I originally wrote this post over a year ago. However, it feels more relevant now than it did then. Maybe because I’m still struggling to carve out time to write, maybe because I know I’m not the only one writing less than I’d like, maybe because it’s close to the end of the year. Who knows, maybe me from the past wrote out this post as a reminder to my future self that writer’s block is something of a fallacy and needs to be dealt with head-on rather than worried about in a quiet, hands-wringing fashion. Anyway, here’s what I had to say about it, and I feel it’s still true:
He surveyed the damage from the Tower. It, and he, rose high above the palace, and he could see the Lightning Field, now back online, reflecting off of the shattered glass and twisted structural damage of his throne room below. Crews were already hard at work cleaning up the mess. They knew what it meant to disappoint Ming the Merciless.
His arms were behind his back, and he felt an errant twitch in his left hand. That was to be expected. The Consciousness Transmitter hidden in his signet ring always took a toll on him when it was activated. If he were a superstitious ruler, he would be thanking some amorphous, imaginary being like those worshiped by his duller subjects that the rebels had not discovered the Vats, and the cloned bodies Klytus had hidden within. But no god had intervened to restore Ming to life. Like all things within Mongo, life and death were the purview of Ming himself.
Even if Gordon was too stupid to realize that.
Gordon. Ming’s fists tightened. The Earthling’s defiance was a problem. When he and his companions had first appeared, their crude flying machine caught in one of the storms Ming had transmitted from Tropica to the insignificant planet Earth, Ming had welcomed the distraction. Mongo’s princes were dull, predictable guttersnipes, all too easy to manipulate. The Earthlings were quite similar to most of his subjects in form and function, and even as Ming continued to rain destruction on Earth, he had wondered what the princes would make of the newcomers.
Now he knew. Gordon’s fragile but effective alliance with the Hawkmen and the insufferable Prince Barin proved that the Earthling was both a warrior to be respected and a leader to be watched. In the wake of his raid on the palace, Klytus was dead, Baylin missing, and Ming’s prize, Dale Arden, stolen. Apparently, Dale was ‘married’ to the Earthling Zarkov, whatever that meant, and Gordon’s selfless act of throwing himself into the teeth of both Ming’s guard and the Lightning Field to rescue a female not his own was capturing hearts and minds throughout Mongo.
Ming toyed with the idea of summoning some concubines. Two? No, three at the very least. His rage at Gordon coupled with the thrill of facing so worthy an opponent and brushing against the sweet, ever-present and waiting embrace of oblivion would make his passion powerful. He’d likely kill one. But he was willing to wait. He had plans to make, first.
“What commands for your loyal subjects, O Emperor of Mongo, O ruler of my heart?”
He smiled, turning to face his daughter. Aura knelt before him, demure and obedient, eyes shining in the semi-darkness of the Mongo evening, the Lightning Field catching in the gold filigree worked into her hair. His seething anger gave way to pride. His daughter was fearful of reprisal for her failure. Her attempt to play Gordon and Barin against one another had failed, unfortunately, and being spurred by both of them could not be easy for her. She, like Ming, was used to getting what she wanted. Gordon was to be her plaything, and Barin the means to ensure tighter control over Mongo. Ming knew she toyed with the idea of usurping him, and it amused him to watch her try. He reached down and touched her hair.
“Do you mean to rule in my stead, dear daughter?”
“Only until you are well enough to return in full, my lord.”
“And you will step aside willingly on that day? It may come too soon for your liking.”
She took his hand in both of hers, kissing his palm and wrist. “Now more than ever, we need your power and brilliance. Mongo will fall into chaos without your fist clutching its lands and people.”
His lips slowly curled into a smile. “Did you say something similar to Barin?”
Her eyes looked up, seeking his. “It doesn’t matter what I said to him, Father. Or to Flash Gordon. Seeing your body dead by their swords… I did not expect to be so upset by it.”
“Especially if you mean to take my throne by force one day,” Ming said. “I did not come to my place of power by being Ming the Merciful. You must harden yourself against death, my daughter. You will see it just as often as you cause it.”
