Twin Lakes Vortex

By Ken Morris

About the Book
These stories are fictional, of course, but along the way are events, or incidents that happen to each of us on a daily basis. Books can take us to the moon and stars. Drawing inspiration from his real-life experiences in the military, as a truck driver, and many other careers, Ken Morris captures the wild stories that permeated through his head throughout his travels across the United States.
About the Author
Author Ken Morris tends to bend the gist of each tale as it rolls around in his head. He writes because he loves to make people happy. He grew up with a love for reading, starting down on his hands and knees, reading the comics from his local paper, then The Reader’s Digest, and the Weekly Reader. Then a classmate showed Morris a National Geographic with stories from around the world, sparking a new interest in the world around him. Morris, along with his beautiful wife and their old dog, now spends his retirement sharing fictional stories based upon his kaleidoscope of experiences.

• Language: English
• Publisher: RoseDog Books
• Release date: Feb 22, 2023
• ISBN: 9798885275811

Book preview

Beating The Devil

I had made a smart deal with the devil, or so I had thought. I had made the deal during my high school days when I thought I was bulletproof. I was our school’s high school baseball catcher and I thought I was one of the best. Hell, I was batting 455 halfway through my sophomore year, and had thrown out 24 baserunners trying to steal second. I had a laser of an arm, my brothers were cut from the same cloth, all four of us thought we were hellions. My oldest brother was the starting quarterback in high school at the age of 13, and my other brother was a starting center. And let me tell you, the fellow playing defense across from him always knew they had been in a game; he sent most of them back to their schools with blood on their uniforms and faces.

All four of us were hardcore players. It all started with a trip to the mound, our prized ace picture was having a rough day. Mostly he was throwing shit pitches. A lot of the pitches were getting nowhere near the plate, a few even bounced in front of home, so I either had to try and pick them clean, or get hit in the nuts. It wasn’t fun, and it was only the third inning, so the last pitch came, slipping and diving in front of the plate, and I stopped it with my face mask. Not that it hurt; I was just tired of scrambling in the dirt and I didn’t want this secondary school to beat us because of piss poor pitching. So I asked the plate umpire for a timeout.

I had the ball in my catcher’s mitt as I walked out to the pitcher’s mound, and as I got a little closer to our pitcher, I noticed he had somehow appeared a little different. He seemed a little shorter, and his face was swollen and very, very red. The tip of his right ear looked pointed, and his left ear was actually wiggling. I couldn’t take my eyes from it. I asked him, Tommy, you alright?

When he opened his mouth to speak, his teeth were a sparkling white. A couple looked as if they had been sharpened to points. As he pulled his hand off to wipe the sweat from his forehead, I saw what looked like two long, horn-like mounds sprouting from his head. His red face seemed very angular, his chin almost coming to a point. I stared at the ground, afraid to look in his face again. His glove had steam coming from it. I was scared, so I looked over to our bench for some help; our coach was frozen in mid-stride, like he started out here, but he was stuck there, not moving nor even a flinch or blink. Two of my team members were playing catch behind our bench. The ball froze in midair between both of them, one of them with their arms rigid in the act of throwing. The little bit of crowd that attended the game, mostly girlfriends and old retirees, looked as solid as rocks sitting in their seats. It was as if time  stopped.

He opened his mouth to say something. What escaped from his mouth was the most fouling stench I’d ever smelled. It rode like waves towards me; it was garlic, burning tires, and rotten fish. I wanted to puke, my eyes were watering, I was feeling nauseous, and my knees were shaking, when he demanded I look at him. I tried to pry my eyes from the ground, but they weren’t listening.

Finally, I looked up, and he said You know who I am? Don’t you?

Yeah, I replied weakly.

Yeah, what! he exclaimed.

I knew he wanted me to say, Yes, sir, but I was standing my ground. I was scared. I was only 15; what did he want from some snot-nosed kid? So I meekly asked him what he wanted. He laughed so loud and so long even the clouds shook.

Your soul! he belched.

 My soul?

Yes he replied quickly. But I’d be willing to trade for it! What will it be, son? Fortune? Fame? Naked girls? Fast cars? He then told me I could lay my hands on anything and everything my young heart desired. What will it be, son?

Anything? I asked.

Anything, he replied.

