Tunnel Vision

By Hank Quense

 

Are you looking for a break from the harshness of reality?

Look no further! This anthology of humorous fantasy and sci-fi stories is what you need. Laughter is like free medicine and this book has 22 doses of laughter.

The anthology is filled with unusual (bizarre?) characters. The kind you won't find in other fantasy or sci-fi books

The title, Tunnel Vision, refers to the ability to view events through a set of filters that allows someone to interpret the events in strange ways.

This anthology is loaded with characters who specialize in extreme tunnel vision. They easily turn ordinary events into convoluted disasters.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hank Quense
• Release date: Nov 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9798985309751

Hank Quense

Hank Quense writes humorous and satiric sci-fi and fantasy stories. He also writes and lectures about fiction writing and self-publishing.  He and his wife Pat usually vacation in another galaxy or parallel universe. They also time travel occasionally when Hank is searching for new story ideas. Other books by Hank Quense Fiction: Gundarland Stories Tales From Gundarland Falstaff’s Big Gamble Wotan’s Dilemma The King Who Disappeared Princess Moxie Series Moxie’s Problem Moxie’s Decision Queen Moxie Zaftan Troubles Series Contact Confusion Combat Convolution Sam Klatze Gongeblazn Non-fiction: The Author Blueprint Series of books is written to assist writers and authors in getting the job done. Creating Stories: Book 1 How to Self-publish and Market a Book: Book 2 Book Marketing Fundamentals: Book 3 Business Basics for Authors: Book 4 Fiction Writing Workshops for Kids: Book 5 Writing Stories: Book 7 Publication date to be announced Links? You want links? Here you go: Hank’s website: http://hankquense.org Hank's Facebook fiction page: https://www.facebook.com/StrangeWorldsOnline?ref=hl Twitter: https://twitter.com/hanque99 LinkedIn: https://www.linkedin.com/in/hanque/ Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/hankquense/ Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/3002079.Hank_Quense Bookbub: https://www.bookbub.com/authors/hank-quense

Book preview

Tunnel Vision

By

Hank Quense

All Rights Reserved.

Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or locales is entirely coincidental.

License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

ISBN: 9798985309751

Published  in the United States of America.

Published by Strange Worlds Publishing

http://strangeworldspublishing.com/wp

Table of Contents

Introduction

Sci-fi Stories

Staphmeyer’s Mantra

Uncle Sidney’s Tailor Shop

Tunnel Vision

Sponsored By . . .

Fast Living

Maple Syrup Polotics

Viking Vengeance

The Impresario

Countess of Chutzpah

Fantasy Stories

MacBeth: the Sequel

Lucy in Love

Rainbow Bridge

Mead Cup

Saving the Shore

Hell of a Salesman

Manhattan Monsters

Gundarland Stories

Gundarland Introduction

Ballot Blues (and Reds)

Recipe for Revenge

Desperate Measures

Practical Experience

Rogue Wizard

Extras

Introduction

Poetry Power

House of Atreus

About the Author

Introduction

Return to the Table of Contents

In 2009 a small publishing company put out a collection of my humorous short stories called Tunnel Vision.  My experiences with the publishing company (which shall remain nameless) was so distasteful, I went into self-publishing.  Three years later, the book went out of print and has remained unavailable until now.  This revised edition has all of the original short stories plus two additions.

The title Tunnel Vision comes from a trait displayed by many of the characters: the ability to view events through a set of filters that allows them to interpret the events in strange ways.

Sci-fi Stories

Return to the Table of Contents

Staphmeyer's Mantra

(Originally published in The Best of Neo-opsis in 2007)

Fame begets sex: the more fame, the more sex. Robert Staphmeyer used this chant to get through the endless hours of duty required by his medical internship. He gripped the edge of the operating table while ignoring the rank smells emanating from the patient’s body. He kept repeating the phrases in his mind, alternating power and riches for fame. He knew the idea of chasing fame to improve his sex life was politically incorrect but other guys thought the same way even if they rarely talked about it. Everyone he knew wanted celebrity status or promotions or fancy cars for one primary reason. They believed that by achieving the goal, they improved their chances of getting laid. Politically incorrect or not, Staphmeyer believed it was wired into men’s genes and sprang from the ancient times when a man needed lots of warrior-sons to protect himself in his old age. Rosensplatt always scoffed at his theories, and her ridicule vexed him to no end.