“Yes, Father. I do not expect you to forgive my indiscretions. I await your punishment.”
He stroked his beard, and fought down the errant twitch in the hand doing it. It would take time for those things to subside. And he did not want Gordon or Barin or Vultan to know he was alive while any potential weakness existed.
“Your punishment is to deal with these sniveling upstarts. Double the guard patrols, step up the execution schedule, and cancel all state holidays until further notice. Mongo is ours to rule, and as long as we rule it, it shall do well to remember what it means to cross Ming and Aura.”
The Princess rose, her stunning smile a mask for the malice in her eyes. “They will never forget me. They may think they’ve won, that I will be weeping in my chambers for their lost hearts, but when I show them their hearts, still beating, they will regret choosing ‘freedom’ and ‘friendship’ over Aura.”
“Now those are the words worth of Ming’s blood.” He took her hand and kissed it. “Go, and show no mercy.”
She sauntered away, and Ming turned back to the window. Somewhere out there, in Arboria or perhaps the Sky City, Flash Gordon was likely celebrating a victory. Ming hoped the Earthling enjoyed it. Soon, pain and misery would be all he knew, and the so-called ‘Saviour of the Universe’ would beg Ming for mercy before the end, mercy that would never come, and honestly, Gordon should know better than to ask.
Ming activated the intercom to the wing of his palace containing his concubines.
“Send up three… no, four to the Tower immediately. The night is young, and it shall not be wasted.”
Work was hard to come by after the war. It could have been easier if I didn’t have a face like a mile of bad road. The rest of me was built better than a solid steel forklift, though, so I could at least work down by the docks. It wasn’t much, but it paid the bills. I was at least getting by until Grace went missing.
I knew it wasn’t ransom they were after. They wanted me to do some dirty work for them, ‘enforcing’ they called it, maybe some killing on the side. Guess a veteran looking the way I do is an appealing notion for a mobster unwilling to get blood on his hands. Either way, it didn’t matter to me. Answer was and always would be ‘no’.
So when they took Grace, I called Harry, the one other guy from our unit who made it home in one piece. Smart guy, started working for a company doing research something called ‘micro-electronics’, whatever that means. He had been working the radio for our lieutenant when we got shelled and the tunnel collapsed on him. I’ll never forget the look on his face when I pulled him out with one hand.
“They’re still highly experimental,” he told me. “Some of the components are rather delicate.”
“I promise I’ll pay you back if I break any of it.” The gloves were a little small for me, but I’d make do. When I made a fist, the vacuum tubes on the back of the hand lit up and crackled. “You know I’m good for it.”
“Just be careful, Frank. These are dangerous men.”
“Ain’t more dangerous than a guy looking for his girl.”
Don’t remember the real name of the guy who wouldn’t shut up about how great my new job would be. Giovanni Something-or-other. Whatever. I knew him as “Johnny Moneybags” and he liked to eat and be seen at this swank joint uptown. Sure enough, that night I found him there surrounded by dames with a tripe-digit bottle of wine on the table.
I can hit pretty hard, but with these gloves on and charged up, I put a me-shaped hole in the wall with just a couple punches. As folks ran screaming past me I made a mental note to tell Harry he did good.
“Well, hello, Frank. Glass of wine?”
“Nah. I’m a beer man.” I grabbed Johnny by his tux lapels and hauled him up. “Where’s the girl?”
“Which girl?”
“Dammit, Johnny, I hate repeating myself. Don’t make me do it.”
He sneered at me. “Why don’t you go ask her whore of a mother?”
That did it. Every word I said next, I punctuated with a punch in his smug little face. “Where. Is. The. Girl.”
He was bleeding out of his nose and mouth and his whole body was twitching as I held him up. Apparently getting shocked and pasted in the mush at the same time messes up your nervous system. Who knew?
“F-F-Fiftieth street and C-C-Cedar. S-S-Second Floor. She’s g-g-g-guarded.”