I was trying to think, but it just wasn’t coming. Hell, I wanted it all: fame, fortune, women, fast cars, and most of all, out of school. To me school sucked! I hated math, algebra, and who in the hell was going to chase down a sentence and tell you where the nouns, adverbs, and pronouns belonged? So I said, I want to be able to hit anything I want, with anything I hold in my hand! Bowling balls, nothing but strikes, and to be able to swing a bat and place the ball anywhere I want, and throw a pitch so hard and curve so fast that only the umpire could see it. Throw a football 120 yards and make it stick, hit golf balls into the holes from the tees! I want it all, fame, fortune, fast cars. Oh yeah, women too!

He looked down at me and said, Well, that’s alot!

Well, I said, I have a young soul, and if you want it, that’s the deal.

With that, he reached down and took the ball from me and said, Ok, deal.

My catcher’s glove suddenly disappeared, and in its place was a brand-new fielder’s glove; it was strange looking, two fingers on my catching hand had their own little nest, and my thumb fit in it like it had been made just for me. He handed me the ball and said, Have a good life. and disappeared. Not like poof, and a puff of smoke, no—he just vanished.

I looked around me and there were eight other players gawking in my direction. I heard someone called timeout and here came our catcher out to the mound where I was standing. He came about halfway out and he started pulling off his mask. Apparently, I must have had a sheep-shearing look on my face, ‘cause now I was on the pitcher’s mound and Tommy had all of our catcher’s gear on.

Our coach was just stepping over the foul line headed my way. Oh, I thought the proverbial shit was gonna hit the fan. I was born to be a catcher, had been ever since I was a little kid. My dad once had a team he coached for my big brother, who was a pitcher—one Saturday they were to play a city team, and his catcher was a no-show! So, he yelled at me to put on the gear and catch. Man, it was sad, the equipment was twelve sizes too big for me and the catcher’s glove weighed 27 pounds. It was a hot and ugly day, but I hung in there until about the sixth inning, then some 300-pound walrus decided to steal home. In those days you could barrel the catcher and he did. He knocked my two front teeth out of my head and I’m pretty sure some of my brains were leaking out of my ears but when then umpire yelled, You’re out! and I had held onto the ball. I knew my place in life; I was born and bred a catcher, and all players knew of me.

And now here I stood on our own high school pitcher’s mound wondering, now what? Tommy asked me, Are you ok?

Yeah, why?

He said, Because you have now walked three in a row, and the bases are loaded. We can’t say we beat them ten to nothing.

Our coach strode up to me on the mound and asked, How’s the arm?

I didn’t know how to answer; hell, I ain’t never pitched in all my life.

Listen, he said, we’re up by ten runs. If you strike out a couple of these guys, then Tommy and you can switch positions, and he can mop up and we’ll all go home.

All I said was ok, like that was ever gonna happen, so Tom went back behind the plate. Our coach walked back to the bench and there I stood. Tommy pulled his face mask back on, and was squatting behind home plate with the batter in the box. Tom gave me the finger signal for a curveball, the old universal two finger curveball sign. I stood there thinking how the hell do I throw a curveball? Let alone get it over the plate. My older brother had once told a friend of his who was another pitcher on his team that he always threw his curve at the batter’s shoulder, and then watched it collide with the catcher’s mitt for a strike. I had overheard the conversation. Well, I thought, here goes nothing!

I wound up like the big leaguers I saw on TV, and threw that ball as hard as I could. Oh shit, this thing was headed over the backstop, damn it. I closed my eyes. The batter stood there, open-mouthed. He was going to be walking to first in a couple more pitches, and he knew it. I only opened my eyes after I heard the umpire call out strike. Tommy threw the ball back, and shouted way to go, nice pitch. What the hell, I thought, what happened? Tommy again signaled curve. Ok, I thought, this time I’m gonna watch. The batter dug in, Tommy was waiting, I wound up again and let her fly. This pitch was gonna be so far outside you couldn’t have hit it with a hockey stick. And just as soon as I threw it, I knew it was gonna be a passed ball, and a run score from third base. I headed towards home plate hoping to stop the runner from third again the umpire shouted, Strike! I really didn’t know beans about pitching, but two strikes in a row? And both curveballs, 0 and 2, now I was thinking that’s impossible. No one could make a curve come back inside the plate like that. I just did!

