to finally hit the big-time.

The days quickly passed. All I did was work at my internet business, which only nominally provided me with room and board. This time I worked out of habit instead of need and, also, for the purpose of possibly selling it for a few thousand. The business wasn’t much as businesses go, but it had helped me with my drawing, substantially.

When the time came to go and do the exchange, I boarded a plane to San Francisco, from Chicago, and had an uneventful flight. I decided to take first class, as a reward to myself. When I arrived at the airport, the August seacoast weather was a lot cooler than what it had been at my home.

As I left the airport to find a taxi, I spotted a man outside the terminal building in a black suit and chauffeur’s cap. He was standing next to a black limousine, holding a sign with my full name on it. I was surprised, intrigued, and curious all at the same time. I wasn’t expecting a ride. I went over to the man and told him my name. Without a word or smile, he turned toward the limo’s back seat, opened the door, and waited for me to get in. I got in. He closed the door.

Sitting next to me was a young woman, who looked to be only about eighteen. She spoke to me in soft, lurid words.

I’m your escort, she said darkly, with shadows of sexual innuendo. Would you care for some champagne? She then put her hand on a nearby bottle, which was chilling in a bucket of ice.

No, I said immediately, repudiating any advances upon my person, on her part. I had enough on the flight.

How about a line? she then asked.

A what? I replied.

Coke, white stuff, snow, she then said.

Don’t use the stuff, I, then, told her firmly.

You will, she said to me ominously.

It sounded as though she had plans for me, the way she was talking. She alluded to my using cocaine, in a way which would require a period of time to pass by, in order for me to change my mind. I was quick in denying her the pleasure.

Once I hand over the disk and get my money, I’m out of here. So, I don’t think so, I told her flatly.

What happened next sort of miffed me and caused me concern. She didn’t answer, and turned her head to look out the window instead. It was if to say that she would be the one to have the last word. This ploy effectually cut off any possibility of having any further conversation with her, and she did not attempt to speak to me until we got to our destination. I didn’t really care, one way or the other. I was content to keep my mouth shut and enjoy the ride instead of making conversation which, I’m sure, would have only served to make me more irritable than I already was with the little girl.

About an hour later, we arrived at, what seemed to be, a private beach front property. The place was fenced-in with a cyclone fence, which was topped with rolls of razor-sharp concertina wire. The beachfront road led us to a gate, which seemed to be motorized and monitored with closed-circuit television cameras, which were mounted on steel poles. The gate slid open and we went through.

The remainder of the road to the large ultra-modern-looking house ahead was composed of sand, and was a bumpy, slushy ride. A pack of Doberman Pinschers, doing their jobs, followed alongside our car as we went.

Without permission from my female escort, I got out of the limo and stepped into the warm white sand of the beach, immediately after we had come to a full stop in front of the house. The place was huge and reminded me of a World War II battleship’s superstructure, with all of its nooks and crannies and outcroppings. The escort stayed at my side but did not say a word, as of yet. I scanned the superstructure, looking up high on the house-building, to where the captain’s bridge might have been. I spotted a man standing on a balcony, looking down at me. He waved and hollered out, Wait right there! I’ll be right down!

A couple of minutes passed and, as I waited, I watched the seagulls circle overhead, on the lookout for something to scavenge. It appeared that someone connected to the house was feeding them on a regular basis, most likely with loaves of stale unwanted bread.

The escort finally spoke to me. Like to feed the birds? she asked, noting my interest in the seagulls.

I’ve never fed birds before, I replied. Why?

Because they get hungry, she said. Why else would you be feeding them?

Because it’s fun? I said with noticeable chagrin.

That too, she then answered indifferently. You feed them because it makes you feel good all over.

The man came out of the house from a patio door at its base. He had in his hands a brown paper bag. He walked over to me with it, put the bag on the sand next to my feet, and extended his hand for me to shake, while he introduced himself.

Hello Mike, he said. My name is Bertram. I run this place. I was the one that emailed you.

I shook his hand. His grip was firm, and reassuring. At the outset, I seemed to like the man. He was in his fifties, twenty years my senior, and it seemed like he had taken care of himself. His eyes were direct and his smile seemed genuine.

That said, I couldn’t say much else about him except that he seemed to be a people person. He was dressed in casual clothing, although it might have been tailor-made, by the looks of it. He looked sharp, and there was no doubt in my mind that he cared just as much about his appearance as he did his health.

Did Tracy treat you hospitably? he then asked me.

As good as any teenager might, I told him.

Bertram chuckled, then reached down into the bag that he had put near my feet, and brought out a loaf of bread. He untwisted the tie wrap, and pulled out a couple of slices. The birds overhead started to flock directly above him, as they saw what he was doing.