“You think that’s gonna stop me, palooka? Take a look in the mirror next time you wanna mess with someone’s girl. I’d break your neck if I didn’t have somewhere else to be. Enjoy your wine.”
I dropped him and walked out. Damn gloves barely fit in my pockets as I rounded the corner, putting distance between me and the sirens. Someone was going to have to pay big for that hole in the wall. Glad it wasn’t me.
Fiftieth and Cedar was a brownstone on a corner with a couple goons out front. So I found my way in the back and up to the second floor. I sent the guy outside the door flying through a window. Inside was a little girl’s room, complete with bright wallpaper and furniture and dolls, the works. She was fed okay, her blonde hair in pigtails, and when she saw me she ran up and hugged my leg.
“I promised your momma I’d take care of you,” I told her.
“Are we going away now?”
“Yep. Hop up on my shoulders so’s we can make with the getaway.”
She did. The goons out front moved to stop us but I shot them a look. Grace gave ’em a raspberry. That’s my girl.
We were waiting for the train when the last person I wanted to see ran up to meet me.
“Frank, what in the hell are you doing?”
“Taking Grace to California. Why, what’s your beef?”
“My ‘beef’ is that your name is all over the radio. You’re a wanted criminal.”
“Rescuing a little girl in trouble is a crime, Jimmy?”
“Dammit, Frank, you know she needs…”
“You shut your damn mouth about that little girl’s needs.” I was a good head taller than my brother, and I reminded him of that fact. Harry’s gloves were in my steamer trunk, and I was praying I wouldn’t need them. “We’ll get along just fine, may not be easy, but better we stick together and take the hard road than wait around here for another goomba to make a play for me.”
“You do this, Frank, and you’re on your own. I’m with the Bureau, now. They tell me to hunt you, I will.”
I grabbed him by his tie. “Jimmy, I hate repeating myself. Don’t make me.”
He glared at me. He got all of the looks in the family, but only a bit of my size. We’d scrapped before, coming out about even, and we’d both seen the war. I didn’t want to fight him. But I would, if it meant Grace had a shot.
I felt a tug on my pant leg.
“Daddy, the train’s here.”
I let Jimmy down.
“We’re leavin’, Jim. That’s that.”
He fixed his tie, looked at the two of us, and nodded.
“Guess I better wish you luck, then.”
I tried not to think about never seeing my brother again, and shook his hand.
For the Terribleminds Flash Fiction challenge, The Body.
He was assaulted by scents when the door opened. The undercurrent of cheap booze and sweat was nearly overwhelmed by the acrid tang of cordite. He set his kit down inside the door and began to remove his coat.
“Oh man, thank God you’re here, I don’t know what to do…”
He looked at the young man speaking to him. His hair was disheveled, his eyes bloodshot, and the gun was still in his hand.
“You can start by putting safety on and putting the gun down.”
The kid looked down at the gun.
“Oh, Jesus…” The gun was placed on the ground very slowly, and he could see the safety was, in fact, engaged. Once it was on the floor, he picked it up and placed it in his kit.
“Now, tell me what happened.”
“Man, we were just sitting around drinking and talking, and Tommy, he… he said he had never seen a gun before, so I pulled it out to show him, and…”
“Okay. Stop right there. You were drunk and handling a loaded gun. You’re aware of how your father is going to react, aren’t you?”
The kid turned pale. “Oh, God, did you…”
“No. After we are done here I will take you to see him personally. But you have to realize, if the neighbors heard the shot and called the cops, we have maybe three minutes before we start smelling bacon. Do you understand?”
This got an eager nod.
“Good. Now let’s get a look at Tommy.”
He was lead into the apartment, where the bedroom was now a shambles. The smell of weed was contained here, as was the stink of Tommy’s body which had voided itself after the gun had gone off. The target pistol, a gift from the young man’s father, was a .22 and therefore not terribly powerful. There was no exit wound and no bullet to dig out of the wall. Tommy seemed to be laying on a pile of laundry, the head wound oozing blood and brain into some designer clothes.