Finish up, will you, Staphmeyer? The surgeon glanced at him.

Staphmeyer re-focused his mind, nodded and moved closer to the incision used to remove the patient’s gall bladder. 

After the surgery, he went to the lounge and relaxed on a couch. When his cell phone vibrated, he clicked it on.

Hey, Ingrid Rosensplatt said. Come on over for dinner. I want to show you the painting I just finished.

Staphmeyer shuddered. Her paintings made his skin crawl. Okay, he said, glancing at his watch. I’m off duty in an hour. I should be there by six-thirty. What are you cooking?

Nothing. You’re picking up a pizza. Rosensplatt laughed and disconnected.

His spirits rose.  Time spent with her better that any other times.

From St. Maud’s Hospital in the upper East Side of Manhattan, he jumped on a Number 6 train at 86th Street and Lexington Avenue to head south towards the Soho district. He passed the time by examining the ads plastered along the walls of the subway car. Most of them showed beautiful people having fun and implying they were about to have sex. These ads reinforced the belief in his mantra, but the other ads warned about diseases and health problems The ones concerned with AIDS gave him the shivers.

Pepperoni pizza in hand forty-five minutes later, he climbed the stairs to her fourth floor loft in a converted warehouse. A rhythmic thumping sound grew louder as he went higher. Damn! She was at it again. He let himself in with a key and dropped the pizza on a couch. The vast single-room apartment with its fifteen-foot ceilings smelled of linseed oil and perspiration.

Rosensplatt, in gym shorts and a tee-shirt, dribbled a basketball to her right, pulled up and launched an arching jump shot that swished the net. God, she looked sexy when she took a jump shot. A combination of her legs curled at the knees, her extended arms, her damp shirt.

She retrieved the ball, yelled, Staphmeyer! and threw a bounce pass at him.

Oww! He jammed his left pinkie reaching for it.

"Klutz!  Rosensplatt shook her head, sending her kinky, shoulder-length brown hair into violent motion. She had brown eyes and a beak-like nose.  Let’s go one-on-one."

No way. I just got off work. He hated playing basketball with her. At six-foot-two and a natural athlete, she had made the Big East all-star squad in college. He always lost eleven-to-nothing, even though he stood two inches taller than her.

She stuck out her tongue at him then said, I want to take a shower before we eat.

Hey, Rosensplatt. Staphmeyer wiggled his eyebrows. Want me to wash your back?

Nice try. She displayed her left hand with her unadorned fingers. No ring, no sex. Not with me anyway. And you’re not famous yet, so I guess you aren’t getting lucky tonight. She guffawed and shut the bathroom door.

Robert Staphmeyer had met Ingrid Rosensplatt on the first day of kindergarten and they had called each by their last names since they were old enough to pronounce them. In Westchester County in New York, they went through grammar school and high school together and took different majors at the same university in the city. They had sex twice before starting college, but Rosensplatt felt that, by becoming lovers, they would destroy their friendship and she decreed no more sex unless — and until — they married.

Both sets of parents expected them to marry but Staphmeyer wasn’t sure that marriage was compatible with his career aspirations. Or, as Rosensplatt called them, his hormonal aberrations. He planned to become famous and rich by perfecting a new surgical procedure or discovering an important medical breakthrough. With fame secured, he believed — hoped — women would rip off their clothes and jump into his bed. It happened all the time to media and sports stars, so why not to a doctor.  He pictured a mob of medical groupies waiting for him to leave the hospital. Rosensplatt, as his wife, would surely have a problem with the groupies.