Do you like nature? he asked me.

I’m not a nature worshiper but, yeah, I like nature, I told him.

Great, said Bertram. Then you’ll like to feed our birds.

He handed me the bread and told me to throw it up into the air as far as I could, then watch what would happen.

I did as he instructed me, and, almost instantly, a half dozen seagulls winged their way to the slices and, in a feeding frenzy, ripped the pieces to shreds, devouring them as they did. It all happened in a moment, and was breath-taking. The sight of the event caused me to want to try again. This time, with more pieces.

Bertram handed me the loaf and, this time, I repeated the action, only with a double amount of food for the birds. It was so fascinating, I found myself going through the whole loaf in a matter of a few minutes. The birds never missed seizing, in midair, all the bread slices, no matter how many there were, disallowing for the chance of even one morsel hitting the ground. Bertram was content just to watch me have fun. He seemed to be studying me as he did.

When I had finished, he patted me on the back and said to me, Pretty cool, huh?

Yeah, I said. It was.

He quickly turned to business. Did you bring the disk? he asked.

I reached into the side pocket of my blazer and brought out the compact disk. I was about to hand it to him when I asked, Do you have the money?

It’s in the house, he said cooly.

He then extended his hand, I thought I might look at the rest of your work before I gave it to you.

I let him have the disk and wondered what he might do next. Come, he said. "Let’s show you around our operations, here at After Midnight. That’s what we call the place. It’s a fitting name, don’t you think?"

As we walked toward the house, I thought of the name, After Midnight, and what it could have possibly meant to me. Bertram addressed my curiosity.

In case you’re wondering, it’s the name of one of your cartoons that you posted on your website ten years ago. That’s when I saw it and started to make plans for this place. Although you have posted only a fraction of your cartoons on the internet, we found that your titles were so accurate in describing what the cartoon is all about, we downloaded the list of all your titles.

We used them to create a series of short stories, each of them averaging about ten pages long. These could, later, be matched with the cartoons that we had planned to purchase from you which, of course, would be now, at this time. So far, we have two hundred books ready for print, enough to flood the market with your work and inspiration. Our target group is the young adult. Our nation’s budding witches and warlocks and soon-to-be masters of the dark side.

Our writers just need to take but one look at your cartoons, or the title, for ample inspiration on what they should write. I am told that then, after looking on the internet at the cartoons you’ve made available to the public, they are able to acquire the sum and substance of how they must think in order to write a top-notch short story. You have been an inspiration to us all, Mike, especially to those doing the writing. And, of course, to myself.

I should, though, take a quick look at these to make sure everything is copacetic and ready to go. Wouldn’t want to delay printing any longer than necessary, would we?

I guess not, I said. This was all a surprise to me and I was now forming a lot of questions, like how many of these books did Bertram intend on selling? Was this the end of my cartoon career, with the sale of these last cartoons, representing twenty-four years of hard work on my part? Was there a demand for more than two hundred books and more cartoons from my hand? I needed to ask.

Bertram took me to his study. There were copies of short stories lying around, with a few pictures of cartoons off my website that I had allowed to be downloaded for a nominal fee. The place looked busy and important. Bertram loaded the CD into his computer, putting its contents on a slide show so that each one played for about a second.

An aide came in, a pretty young thing in a tight-fitting halter top and skin-tight jeans. She had a cute smile and black hair, and was holding a pitcher of strawberry margaritas and two glasses. While we watched the slide show, she poured us each a drink, and left the pitcher with us. The drinks seemed to go well with my cartoons.

We looked at all eight thousand, seven hundred and sixty of them. It took us a little over two hours. It was good to see them again. They brought back many fine memories as to their creation, and what I was thinking about when I drew them. It was then that Bertram turned to me with a revelation.

That was the sum and substance of your undergraduate work. The last cartoon, which you posted on the internet, has taken you to the next step in your evolution as an artist–the PhD level. That is why you are here today. To complete the process and draw for us on a higher level, with the needed inspiration that only we can provide you.

You have just taken your first step, from dark to darker. And you will go even darker, yet, as time passes. We will help you attain this. Without us, you’ll never again draw the same caliber cartoon as you drew last week. And, after that one, I believe you quit drawing. As an excuse, you thought to yourself you had hit the apex of your career and ability, which is quite true. You had.

"So, we’re going to do something a little different from now on. Each day, before our authors begin their writing, they’ll review all the cartoons on this disk. In a little over two hours, they’ll each come away with ideas on what to next write about. They will all collaborate on the same piece together on their individual, but networked, computers. All of them will fashion a story using their collective consciousness, like builders building a house would. In one day they will complete a story, and that’s where you come in."

