Better Call Rob

By Dustin Reade

After the events of bad hotel, strange events continue to plague the world. 

Dustin and Rob ignore these events though, choosing to pretend they are heroes who saved the world years ago, and everything is fine. 

That is until Benjamin Franklin climbs out of a cow's ass. 

And they watch monsters h

• Language: English
• Publisher: Planet Bizarro
• Release date: Apr 1, 2024
• ISBN: 9781915546494

Book preview

PART ONE

An Embarrassment of Monsters

Chapter One

A Mall, A Founding Father, and a Fountain

Benjamin Franklin is wearing a shirt that says, Mothman Ate My Entire Ass at a Denny’s, and eating a greasy slice of Sbarro’s pizza. Whoever this guy is, he’s got it down pat: the ring of gray hair with the shaft of sunlight reflecting off the shiny egg of his bald head, the wire-rimmed bifocals perched on his birdlike nose. The dude is a dead ringer for the father of electricity.

I am watching him from my office—or rather, my desk, which looks out at the food court at the mall. The mall has no name. We just call it, The Mall. It’s better that way. Or at least, it used to be. Things are changing.

This former founding father is a symptom of the Mall’s latest cycle of rebirth. Years ago, this place was all but abandoned. Homeless people made nests of garbage in the darkened corners of the empty stores. Nowadays, however, the Mall is on something of an upswing. Vendors are returning, filling up the storefronts with advertisements and merchandise. Grim-faced mannequins stare blankly out at the few people brave enough to wander these ominous halls.

Or maybe it’s not so ominous, anymore? Maybe, and I’m just spit-balling here, but maybe the Mall isn’t as drab and foreboding as I seem to think it is? Maybe the truth is I don’t want the Mall to come back. Maybe I secretly liked the haunting black orifice of the abandoned Dick’s Sporting Goods, with its gaping doors and busted windows.

The more things change, I guess.

Once upon a time, this would’ve been the last place ol’ Ben Frankie would’ve come for lunch. He would’ve run screaming from the rat-eating weirdoes that stalked these halls. He would’ve wept in the face of the indifferent zombies working the kiosks if it hadn’t been for my buddy Rob and me basically taking one for the team and putting an end to all that madness once and for all.

The point is, Benjamin Franklin is eating pizza in a mall in North America, and it is largely thanks to me.

Admittedly, there still aren’t a ton of people walking around, and most of the stores are still empty. But improvements are being made. Not just here at the Mall, either. The world in general seems to be trying to stitch itself back together, as if it had been lacerated by something (which it had) and I can’t help but wonder why I’m not more pleased about it. After all, isn’t that what we fought for?

I guess a large part of it is that I kind of miss the way things used to be. Don’t get me wrong: shit was terrible. But at least back then something was happening. Everything is just so fucking boring now. In this new, ghost-free landscape, there doesn’t seem to be any room for the whimsy and wonder of stupid things like Bigfoot, or Ren & Stimpy.

The best I can get is some dude that kind of looks like Ben Franklin.

Suddenly, the Mall intercom comes to life, and a voice says, Orang Pendak to the principal’s office. Your mother called to say your butt is on fire.

Benjamin Franklin looks up, confused, and then returns to the book he’s reading. I try to see the title but I can’t. The intercom buzzes again.

I can see you, dude, the voice says, the tone mocking. I have eyes everywhere. Get your ass up here or I’ll send someone down there to bust your head with a Billy club.

I smile. Start gathering my papers.

A few months ago, Robb was promoted to Head of Security, which means he now works on the opposite end of the mall in an office on the second floor which overlooks the big fountain display. It also means he has access to the intercom system. Since the Mall is usually mostly empty, he has been using it to summon me whenever it’s time to go home. Or when he’s bored.

Rob starts counting down from ten over the overhead speakers.

Benjamin Franklin looks genuinely confused, now. I gather my things and head for the Security Office. On my way out, I wave at him and say, Don’t worry, Ben! It’s for me.

Chapter Two

A Thank You to NORAD

The security office is lined with row upon row of television screens, each showing grainy images of empty hallways and bored shopkeepers. A hazy visual of the main entrance. With nothing moving, it looks like a stock photo. People walking in groups of two down the main thoroughfare. A far screen shows hundreds of sheep walking in a circle around an imaginary sinkhole. Another shows the food court. I tap it.

Check it out, I say. There’s Benjamin Franklin.

Rob is sitting at his desk behind me, twirling a big ring of keys.

I know, he laughs. I saw him when he came in. Oh shit! That reminds me, he grabs a remote and starts flipping through channels. I wanted to show you something.

Images of closed circuit hallways give way to regular television.

Aren’t you supposed to be watching the mall? I ask as he channel surfs.

Who cares? he says, his eyes fixed on the screen. I’m a grown man. I’ll do whatever I want.

A-ha! he says, smiling. Check it out.

Some news channel. A well-kempt man with plastic hair sits in front of a screen showing some kind of flaming wreckage. There are hundreds of men in hazmat suits surrounding the crashed object.

The unidentified object, the newscaster says, "Was shot down earlier this morning over Nova Scotia, and already rumors are flying that this may be some sort of alien vessel. According to one witness, the object was saucer-shaped. The Prime Minister has himself denied any rumors of a possible extraterrestrial invasion, saying only that Canadian Forces will now recover and analyze the wreckage of the object."

