Day 15: Curiosity is a Provable Fact

IntShoWriMo 2015: Day 15 Prompts:
You’re a private investigator who is down on his or her luck and hasn’t had a client in months. Suddenly the phone rings. It’s a kid. The kid proposes a silly case to you. Normally you wouldn’t take such a ridiculous job (from a kid, no less), but you need the work, so you accept. But what you uncover during the investigation is a much, much bigger problem than the kid (and you) ever expected. — WritersDigest.Com

Word Count: 2k+

Akpan

DAY 29: Smoke and Mirrors

Courtesy: Wikipedia

Today’s Prompt:

You get a message, it is obviously for you, but it is scrawled in lipstick on a mirror in a public restroom. It’s unexpected but now you know exactly where the killer is hiding. It’s time to find him and, hopefully, your friend (and hopefully, your friend id still alive.)

Courtesy: writersdigest.com

Word Count: 1,092

‘Mo kicked in the door and dashed into the restroom guns out and pointed business end first. His eyes panned across the room, the guns following his movement. He breathed heavily and had bloodstains on his clothes. He was banged up but he was alive and that meant he lived to fight another day. He kicked open the door to the first cubicle—empty. He went down on all fours guns pointed out and scanned for feet beneath the gap under the doors. Nothing there, either. He raised himself off the tiles and advanced forward, kicking in door after door. He heard tiles fall off the wall as the door slammed into them. besides that the room was empty of people.

                “Damn!”

‘Mo inquired of folks he’d met on his way down.

                “Did any of you gentlemen happen to see this guy and this lady drive by this town? Last I heard from them, they were headed in this direction.

He’d received positive responses. “I sold ‘em gas,” the guy at the fuel station had said. “Nice fellow, that one was.”

                “You don’t know the half of it,” ‘Mo said to him.

On his way to the restroom, he’d spotted a green farm truck and waved it down.

                “Sorry to trouble you sir.”

                “Sure, no problem.”

                “You didn’t happen to see a red caddy with a man and woman riding south did you?”

                “Yes sir, I seen them alright. Parked in front of restroom, they was.”

Farmer Joe had directed ‘Mo down to this place. “Keep your eyes to the east, not far from here there’s a restroom. You can’t miss it.”

He holstered his guns, trotted to the sink and started washing his face; ridding his body of the drying bloodstains. A wall-to-wall mirror had been screwed into the wall in front of the washbasin. ‘Mo finished washing, grabbed some paper towels and began dabbing at his face. He was going in for the last swipe across his face when he noticed the inscription on the mirror and froze He’d recognize the handwriting anywhere. Sophie had left him a message; she knew he was following their trail. The inscription looked awkward like it’d been made by trembling hands. ‘Mo knew exactly where they were going.

                “Time to nail the bastard.”

He dropped the paper towel, rushed outside, jumped on his bike and scattered grit as his tires dug into the sand and hit the asphalt with blinding speed.

                “You’re gonna get yours,” ‘Mo muttered to himself. “You’re gonna drown in your blood, you psycho killer.”

What ‘Mo didn’t know was that Ibak (/he back/) had anticipated his coming. Ibak who threatened the farmer in the truck to tell ‘Mo he saw his caddy parked in front of the restroom, had also forced ‘Mo’s girl to make the inscription on the wall. So far, all worked according to plan, Ibak’s plan. ‘Mo was heading into bottleneck drama.

                ‘Mo wasn’t half a mile from the restroom stop when gunshots rang from behind trees and underbrush which lined the road. He canted his bike at an angle and flung himself off to one side, rolling as he landed on the asphalt to lessen the effect of the impact. Gunshots bust the afternoon quiet, scraping asphalt and throwing up grit. ‘Mo imagined it was only a matter of time before a slug blew up the bike’s tank and blasted him to Hades and he pitched for the trees.

He was trapped, after all. Ibak wasn’t jaunting alone. He’d left a trail of lies behind him as he traveled through the town, giving ‘Mo hope that he might catch up with him and rescue his woman.

                “You were never a match against me, ‘Mo. I just been playing with cha.” He punctuated his speech by unleashing a barrage of lead into the trees. “What took you so long? You kept me waiting. I never work alone, ‘Mo. You should have known me by now.”

‘Mo didn’t answer. He also felt betrayed. All those people cowards everyone of them. they sided with Ibak and led him into a trap. But I can’t really blame them for what happened, can I? these guys are armed with weapons of mass destruction and they know where those folks hang their hats. I can’t blame but I still feel betrayed.

He heard the sound of something rubbing against another. Something was sliding down the tree he used as a refuge. He raised his gun up, pushed himself away from the tree with his legs and released slugs into the branches. A man grunted and fell out of the trees. The man had a chance to take him out sitting up there in the branches why hadn’t he taken the shot? Unless he had his orders—Ibak wanted ‘Mo alive. Either Ibak still believed he had access to the money or he wanted the pleasure of torturing him and watching him die slow. ‘Mo sprang to his feet and hooked himself to the tree only after retrieving the dead man’s rifle. Looking out from the top of the tree improved his view. ‘Mo positioned the M-1 rifle and locked its barrel on Ibak. Damn, if this wasn’t poetic justice at its peak, he thought to himself. He could take Ibak and his men from here, picking them out one by one like green bottles.

Ibak had hunted and picked off his family one after the other because he busted his shipment of dope across the border back in the day when he used to work as a customs officer. And now he’d taken Sophie captive. The bastard deserved to die.