“Help me with the body.”
They picked Tommy up and carried him into the bathroom. Once the corpse was in the tub, he retrieved his kit.
“Gather up any clothes Tommy bled on. Make sure his blood didn’t reach the carpet. Get the clothes in garbage bags. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And shut the door.”
With that, he was alone with Tommy. He put his smock on over his suit, strapped on the mask, and pulled on the latex gloves. From the kit he pulled out the first jug of acid, turning on the bathroom fan. He started with the face, then the hands, just in case they had to leave in a hurry. He had to be careful when pouring it – splashes were bad, and he didn’t want it eating anything but the body in front of him. It was slow going, arduous at times, but between the hissing and the stench, he managed to keep the mess in the tub without destroying anything in the bathroom. He checked his watch as the acid worked on the bones of Tommy’s rib cage. No cops yet; this was good news.
He only poured as much acid as he needed, and still ended up going through a jug and a half. After a few more minutes, the powerful stuff had reduced poor Tommy and his clothes to a slurry of reddish sludge. A few pours from the jug of basic acid neutralizer stopped any remaining hissing. He opened up the cold water tap in the tub, pulled the steel rod out of his kit, and started stirring. He hated this part the most, truth be told. It was tedious and getting this close to what had recently been active acid never exactly sat well with him.
At length, the tub was empty. He turned off the tap, shed his smock and gloves, and pulled one more thing out of his kit. A few liberal sprays of Febreeze within the confines of the bathroom cut the smells considerably. He opened the door and walked around the apartment, spraying as he went. The kid was sitting on his bed, two large black can liners full of clothes by his feet.
“Did Tommy have family?”
“His parents are in another state. He was here for college.”
“So it will be a few days before they become seriously concerned. Did they ever meet you?”
“No.”
“And did Tommy ever mention you to them?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
He nodded. “Well, come on, then. Let’s get out of here.”
They walked out of the Febreezed apartment. He had the kid put his bags of laundry in the trunk of his Lincoln, and then placed his kit beside them. They left the parking lot and he considered their route as he pulled onto the main boulevard.
“Is he gonna be mad?”
He knew the answer to the young man’s question already. Yes, he’s mad, and if I hadn’t shown up and you were talking to the cops you certainly wouldn’t live through the night. He had worked for powerful men before, in many cities, but this one saw his son as more of an embarrassment than anything else. Hence the instructions he was to follow if the kid proved inconsolable or confrontational.
The gun was heavy under his suit coat. The docks were nearby. He knew it was the most surefire way to resolve this.
Yet the young man beside him had been cooperative, relatively calm, and seemed legitimately apologetic for the accident. No blustering, no panic, nothing embarrassing at all. And the kid was someone’s son. He had met the kid’s mother, too, a lovely woman with a big heart who loved her family more than anything. And unlike the cops, there was no way in the world he would lie to her about what happened to her son.
This one was tough. For the Terribleminds Game of Aspects (Halloweenie Edition) the d10 of Destiny dictated:
Southern Gothic
Evil Awakens!
Strip Club
Stage Magic
Hoo boy. Happy Halloween!
It was another hot, muggy night, but the wind was low, meaning the mugginess was not supplemented by the heavy, muddy water of the bayou. Still, it was the sort of weather that drove men from their sweltering places of work and the oppressive presence of disappointed wives to the red lights and cheap drinks at Stella’s Corner Hitching Post, where the ladies wore a fine sheet of sweat for reasons other than the weather.
Sugar fought down the urge to step out the back door and light up a cigarette. Quitting was proving more and more difficult, but her promise to her son was ever-present in her mind. Candy walking in and hanging up a light robe that smelled like Marlboros right next to Sugar’s tiny makeup table and mirror didn’t help matters.
“I should not have worn these heels.” Candy looked down at the clear, long stilettos currently strapped to her feet. “I’m going to trip and break something next time I go out there.”
