The Dilly Files

By Dilly Iteration FMJ8849

40,000 years ago...  Sensational media headlines crop up every now and then citing scientists who theorize that once there existed a time in which the name J. Dilly or his possessed woodstoves were yet to be known. Of course, in our world, shredded by mutant dingoes and in which salvation solely stems from demonic furnaces, no one takes such ideas seriously and instead the headlines' sole merit lies in levity from the ceaseless gaze of the full moon, yet in his newest book, Dilly Iteration FMJ8849 takes some of the glib science and even fringe heterodoxy surrounding the possibility of a world before Dilly and works it into several humorous tales which "stake-out" eras in a hypothetical chronicle of the development of the Dilly Dominion. Literary critic Dilly Iteration PWM2445 lauds the inventive and "devil-may-care" attitude evident in Dilly Iteration FMJ8849's latest which is not afraid to upset social norms in its whimsical imaginings of a fictional history that never could have been. He writes, "Dilly Iteration FMJ8849 really put the "FUN" in "FUrNace" with this one. Grab a copy today and get ready to laugh your sides off imagining a ludicrous past that could only exists in the zany mind of Dilly Iteration FMJ8849!"

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sk'l'ton Ho'se
• Release date: Jan 11, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224888672

Book preview

Dedicated to Crocodile Damn You Duncan

Dedication

Preface

File One

File Two

File Three

File Four

File Five

File Six

File Seven

File Eight

Epilogue

Preface

When her father was drunk, he’d say, I used to have a brother you know with a faraway look in his eyes.

This didn’t sound like a good start to him. He scrapped it. Another wad to kindle in the furnace. That damn can. Damn, why didn’t she empty it!

Charlene! His screams echoed off the barren walls. Charlene! The damn trash. Would you get in here and do something to take care of this mess?!

He wound another sheaf onto the roller. That damn woman. The clock, the bed, that dubious furnace. His eyes darted around the room. Nothing to write about. He took a big slug from the bottle and just started going at it.

When he’d first seen it on the bridge, he wasn’t sure if it was even human. That didn’t matter though, he had to find out if it had what the gypsy said it would.

His arm reached out for the bottle. CRASH! It shattered on the hard concrete floor.

GODDAMN IT! HOLY HELL! the howling continued for some time. Losing the sauce was bad news for him, but much, much worse for the neighbors. Without the sauce, he’d be unable to sleep, and in his current apoplexy, that didn’t bode well for their chances at sleep either.

***

But at least Susan’s coming around every now and then, right? I just hate thinking about you holed up in there all by yourself. Richard stabbed at a sausage link.

Eh? Susan, who’s Susan?

She’s the woman we hired to take care of you.

Take care of me? Who the hell needs to take care of me? You think you know better than your old man? I can take care of myself damnit. The couple at the next table over called for the check.

Mom’s been gone for three years now Dad. We’re worried about you. Rachel said something about the furnace too; there’s something weird about it…

Now don’t come up here givin’ me a load of grief. You sound just like your mother. The dad glared at his empty cup of coffee, impatience rising. Where is that girl with my coffee? He took out a thermos and started chugging from it like a baby.

Chill out on that stuff Dad!

The waitress brought over a fresh pot. Can I get you boys a refill?

It’s about goddamn time! He thrust out his right arm with the mug right in front of the girl’s face.

Here dad, give me your cup. Sorry about that.

The waitress frowned and poured the cup for them.

And that’s another thing. You can’t keep acting however you want all the time. Before I picked you up this morning, a neighbor came by and said pretty soon he’s gonna haul you in front of the HOA.

It’s that typewriter. Loud ass thing. I’d use another one, but they don’t make the damn things anymore. MORE COFFEE! He slammed the mug on the table.

I don’t think it’s the typewriter.

I don’t think it’s the typewriter. This said in a mocking tone. Boy you really got a mouth on you. I thought I’d raised you better. Shit, if I talked back to my diddy like that, I’d get my ass whooped.

The son rose and walked to the counter. He got the old man’s coffee in a to-go cup.

***

Night again. The house, now part of a neighborhood, had been built many years before. When the land started getting bought up for a development, he was the only one unwilling to sell. Now it sat like a baby tooth that never fell out within identical rows of state houses. The solitary bulb lighting the singular room swayed back and forth. The room where he’d raised four children had once been filled with love, but now only echoes from clacking typewriter keys.

Tear gas filled the air as riot police beat the students with their clubs. If the basketball team kept doing this well, they were going to have to bring on volunteers from other districts or the county. Charlie dove into the crowd. He was just trying to get to the supermarket, he didn’t give a shit about winning the game, and grabbed a leg and sank his teeth into it…

There was a knock. Just great. He got out of his chair and walked to the door. No one there. He stopped by the counter on his way back and grabbed the new bottle.

A car was turned over and a gang of seniors leapt onto its exposed belly. They were armed with sharpened bamboo poles and looked ready to party. All Charlie could think about was the sixer he’d as of yet been unable to purchase. He grabbed the fore stock in his right hand and jerked it down, pumping another shell into the chamber. If he had to, he’d mow down the entire booster club…

That knock again. This time he could tell it wasn’t from the door but was coming