After the pizza, she walked to an easel and placed a hand on the sheet covering the picture. Ready?

Staphmeyer breathed deeply to settle his nerves. As ready as I’ll ever be.

She removed the sheet with a theatrical gesture and said, Number 39. She never named any of the paintings. A mélange of red and black colors offended his eyes and his sensibilities. Like all her paintings, it looked like a demented Rorschach test.

Interesting, he said, stroking his chin to simulate deep analysis. He wanted to use a suture to sew up what looked like gaping gunshot wounds.  To me, it has several layers of meaning and I like the bitter-sweet play of red versus black.

Staphmeyer, your eyes are brown because you’re so full of shit. Rosensplatt threw back her head and laughed. Maybe that’s why I love you.

Ever think of using greens or blues? He gave her a grin.

I’m in a red-black period.

He jerked his eyes away from the painting and changed subjects. I’m off tomorrow, so let’s go to a movie.

Can’t. I have a date.

With who? Staphmeyer’s stomach did a back flip.

Some guy I met at an art show. Why do you ask? She held up her left hand again. Your problem is that you can’t decide between love and lust. Between a ring and a fantasy.

Staphmeyer didn’t respond. He had never been able to answer her argument that, without a ring, she was free to do whatever she wanted. It was her way of disapproving his goals.

❇︎

Staphmeyer switched to nights for the next week and spent his time in the Emergency Room patching up an assortment of gunshot and knife wounds and treating accident victims. Now, at three o’clock in the morning, rush hour had ended and the resident-in-charge had wandered off seeking an empty room for a nap. Staphmeyer leaned on a counter, completing paperwork.

A nurse’s scream shattered the silence. Startled, he whirled around, holding an aluminum clipboard before him like the shield of a knight. A shimmering, ephemeral figure stood in the middle of the room, rapidly gaining substance. The apparition had bluish-green, leathery skin. While short, it had a physique similar to humans, but more muscular. It wore a silvery space suit without a helmet and had a thick, black device on its right wrist. The similarity to Hollywood aliens shocked and disappointed Staphmeyer; this alien was a cliché. Nevertheless, the word ‘fame’ flashed through his mind in six-foot-high neon letters. The first human to meet an alien! Everyone in the country would know his name. But first he had to seize the opportunity before he lost it.

Shut up! Staphmeyer shouted at the nurse. He had never been attracted to her. Too short. Too timid. Nothing like Rosensplatt. He raised his right hand in what he hoped was a sign of peace. The alien looked around the ER and stopped at the upraised hand. It studied it then shifted its gaze to the hand’s owner. Its large eyes reminded Staphmeyer of pools of liquid onyx. A strong vinegary odor filled the room.

Staphmeyer tried to generate saliva to moisten his dry mouth and throat while conflicting emotions fought each other. Fear-of-the-strange-creature had one corner of his mental boxing ring and elation-over-impending-fame stood opposite. Elation triumphed with a one-punch knock-out.

The creature imitated the hand gesture and made a noise as if clearing its throat.

Staphmeyer’s peripheral vision registered that the nurse whispered into the phone.

The creature fingered a gadget near its neck. A metallic voice said, Take. . . me . . . to . . . your . . . The creature paused.

Leader? Staphmeyer beamed at the creature. Escorting the alien to the president or even the governor would ensure his picture in newspapers around the world.

Your . . . proct . . . ologist.

What!

I’ve piloted my ship on . . . a long journey. The creature talked more naturally now. And I can’t sit in the chair any more. I need . . . medical assistance before I can continue the voyage.

Staphmeyer’s surging blood pressure caused a roaring sound in his ears. He gulped air to calm down. This was his medical breakthrough! The first human to treat an alien!  Because of the late hour, we don’t have a proctologist on staff now. But I’m a doctor and I can assist you. No sense confusing the visitor with trivia about internships.

The creature nodded.