“Child, you’re a pro. You’re going to be fine.” Sugar tugged at her white string bikini, knowing the stage lights would bring out the extreme contrast between the scant garment and her skin. “You know the guys like you in heels like that. They make your butt look fantastic.”
“We’re not all naturally endowed like Hecate out there.”
Sugar frowned, peeking around her mirror towards the stage. Hecate was dancing to something slow and sensual, grinding on her pole and shooting smoldering looks out at the audience. A newcomer, she was quickly rivaling Sugar as the most sought-after girl at Stella’s. In addition to her looks, she was known for using things like slight of hand and the occasional pyrotechnics element in her routines.
“Still not sure where Stella found her.”
“I’m not sure she did.” Candy was changing into her black bikini, preparing for the insanely popular double-show she did with Sugar. “Word ’round the sewing circle is that Hecate sauntered into Stella’s office and pretty much demanded a job.”
Sugar turned back to the curtain and the view beyond. While most eyes in the main room of Stella’s were on Hecate’s hips and other curves, Sugar found herself looking at Hecate’s fingers. Each nail was painted a different color, almost all of them were earth tones, and the way she moved her fingers seemed to have little to do with beckoning men closer to the stage. It made Sugar extremely uneasy.
The men started to shift in their seats, and not in the usual way of Stella’s customers. They all leaned towards the stage, transfixed by Hecate’s movements and gestures, and when the roving spotlights shifted away from them, pinpoints of red appeared in their eyes. Hecate began to laugh, spinning on the stage, raising her arms above her head. She finished her turn facing backstage, and her smile only brightened at the sight of Candy and Sugar.
“Sisters! You really should join me.”
Candy, shaking, moved to obey, but Sugar put a hand on her shoulder.
“What’re you doing to them?”
“Giving them a brand new show with more magic than usual. You know how men love a show.”
Sugar took a closer look at the audience. “They look hypnotized.”
“Darling, they’re men. They get hypnotized when you take off your top.”
“But this… why are you doing this?”
“The aggression of men’s done more to hurt us and our world than anything else; it’s time we used it for ourselves rather than let them do what they want.”
Candy blinked. “How does that make us better?”
Hecate shook her head. “Precious child. These sorts of men claim to want freedom and equality, but do you feel equal when you need to be up here shaking your ass to feed yourself?”
“There’s nothing wrong about what we do. If you object so much to how men treat us, why come here in the first place?”
“Sugar, my dear, you don’t seem to understand. I’m not here to entertain. I’m here to right wrongs that have waited centuries to be righted. Words always fail so action must be taken. These men will act as I want them to act, and no words will be necessary to make things right.”
“And what you’re doing is right? I don’t see how. You want to make these people into puppets! That’s just as wrong!”
Hecate shook her head. “I’m sorry you feel that way, Sugar.” She snapped her fingers.
Men rose from the seats nearest to the stage and surged towards Sugar. She backed away towards the dressing room and the back door she knew was twenty paces behind her. Hecate moved in behind the half-dozen men she’d summoned to the stage, smiling as they reached for Sugar.
“You see? Even under my influence, child, men are only after one thing.”
Rough hands took hold of Sugar as she fought back. She nailed one of them in the groin with the tip of her heel, another she bit on the hand, a third she scratched across the eyes. But more were coming, and it was getting more and more difficult to see Hecate, or Candy.
There was a dull thud from somewhere in the crowd. One by one, the men collapsed, and finally Hecate swooned, falling on top of them all. Candy stood behind her, a bottle of champagne in her hands.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I didn’t know what else to do.”
Sugar got to her feet. “It’s okay. It’s okay, Candy, you did the right thing.”
Candy nodded, though her hands still shook. “Well… what do we do now?”
After getting more clothes on, Sugar and Candy found quite a bit of cash amongst the sleeping patrons of Stella’s. They opened beers throughout the club, and left Hecate atop her pile of men. Sugar grabbed her cell phone as she and Candy walked out.
“Stella, it’s Sugar. Hecate tried to throw a private party at the Post. I thought you should know…”