What is this? I ask, but Rob shushes me. The screen cuts to the Canadian Prime Minister—a clean-cut young man in his early thirties—standing in front of two-dozen microphones. Flashbulbs burst, lighting his face from all angles. There are bugs in his teeth.

I cannot comment on the origins of the object at this time, he says, spitting mosquito wings. I would, however, like to thank NORAD and the United States Air Force, for their continued assistance in analyzing the threat potential of this object, and others like it.

Rob clicks off the TV and leans back on his desk. A big, shit-eating grin on his face. He waggles his eyebrows a few times, clearly stifling his excitement. I sigh.

Probably just a weather balloon, I say.

Rob laughs so hard, it’s like an ejaculation.

Weather balloon, dude? he asks. Seriously? What are you, a Man in Black? The Canadian Prime Minister just admitted UFOs are real, and you’re gonna act like it’s no big deal?

I throw my hands up. What do you expect me to do, dude? Jump for fucking joy? Yeah, I’ll admit, it seems weird, but it could be anything. And anyway, I stop for a second; leveling my eyes at him so he’ll really feel the weight of my words. "It doesn’t mean what you’re suggesting it means. We stopped all that shit! This is just some…anomalous coincidence. Don’t read too much into it."

Rob snorts. He crosses his arms and looks down at the corner of his desk.

"Anomalous coincidence, huh? he says. He takes a deep breath, letting it out in a resigned huff. Okay, man. Sure. It’s nothing. Probably a weather balloon. But, and here, he mimics the face I made just a few seconds ago, If I’m right, and this does mean we didn’t catch every little thing that came through that portal, you owe me a coke."

We shake hands.

Deal, I say.

Then we pack up our shit and head out. Rob locks the doors to the mall behind us, even though we can still see people walking around inside.

Chapter Three

The Birth of a Nation

The cow lay on its side in the field, blood erupting from its hindquarters like the arterial spray in a Japanese horror film. Standing on the side of the road, holding our jackets closed against the wind, Rob and I watch as it struggles to give birth.

We’d been on our way home, when suddenly Rob got the bright idea to take the long way. A long stretch of roughly-paved road, the long way passed through an unincorporated community of scrub and farmland. We’d been discussing the news reports on the UFO, when we saw the cow.

Holy crap, dude! Rob had shouted, pulling jerkily over to the roadside. I think that cow’s about to have a baby!

Don’t say it like that, I said, undoing my seatbelt and climbing out of the passenger’s side. It makes it sound too people-y.

Well how would you say it? Rob asked. We made our way down the dip beside the road and climbed the slight grade to the barbed wire fence to get a better look at the laboring cow.

I don’t know, I said, Just say, ‘give birth,’ or something. Do you think this fence is electric?

Rob looked around for something, found a stick, and hit it against the fence.

Feel anything? I asked.

No, he said. But I don’t think that proves anything.

The cow lows. It is a deep, mournful sound, as though she were hollowed out with pain. I stuff my hands in my pockets. A nationwide storm is supposed to hit, and this wind feels like the first battalion.

Just don’t touch it, I say, but Rob’s not listening. Like me, his eyes are fixed on the cow. The first bits of baby are pushing their way through, and right out of the gate, we know something isn’t right.

For one thing, calves don’t have hands.

Without thinking, I wrap my hands around the barbed wire. It isn’t electric.

A spray of murky, almost purple blood erupts from the cow’s poor vagina, and a human arm emerges. From where we are standing, we can see everything: the fine, red arm hairs slicked back with blood, the freckles and incongruous wristwatch.

Rob gasps breathlessly as a second arm appears, pulling up great clumps of grass as it struggles to free itself. A head emerges, and I can barely keep it together as I see the ring of gray hair, the pointy nose and bifocals. Rob starts hitting me excitedly on the shoulder.

Dude! he whisper-shouts. It’s fucking Ben Franklin!

We watch, stunned, as a naked, fully grown Benjamin Franklin pulls himself from a cow laying on its side in a field in an unincorporated community on the outskirts of town, near the mall where we work.

Some things are so crazy the only way to accept them is to spell them out exactly as they are.

Benjamin Franklin sees us for the first time. He quickly covers his balls with his hand and runs for the relative safety of the barn. He wraps a horse blanket around his waist, grabs a hose and starts rinsing the blood from his arms. I can’t say for sure but I think the cow is dead.

When we get back in the car, the radio comes screaming to life.

"A second UFO has been shot down over Deadhorse, Alaska."

Rob reaches over and clicks the radio off, and looks at me.

You owe me a coke.

Chapter Four

A Very Special Episode

Please be quiet, I’m trying to watch my show.

We are sitting on my sofa. Rob is on my right drinking a coke. We are watching Captain Knobby and the Cryptids. Ostensibly a kid’s show, Captain Knobby started airing a few months back on the local public access channel, and we quickly became devoted watchers. Everything about the show is delightfully off-kilter, from the title to the post-credits, which include such gems as: CATERING BY NOBODY and PRODUCED BY MISTER NIGHTTIME.

On-screen, a man in a purple jacket with chintzy gold piping is standing in front of a vat of toxic waste. His wrinkle-cheeked smile and pageboy haircut underscore the terror in his eyes as he looks down at the bubbling chemicals.

This is Captain Knobby. He always looks like that. Scared. Tired. Unsure. Through it all, however, he maintains a rigid, almost defiant smile.

You know what this is, dude, Rob says, and I shush him. Heavy winds batter against the windows. The creak and