Come with me to an examining room. You can breathe our air so I guess you’ll be able to remove your suit without a problem. He could hardly contain his excitement. He was about to become famous while still young enough to do something about the women. He wanted to hug the alien but that might be mis-interpreted by the creature as well as the nurse.

Staphmeyer opened a door and beckoned to the alien.

The alien removed his clothes while Staphmeyer scribbled notes in his phone. After examining the alien’s problem area, he told the alien, Hemorrhoids. Near as I can tell. It bothered him that the only medical details he had compiled on the first extra-terrestrial visitor was its anus but he squelched that negative thought.

There is a possibility of allergic reaction. He handed the alien a tube of ointment. So, put a dab of this on your wrist and watch it closely for a few days. If there is no rash or itching, than it will be safe to use on the hemorrhoids.

But I must pilot the ship immediately. The commander will not allow me to wait.

I’ll be right back. He left the room and returned with an inflatable donut. On his way, he noticed activity in the admitting area. Another traffic accident, probably. He showed the donut to the alien. You inflate it with this tube. He blew it up. Put it on that chair and sit on it.

The alien glanced suspiciously at him but followed the instructions. A look of surprise lit up its face. It isn’t painful! It stood up and slid the donut over a forearm.

As long as you’re here, why now allow me to do a more detailed work-up. Blood samples, EKG, MRI. The hospital is slow right now and I can rush everything through.

Not possible. I must return to the ship. I thank you for your help. A complete report on your species’ friendliness will be filed in our home world.

Hmm. I suppose for the completeness, the report should contain my name.

Excellent idea —

The door crashed open and two NYPD officers with drawn guns barged into the tiny room. Freeze! one said. The second officer pointed his gun at the alien and said, Let’s see your green card.

Good-bye. The alien tapped the wrist device and its solidness dissolved.

Stop that, the first officer shouted. You can’t leave.

The alien disappeared.

The first officer, panic written on his face, yelled into his radio. I need a bio-hazard team and extra suits. Right now! He pointed at Staphmeyer. You stay here. Don’t move. Both men backed out of the room and one slammed the door.

The actions of the officers puzzled Staphmeyer. Especially the call for a bio-hazard team. Did the cops think the alien carried some disease? He grabbed his phone and added several more notes.

In the middle of preparing a mental list of talk shows he’d appear on, the door burst open and two figures in bio-hazard suits walked in. One threw a spare suit at him and said, Put it on. Over your scrubs. Now!

The second carried a large container with danger signs stenciled on it. He opened the container and collected material from the trash receptacle then grabbed Staphmeyer’s phone.

Hey! Staphmeyer said while he stuffed his arms into the suit. That’s mine. Give it back.

Not until it’s checked out, the figure said.

Staphmeyer sensed the situation moving downhill and out of control. With his suit zipped up and his helmet in place, the two grabbed his elbows and escorted him out of the hospital. They hustled him into the rear of a van and slammed the door.

To Staphmeyer, the door sounded like a coffin lid closing. He knew whatever organization sent the suits would end up screwing him out of his fame. He drew up his knees and hugged them tight to his chest.

❇︎

The bio-suited guards opened the van door and used hand movements to instruct Staphmeyer to get out.  He looked around. The van was in a parking garage, probably still in Manhattan because of the short trip in the van. Escorted to a room with white walls, Staphmeyer heard the a lock click behind him and for the first time, he had a twinge of panic. He had no idea what to expect next. And he had no identification. His wallet and driver’s license remained in the hospital locker room. All he had was the hospital badge pinned to his scrubs.

Take off everything and push them through the incinerator door. The voice startled him. He glanced around the room for the speaker but found only a second door, a TV camera and a small hatch in the middle of the wall. It was labeled ‘incinerator.’

Do it now! The voice sounded like an irritated drill-sergeant.

Although dreading the lose of his ID badge, he did as he was told.

Walk through the second door and follow the instructions on the wall.

