Upside Down Volume 2: Upside Down Short Story Collections, #2

By J. E. Turnbo

Broad, dark, funny, and terrifying, these 13 stories in volume 1 will not disappoint. They'll make you laugh (at another's misfortune), cry as a man gets taken away far too young, and cower in the corner under a blanket as the monster waits for the right time to come take you away. 

 

Volume 2 Titles Include:

Three Fingers of Cheese

Turned Out & Forgotten

Death Gate

A Clochard Never Asks Twice

Stuck On You

Strength In Weakness

The Thirteenth Room

The Scourged Four

Through The Eye of The Beholder

Where. Is. PJ Lancaster?

Three Sheets to The Batter

Unknown Caller

A Slip Under the Door

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: J.E. Turnbo
• Release date: Jan 21, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224002702

Book preview

LET’S CHAT

There’s always something to chat about. For anything writing related – and sometimes about my cat (which I absolutely hate (less and less every year)) – join my reader’s club for news, free stories, and more about that hated cat at:

www.JETurnboBooks.com

This book is dedicated to Carole who spent many

hours sitting by herself as I sat hunched over my computer.

Three Fingers of Cheese

Saturday August 7th

9:45 p.m.

Let me get this right, she went to the toilet and, on her way back... opened the wrong door? Levon asks, his small coffee sets on the passenger dash steaming his side of the windshield. Someone had smeared a hint of red lipstick underneath the rim.

That’s what I said, Bradley added unscrewing the cap of his Mountain Dew bottle and had half a notion to ask about the smeared lipstick on his partner’s coffee cup, but let it go.

Neither man said a word for the longest moment. Instead, each listened to the rhythmic thwump thwump of the wipers, which seemingly pressed the pause button on their separate lines of thought.

Four hours ago, both Detectives Levon Mills and Bradley Vaughan raised their hands a little too eagerly, so Captain Simmons said when they volunteered for this detail, and did so for the simple reason that it would lead to... absolutely nothing.

No chasing, no shooting, no getting shot at, and best of all, no running into department brass - neither at the grunt nor at political levels.

Levon reached for the cup of coffee and turned it so the red smudge faced his door and out of plain sight. So then what? he said.

Hahahaha, Bradley laughs, then takes two long gulps of Dew, smacks his lips after the second while screwing the lid back on. So, she goes in the wrong door, right, and sees this guy sitting on the edge of a futon flyin’ solo. He snorts while making an up and down hand gesture over the plastic bottle, then brought the back of his hand to his nose.

Ah, man, that shit burns. You ever have Dew shoot up your throat?

Can’t say that I have, Levon says.

Just then, a man and a woman wearing clear rain parkas walk past Bradley’s window. Heads down and hands in their pockets, they move along just like a pair of annoyed people caught in the rain. The amber hue from the outside lights left everything but their silhouettes in shadow. Both men watch until they disappear around the corner twenty feet in front of their car.

"It’s no fun. Anyway, she stands there in the door, the dude has his pants and underwear around his ankles just jerkin’ away... goin’ at it like a Boy Scout rubbing two sticks together to earn his campfire badge.

"She can’t believe she’s watching this, but gets kinda turned on and stands there as if she paid for the front row view.

After another thirty seconds-

Wait, thirty seconds, Levon cuts in. How long was he going at it before she walked in on him?

I dunno. The guy must have some serious stayin’ power if ya know what I mean, Bradley added. Way too long for this quick drawl.

The car sat quiet outside the thwump thwump of the wiper blades. Levon bit his lip, and then finally let it slip. "Way too long, eh? That’s what she said." The two laughed as if this were the first time they heard the that’s what she said line, laughing the same way ten-year-olds did when they told each other dirty jokes.

That never gets old, Bradley says, then wipes his nose with the back of his hand. "Anyway, she still can’t believe this guy’s going at it this hard when she sees it..., an empty bag of Cheetos sitting on the edge of the futon. More like teetering the edge, just hangin’ out as if everything going on in the moment is a normal occurrence. And to top it off, it’s not your garden variety bag of Cheetos, but the extra flamin’ hot ones.

He’s really getting into it by this time; picking up speed like that fire is about to start at any moment when the bag falls to the floor. And can you believe it, he never looks up. Not once. Only watches his phone until... get this, he adds slapping Levon on the shoulder, he erupts like a volcano after a hundred years of sitting there dormant. Her words. I swear on my mother’s grave. Bradley laughs so hard, both eyes tear up at the corners. Wiping them away, he adds, His body starts convulsing like he’s getting electrocuted and starts moaning, carrying on... I’m guessin’ it’s the best orgasm he ever had.

A second later, two younger males walk through the main doors of the building complex across the street. So how is it you know all this? asks Levon.

Shying away and doing his best to avoid the question, Bradley reaches between his seat and the driver’s door and pulls out a bag.

You’re kidding me, right? Levon asks. Do you have to do that now? We’re stuck in this car for another six hours. At least.

Ripping open the bag, Bradley sticks his face in and fills his lungs with the aroma of what he calls, Better Than Govern’t Cheese. Before Levon can say another word, the pungent aroma of fake cheese and preservatives wafts through the front of the car.

You want some?

Levon shakes his head in disappointment and slaps at the bag. In that moment, a male wearing a flannel button down shirt and jeans walks past the front of the car carrying a small white plastic bag from a nearby convenient store.

Is that our guy? Bradley asks.

Might be, Levon says squinting at the man. A two-inch-wide arcing streak over his side of the windshield makes it next to impossible to get a clear view. These wipers suck, he says with half a notion to roll down his window. It doesn’t look like it. Can’t tell for sure though.