You’ll read the finished story, and then come up with ideas to draw the best picture you can for the story. The story will be but the first draft. When you have questions, regarding details, to ask of the writers to better draw your picture, they will then revise the story to include your input. You will do this over and over again until you all come up with a crackerjack story. One that will blow the socks off anyone fortunate enough to read it. This is what I mean by PhD level. It’s the most advanced way to write books I can think of, or anyone else I know could think of.

You and the writers will have access to the most comprehensive computerized encyclopedia of witchcraft and black magic known to any man or woman, in case you have difficulties with anything in the process of crafting your books. We plan on printing one book per month, for which you will receive royalties as both artist and editor. We plan on selling ten million copies per month worldwide.

You may begin tomorrow. Tracy will show you your room and you can have the rest of the day off. We’ll keep the money for your disk you brought with you today for your use at a later time, or when you decide to retire, which I hope will be a long ways away from now. Do you have any questions at this time?

Yeah, I told him. What if I refuse to play along and, instead, demand my money now, and leave?

"Then tomorrow morning, when you leave for home, you’ll board your aircraft, taxi to the runway, the captain will get the clearance to takeoff, and just after takeoff, your jet will crash, killing all aboard. Your check for one point eight million will be destroyed and its funds will automatically be returned to After Midnight. No one will get their PhD and I’ll have wasted ten years and be forced to start all over again. You’re going to hell one way of another, Mike. You’ve already made a pact with the Devil to sell your work, one way or another. Look, I’ll show you. See for yourself."

Bertram punched in a date on his computer. The last cartoon Mike had created sprang up on the screen. There was a picture of an airline cockpit through the windscreen, with the captain of the airliner sitting on the right side. To his left was a picture of his copilot, the Devil. The caption beneath it read, The truth about unexplained airline disasters.

Mike winced nervously.

ARMED ROBBERY

I entered the store at five minutes before the hour of ten P.M. I had just enough time to take off my coat and hang it up, and then punch in, pour myself a cup of coffee, with cream and sugar, and go to the cashier on duty and report for my shift. It was a Sunday night, and I didn’t expect much business. It was my third day of employment at the convenience store, but I had plenty of experience at previous locations and knew what to expect. I was thankful they had music piped in throughout the store and at the pumps for me to listen to. It seemed to make the time pass more quickly and, when I was alone, offered me a semblance of companionship.

I had exactly three customers come in during the next two hours. One of them bought gas, the other two bought cigarettes. I knew I would be bored out of my mind with nothing to do, so I started to work on a crossword puzzle. It was out of one of those magazines we sold, that I swiped without paying for. I considered it a perk. If I got bored with that, I would read a Psychology Today magazine I borrowed from the store’s newsstand. I was a psychology major in college, and I loved reading it.

At one minute after midnight, an event would take place at the cashier’s station which would change my life. A man walked in wearing black Levi trousers, a black T-shirt and a black leather knee-length coat. He was about thirty years old and, for a reason I couldn’t quite put my finger on, he looked as evil as sin itself. He looked around furtively to see if there was anyone else in the store. When he was satisfied that there was no one else around, he came directly over to me. It was then that this man changed my life.

He pulled back his coat and pulled out a revolver, which had been tucked under his belt. He leaned over the counter and aimed the piece of cold, blue-black steel at my forehead. He did this in an instant of time, and I had no time to reach down and press the alarm. He did this in full sight of the security camera, wearing no mask, and being brazen as all hell could be.

At first, I froze in panic, feeling a surge of adrenaline course through my body, and I could hear my rapidly beating heart. I immediately thought that the man could have anything he wanted if he didn’t take my life away with a squeeze of the trigger. It seemed like forever went by before he did anything else. Then he spoke.

Open the drawer and hand me all the cash, and keep your hands where I can see them, he said softly, and with the precision of a great orator.

His eloquence, instead of making me dash for the cash, made me more relaxed than I ought to have been. So much so, that it actually emboldened me to ask him what I later thought to be a stupid and dangerous question.

Why? I asked, with a serious expression.

Stupid bitch! he screamed. Because I need the money, that’s why!

I don’t know, really, why I did what I did next. At the time it was perfectly logical to me for some reason and, I thought at the time, it made perfect sense. Maybe it was because I found the man somewhat attractive, and I wanted the moment of excitement he had caused me to last a little bit longer before he took the money and ran off. I don’t really know, because it was such a deep-seated emotional response on my part. A response which was lost in a flurry of thoughts and impressions of the event which I now was facing. I continued with my stupid statements.

Well, I said with exasperation. You don’t have to get all huffy about it. You asked me nicely for the money, so the least you could do is, also, explain to me nicely why you want it. Everybody needs money. That’s no big deal. But you’ve decided to just take it by force, without working for it, which is a naughty thing to do.

"This