In the next room, Staphmeyer found a shower stall. A placard gave detailed directions on cleaning himself. A TV camera watched. After the shower, he donned a set of paper clothes. The voice directed into a room with a bed, a table, one chair and a TV hanging from a wall-mounted bracket. The walls were a boring white except for the one that was mostly mirror. Staphmeyer assumed it was one-way glass. By comparison, the OR’s were cheerful places.

You may relax. The voice came from the TV.

Am I a prisoner? I want to see a lawyer.

No response. Loneliness overwhelmed him. As soon as he saw an attendant, he would demand a phone so he could call Rosensplatt. She always knew what to do.

He flopped into the bed and stared at the blank TV. He thought about the alien. If he could get out of here, he could arrange an interview or two and start building his fame. He yawned and checked his watch before he realized the watch went down the incinerator.

Hello, the darkened TV said. Staphmeyer almost broke his leg jumping out of bed. Mr. Robert Staphmeyer, I believe. This voice sounded friendly.

Who are you? Where am I? Why am I being held here?

One question at a time please. The voice laughed. I’ll answer the ones I am allowed to. My name is John Smith.

A chill spasmed through Staphmeyer’s body. He knew that wasn’t the man’s name.

I want to talk to you about the incident at St. Maud’s.

Staphmeyer decided to say nothing until he was asked. No free information. Not until he understood more about his situation.

The two police officers reported they saw you treating an Oriental man, probably an illegal immigrant. Is this correct?

Orientals don't have green skin. I treated an extra-terrestrial.

The officers also report that the suspect escaped through a rear door. True?

Staphmeyer suffered a moment of confusion from the man’s astonishingly inaccurate statements. There is no rear door to the examining room. He sorted through the events since he left the hospital. If this police report was accurate, why did I have to wear a bio-hazard suit and why was I given a sterilization shower? It’s contradictory to what you asking me.

We take a cautious approach. The voice didn’t sound as friendly. We would rather err on the conservative side.

Have you talked to the nurse on duty with me?

As a matter of fact, she admitted that the stress of the ER caused her to over-react when the Oriental man entered the hospital. We all know the long hours you folks work. I put it to you that you mis-interpreted what you saw.

Wrong!

Don’t be stubborn. The nurse and the two police officers have signed affidavits that the man in question was Oriental, not an extra-terrestrial. Why don’t you think about it and get some sleep. We’ll talk again.

I want to make a phone call.

Perhaps, after you tell me about the Oriental man.

Depression filled his mind. What if the government disappeared him? What if he never saw Rosensplatt again? His gut churned with fear. He turned on the TV. To his surprise, it worked. He found a news station and jumped into bed to watch. His mouth dropped open when a reporter told of an alleged visitor to St. Maud’s.  Anonymous phone callers claimed the visitor came from a space ship and received treatment at the hospital. The government refused to answer questions but scoffed at the notion of space ship visitors. Staphmeyer wondered who had called. Possibly, the resident saw the incident. Maybe, the janitorial staff had seen something. He fell asleep during the commercials and woke up in the middle of an afternoon soap opera.

His first thought made his skin clammy. He was an eye-witness to an event the government wanted to cover up.

❇︎

Every morning for a week, an attendant in a bio-hazard suit brought him breakfast. The figure ignored Staphmeyer’s questions and demands, took blood and urine samples and left without saying a word. His other meals were delivered in the same manner. Every morning, John Smith, via the TV, tried to bully him into admitting the visitor was an Oriental. Staphmeyer looked forward to the verbal jousting. It passed the time. Bored by the inactivity, he spent many hours thinking about Rosensplatt and how dull his life was without her. He longed to see one of her paintings, just to have something to do. 

Both the talk shows and the news continued to carp on the possibility of an alien visitor. His name had come up several times as a witness who had disappeared. The unspoken implication was that the government had him under wraps while it did damage control on the incident. Yesterday, one channel had broadcast a report on about the alien’s physical problem, and the dual anchors cracked a few snide remarks about the missing intern. Last night’s talk shows picked up that theme and made a number of vulgar jokes at his expense.