Someone dotted his eye, Bradley says. I saw that much. Our guy doesn’t have a single blemish on his face. No, not until I get my hands on him, he adds under his breath.

By this time the outer edges of the windshield fog over enough where Bradley turns up the heat two clicks. Levon reaches and grabs his coffee cup from the dash. Tilting it back, he lets out a soothing grunt, then admires the red smudge a little too long.

I’d rather smell this bit of heaven than that B.S., he says, pointing at Bradley’s bag. Rain pelts the outside of the car hard enough to make them think of hail, or dimes tossed at a sheet of metal.

Why is it you always get your Depends all wadded up... from what I eat? Bradley asks as he sticks his hand in the bag.

Do you even know what’s in that crap?

Yeah, yeah I get what you’re spewin’. There’s an old saying, Bradley says slowly pulling his hand from the bag. Though not quite as old as your generation... ya know, back when they etched law on stone, but you never look at a nutrition label if you love what you’re eating.

Rustling the bag from the inside, Bradley pauses, lifts his eyebrows a few times offering his best Groucho Marks imitation, and adds, "Hall & Oats said it best: Some things are better left unsaid. Same thing applies to what you see.

Besides, why in the world would I want to know what's in these? With that, Bradley removes his hand. Three orange coated and misshapen finger-sized snacks protrude from between the digits one his hand. If nothing else, they resemble tiny bats, ones a miniaturized Bam Bam from the Flintstones would’ve drug around.

You can't tell me you’ve never eaten a bag of Cheetos, Bradley says, stuffing the trio of cheese product covered preservatives into his mouth.

Levon watches. You sound like a manducating cow.

Bradley stops chewing and looks as if he’s mentally chewing on something else. What the hell does manducating even mean?

Never mind.

Good, he adds smacking his lips, and then shows his partner of seven years his fingertips.

Three fingers of cheese, baby. That’s what you call three fingers of cheese.

I gotta put in for a new partner. I’m too old for this, Levon said replacing the cup on the dash. The red smear faced him this time and he didn’t bother hiding it.

Speaking of which, there’s a pool goin’ around the bureau... it’s about you.

Oh, really. And who started this pool?

Bradshaw, I think. At least that’s my guess. If I had to point a finger that is.

Quizzically, Bradley stares inside of the bag of Cheetos. Levon watches as a sign of a brewing thought shows on his partner’s face. Save it, he says. I can see the cogs working in that neanderthal brain of yours.

Choking back a laugh, Bradley blurts, One or Two?

What? One or Two what?

Just pick a number, Bradly says, nose inching closer to the bag.

Fine. I pick Two.

Two it is. Don’t you want to know what the office pool is about?

Sure, Levon says.

Whether you’ll retire as a Detective, Sergeant or Patrolman.

Oh I see where this is going.

How many times over your seventeen years have you been promoted, busted, and then promoted again? You’ve seen each of those three ranks more than ten cadets combined.

Levon lifts his coffee and rubs his thumb over the red smudge. Fine. I’ll play your game. And to answer your question, I’ve seen Sergeant twice, patrolman twice, and this is my second run in the Bureau.

Man, you get around, Bradley says turning towards him with the biggest smile. I know you picked Two, but I gotta tell ya number One.

Letting out a long breath, Levon nods. Whatever. You’re going to tell me no matter what, so get it over with already.

He reaches into the bag of Cheetos, rustles the bag from inside, and yanks his hand out, showing Levon his fingers. Then starts laughing. So much so Levon feels the urge to administer some sort of first aid once Bradley lingers on the verge of hyperventilating a little too long.

What the hell is so funny?

I can't breathe, Bradley grumbles. In that moment, he unscrews the Mountain Dew bottle with one twist.

Levon watches him with the focus of a snake ready to pounce on a mouse. Are you okay?

Yeah, I'm fine. I just had a visual of these, he said, wiggling each of his fingers towards his face. So I listen to this morning radio show, right. A couple days ago they had this comic bit about Cheetos that went something like... If you wanna make your daddy parts orange, eat a bag of Cheetos, and watch some porn.

There was nothing for a moment. Then, Bradley starts in again, laughing hard enough to tear up.

How old are you" Levon asks.

Old enough to know you need to lighten up, Bradley says between gasps. I sure hope I’m not as dried up as you later on in my life.

Outside a streak of white light spiders the sky to the right of the car between two high-rise buildings. Three seconds later a booming crack follows.

My mom used to say, Levon begins, that you can tell whether a storm is getting closer or moving away by counting the time between a lightning strike and its thunder. He watches and focuses on the thwump thwump of the wipers racing back and forth as if agreeing. Count the seconds between each one and see if time increases or decreases.

Thwump thwump. Thwump thwump.

The two watch the wipers in silence. Another streak of lightning follows the same path as the previous one, both snap their heads in the direction of the diminishing glow and wait for the second boom. But it doesn’t happen.

Well, so much for that, I guess, Levon says.

Finishing off the Cheetos, Bradley leans forward to see out the windshield. Ain’t nothing happenin’ in this crap. Not tonight.

Levon huffs in frustrating agreement. Well we took this gig for that simple reason. He leans back and tries pushing back the annoying crunching going on in his right ear. I can’t, for the life of me, figure out how you’re not one of those fat-body cops with the stuff I’ve seen you put in your face.

Aaahh, the benefits of youth. You’re just jealous. Old man.

What’s number one? You never said it.

Bradley licks each of his fingers raising the front of the bag and then starts stroking the Mountain Dew bottle between his legs with his free hand as he gives Groucho another go with his eyebrows.

No way, Levon says. Flamin’ Hot. Were you the one on the futon?

Jaw dropping and before an answer left Bradley’s mouth, lightning shot across the