Tommy gave me the fastball sign. Now I knew I could throw hard and far, but to put one over the 17 inch wide home plate, I wound up one more time. Tommy never moved his glove and the batter never saw it. Strike three, the batter’s out. I saw the batter mouth the word sheeeit; he was beating his bat on the ground on his way back to the bench. Holy hell, I thought just three pitches. Tommy once again called time out, once more trudged out to the mound. He looked at me and asked, What was that?

A fastball. I kind of chuckled.

Well, knock it off, he said. You damn near broke my hand. He concluded, The only reason the umpire called it a strike was I never moved my glove. He never saw it either, so slow it down a little bit, how about. As he turned to leave, he said, Nice pitch.

The next batter was their so-called cleanup batter, the guy they counted on to bring the baserunners home. I made up my mind to see if this devil dream was Bonafide. He was a big bruiser and looked mean, and he batted left-handed. I’d only pitched to my brothers growing up, and not a damn one of them was a lefty. Tommy called for the curve; now, I was right-handed and any curve I threw him should have been inside and down. So, I made up my mind to curve it just the opposite; he had just started to swing as Tommy caught it, and the ump called strike one. I could’ve sworn I saw that pitch take off one of his belt loops. He then called time, got out of the batter’s box, took a look at his bat, and even felt it like there might have been a hole in it. Two more pitches and he was gone. By now I was throwing sliders, 97 to 100 mile an hour fastballs, curves that would have made Marilyn Monroe blush.

The last pitch I threw that day was a knuckleball that I could have sworn stopped in midair right in front of home plate. The batter swung at it at least three times, and in all three attempts, they were called strikes. And strike three! by the umpire. We all came running off the field. My teammates slapped me on the back, saying, Way to go, man! all except our right fielder, Chris. He looked at me a little sideways up and down and asked what just happened. So I told him, I apparently walked three guys, then I struck out three batters in a row.

Bullshit! he said, while pushing me away from my own bench he poked me in the chest with his finger. Bullshit! he said again. Listen, I have a clear view of the plate from out there in right field, and in no time did I ever see the ball leave your hand. I saw Tommy throw it back to you, and I heard the ump calling strikes, but I’m telling you, you never threw one ball!

 Chris, I said, I don’t know what to tell you. I was pitching, they were swinging, and that ump was calling strikes.

Bullshit, he said again and walked off.

We had three more outs to get. I asked Tommy if he wanted to switch positions. Hell no! he replied. I’m having too much fun trying to see what pitch is coming next.

 So, at the end of our half-inning, we all trotted back out on the field. I was going through the motions of warming up when I noticed all of them, retirees and girlfriends were all scrunched up behind the backstop right behind Tommy. I heard the ump say, Play ball!

The first batter stepped in and I threw a fastball by him so fast I thought Satchel Paige might have wanted my autograph. Again, Tommy never moved his glove, not one inch. The ball just seemed to hone in on his glove while the umpire kept calling strikes. Those retired folks were getting a show. There was some oohing and some awwing going on after each pitch. They were all thinking somebody was putting on a pitching exhibition. I was just trying to get off the mound. We smoked them 12 zip.

When it came time to shake hands after the game, the umpire pulled me aside and asked me, Son, where did you learn to pitch like that?

I told him, I ain’t no pitcher, I’m a catcher.

Well, he puffed out, whatever you are, can you come by our college workout this Saturday?

I don’t know, I replied. I don’t have a ride, I said, trying to get away.

Come on, he said, you’ll have a lot of fun.

By now, all of those retirees were coming up and talking about my pitching, and getting all the girlfriends somewhat excited, but me? I just wanted to get out of that uniform, take a shower, and go home. But those old farts weren’t having it. They wanted to know when I pitched next, and where? I told them, I don’t know, I’m not the coach.

The umpire came at me again. Here, he said, putting a card in my hand, call me. He then started towards his car. Those old retirees were hot on my tail, and some of the girlfriends were looking at me all googly-eyed.

I finally got into the school, in the boys locker room. I was stripping out of my uniform when my brother came racing up the locker room steps. He came over and asked me, What happened today?

I told him, We beat the snot out of the team the next town north of us. Matter of fact, it was a slaughter!

No, that’s not what I mean. Did coach let you pitch?

Yep, I did, and you know what? I did pretty damn well! I then told him about seeing the devil and making a deal. Then he said, Prove it. I said, Ok.

I then took a