Just after lunch, the TV picture turned off. My name is Mr. Brown and my colleague’s name is Mr. Green. a stern voice said. We need information about the alien. Right?

The extra-terrestrial I saw or the Oriental that everyone else saw?

We have no time for games, Staphmeyer. Green’s voice had a hard edge. Where did the alien come from?

Talk to Mr. Smith, Staphmeyer said. He has affidavits that the man came from the Orient.

There’s no one here named Smith Brown said. Right?

Not any more there isn’t, Green said with a trace of humor. Forget about him and the Oriental.

Staphmeyer felt a stab of fear. Smith had been replaced by a different government agency. A much more frightening one.

How did the aliens first contact you? Right? How long have you worked for them?

Staphmeyer sighed. I never had contact with an alien until this one showed up at the hospital.

Let’s talk about that, Green said. Out of all the hospitals in the City, it seems suspicious to us that this alien showed up at St. Maud’s. Why did this alien choose to appear where you worked? On your shift? They must have contacted you in the past. How long have you worked for them?

That’s ridiculous.

You’re an alien sympathizer. Right?

Did they recruit you to spy on our country?

Tell us about the alien’s anatomy. Right? 

Read my notes. I have a lot of information in there.

We can’t. We don’t have a high enough security clearance. Right?

Staphmeyer thought about that. Without his notes, he couldn’t write a paper for the medical journals. When can I have my notes back?

I doubt if you will ever have the security clearance needed to read them, Green said.

Start talking, Brown said. We’re busy and we can’t spend all day jerking around with an alien sympathizer. Right?

Yeah, Green said. We want to know everything. Like where the alien came from. How they originally contacted you. How long you’ve been working for them.

Staphmeyer felt his face flush. He fought to maintain his self-control but these two were pissing him off. The strain of the week in this room took its toll. He wasn’t taking any more. He wanted out of here and he wanted to see Rosensplatt.

You better answer or you’ll never get out of here. Right?

I told you what I know. Staphmeyer crossed his arms over his chest. I want a lawyer and I want a phone. Through clenched teeth, he added, I’m finished cooperating with everyone.

Oh, we have a tough guy, Green said.

Let’s let him stew for a couple more days. Right?

The TV picture returned.

On the five o’clock news, he was startled to see his family’s lawyer. The man stood in front of a bank of microphones and denounced the government for kidnapping his client. Staphmeyer’s morale jumped. Maybe, the ordeal was ending. Maybe, he’d see Rosensplatt soon. Did she miss him as much as he missed her?

Early in morning, a man — without a bio-suit — walked into the room. All your test results are negative. You’re free to leave.

The announcement was so unexpected that Staphmeyer had trouble speaking. After several attempts he managed to stammer, I . . . I don’t have any clothes. I came here in hospital scrubs and they were burned. He bounced up and down on the chair.

Your lawyer is downstairs and will drive you. You can wear what you have on.

Wait a minute. Something sounded fishy here. What about all those other guys?

What others?

Smith. Brown. Green. They’re just going to let me walk out of here?

There’s no one here by those names. Since you are a doctor, I hope you realize we only kept you in isolation for the protection of everyone. Just in case your, er, visitor carried an infectious disease.

❇︎

When the lawyer drove out of the underground parking lot, Staphmeyer recognized Lower Manhattan, only a block or two north of City Hall. He rolled down the car window and inhaled the damp, sooty air. It smelled and tasted so much better than the recycled and climate-controlled Federal air. The lawyer offered to drive to St. Maud’s where Staphmeyer had his street clothes with his wallet and keys. While the car waited at a red light, he glanced at a news stand. His heart lurched at the banner headline on a tabloid, Alien butt doctor released. He almost threw up. Instead of rocketing him to fame, the alien’s appearance made him a subject of mockery. This wasn’t how he expected fame to work. He stared through the windshield without seeing anything. He replied to the lawyer’s comments and questions with grunts or head movements.

To get into the hospital, he barged through a mob of fanatical reporters. Inside, a nurse greeted him by saying, The Chief Administrator wants you in his office ASAP. He’s asked about you every day.

Now what? He went to the locker room to shower and change before responding to the summons. The secretary immediately showed him into the Administrator’s office. No waiting? A bad sign.

The Administrator, dapper and forty-ish, wasted no time on small talk. Have you any idea how much trouble we had covering the ER during your absence? He whisked a dust mote from his empty desk top.

I didn’t have a choice in the matter. The Administrator’s tone shocked Staphmeyer. I was grabbed by the government.

Not even a phone call to let us know how long you’d be gone. But that isn’t why I called you in here. You deliberately ignored hospital procedure by treating a patient before he was properly admitted. We didn’t get any HMO information from him.

I didn’t think an extra-terrestrial would carry a HMO card. Staphmeyer couldn’t believe he was in more trouble because of the alien.

And just who are we to bill for the treatment you provided? Our hospital is a for-profit institute, you know.

To think he had anticipated fame when he first saw the creature. How naive he was.

You are a good doctor, but you need to learn a lot more about the business end of medicine. The Administrator tilted his head and looked down his nose. I am forced to add a note to your personnel file about your lack of team play. He waved a hand in the direction of the door. That is all.

On leaving the office, the man’s secretary informed him he had been assigned temporarily to insurance paperwork, to broaden his experiences.

What else could possibly go wrong? The tabloids referred to him in unflattering terms. Late-night talk shows delighted in his story. Even if he grew rich and powerful, his reputation as the alien butt doctor would overshadow his success. Instead of medical groupies, he had reporters waiting for him. They lurked on the sidewalks outside the hospital hoping to ask him about sending a message or seeking closure. He had no idea what those phrases meant.

His dreams — or fantasies — about fame had crashed and burned. He wrote it out of his future but that left a large hole in his life. The death of his fame-driven ambition removed his only hesitation about marrying Rosensplatt. After his isolation by the Feds, he wanted to be with her more than he wanted to achieve his fantasies. If he didn’t marry her soon, she might marry someone else, and then he wouldn’t be able see her very often. Or even at all. She might move to a different part of the country. He now knew he’d never survive a blow like that.

A nurse interrupted his philosophical introspection. She grinned at him and said, Doctor, did you see this in the Times? She handed him the paper. An editorial praised Staphmeyer for acting in a decisive manner, unencumbered by the petty concerns of unimaginative bureaucrats. His actions in treating an alien, the editorial argued, showed the best side of the American people. It called the government agencies a bunch of callous bureaucrats. The column made reference to a story in the another section. He turned to the story and was startled to see a reference to The Staphmeyer Incident. The article also praised his actions.

He looked at the middle-aged nurse.

You’re famous. She gave him a big smile.

I am? Staphmeyer’s brain threatened to short circuit because of the conflicting electronic impulses. Was his original career aims back on track? Or was this a different situation? One he had never considered.  He wavered for only a second. After his experiences with the Feds, he couldn’t risk losing Rosensplatt.

He pulled out his cell phone and punched her number. He chewed on his lower lip while he waited for her to answer.

❇︎

In her flat, Rosensplatt stood by the covered easel; painting number 40. She yanked the sheet. He gagged. It looked like a kidney operation performed by an inept auto mechanic. "I see you

Reviews for Tunnel Vision

[spiceca_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I'm very pleased to have won this through Good Reads. The stories weren't what I would call laugh-out-loud funny but they were more of the clever and witty amusing style. I could also tell what political leanings the author has....not that there's anything wrong with that. All in all- a nice selection of what I would call morality tales- a few just strange and funny- and a couple meh ones.Recommended for those who like oddball humor..and those who don't mind a few risque parts either.