Ibak was having the best time of his life when he heard the report of his own death. The sun bore down on the middle of his head on the Friday noon he met his doom. He waited for the men he placed on top of the tree to bring ‘Mo to him. He wanted to watch him die slow. Cause him as much pain as he’d brought on him through the years. He’d make his wife watch it all and then he’d take her out as well. These was the highpoints of his midday reverie when the high-caliber bullet bust through the trees, slammed into his head and drilled a hole large enough for a kid to put his hand through in his forehead. But not before tossing him several feet into the air. The shot flap down Ibak on the shoulder of the road like a discarded fold of newspaper.

Eneh Akpan

June 29, 2013

DAY 24: In a Room with the Enemy

Courtesy: ramanon.com

Today’s Prompt:

The detective saw his opportunity. He grabbed the waitress’ arm and said…

Courtesy: Writing.Com

Word Count: 1,423

                “Move bitch!”

Slugs cut through the scrumptious air, whizzed past his ears and slammed into the walls generating an audible thud. Shards of glass came crashing down making discordant music. His eardrums echoing the report. Screams crammed the enclosed space. People everywhere crawling on all fours, yelling for dear life. This wasn’t time for consoling people, it wasn’t even time for getting mad. This was time for getting even. There’ll be time enough to count the wounded when the gun spray stops. Right there and then, he was the prosecution, the jury and the judge. Case closed.

Ita (/hitter/) leveled his Luger at the chest of a man donning a Picasso-style beret. He figured this artist knew more about squeezing triggers than handling brushes. He bust two shots into him and watched as the force flung him against a litter of furniture. He bounced off and slid to the floor, chairs collapsed on top of him in his wake and buried him under in mock funeral. Ita hit the floor as one of the gangsters took a shot at him. The waitress was sprawled out face down on the floor. Ita crawled towards her, pulling himself forward on the tiles like a crocodilian reptile to achieve the feat. He called out to her in hushed tones as he came close to where she lay.

There was no response. For all Ita knew the woman might be out of commission. Why waste your breath on a hunk of dead meat? He thought to himself. Because I used her as a kind of human shield, that’s why, he answered himself.

                “Hey, Ita.” Dark Son, leader of the murderous pack called out. “You can forget about her, she used to be one of our own, anyways.”

                “I know.” He did too. “But it didn’t have to be like this.”

                “It’s a deadly game you pulling a stunt like you did. Any fool would know you guys were gonna show up.”

                “Let guess, you had a snitch,” Ita said, feeling the waitress’ neck for a pulse.

                “Hell yeah, plus you know I’m on first name basis with the cops.”

The sound of a gunshot on Dark Son’s side of the diner and Ita heard as a bullet rebounded off the wall a few inches above his head.

                “Damn, you’re on fire today. A word of caution, though. Don’t waste the slugs, I came loaded.”

                “Those two colleagues of yours we took out?”

                “What about them?”

                “They were on the mob’s payroll but I bet you already knew that.”

                “I’m impressed.” But he didn’t sound impressed. “How come you’re always taking out your own people, I wonder?”

                “Because sniveling rat’s ass like you always get them involved when you make a bust, that’s why.”

Dark Son sounded furious. ‘Let him,’ Ita thought. ‘When they’re mad they become irrational and that gives me a fighting chance, at least.’

People cluttered the diner’s floor. Ita observed as men who ought to shield the women scrambled over them and tried to get the best shot at safety. The gangsters had taken no hostages yet but under the present circumstances, Ita figured that was unnecessary. There was about six of them against one; Ita was outnumbered and outgunned. Ita was all the hostage they needed. He hadn’t expected this bust to fall flop and bad but The Corleone Associates had whiff they were coming and had blown their cover. One of the dudes, the one Ita took out had pulled his 9milimeter on the waitress and dared Ita to make a false move. Ita had his chance when someone who was not supposed to be in the diner at that time came trotting through the doors into the café. Dark Son had pumped two to his head from his Glock, the man was thrown a few feet into the air. He crashed into the door on his way down and crumpled to the floor in a dead heap. Panic-inspired disorder had gripped the customers and Ita had made the best of it, thrown the waitress aside and made a grab for his gun.

Ita was just getting over the fact that the waitress was DOA when he heard footsteps come up behind him. One of the gangsters had sneaked stealthily around the overturned tables and stood directly over him.

Ita whirled around and pulled the trigger of his Luger in one breath. The tiles beside his head exploded sending up rubble and dust in a furious spray. Ita pulled the trigger of his Luger again and again and it paid off as the gangster sprawled to the floor, a dead mass.

                “Two down, three or four more to go,” he said and kissed the smoking barrel of his semi automatic.

Ita crawled behind an overturned table and tried to peek from behind it. He was compensated by a bust from Dark Son’s gun.

                “Don’t even think about it, Sherlock Holmes,” Dark Son said.

Shit, think, Ita thought. He was as dead as the gangster he just landed if the members of The Corleone Associates decided they should move in on him in a kamikaze stance. Warm liquid trickled into his right eye. Ita swiped at it and checked. Blood. The exploding tiles from the jerk’s shot must have cut into the flesh on his forehead. He spotted a whiskey bottle and crept for it. Going for the bottle exposed him to the enemy and one of Dark Son’s men took a shot at him and missed. Ita applied the spirit to his wound and shot the rest down his throat. The heat from the whiskey fueled his adrenalin. Next, Ita flung the bottle into the air. Shots rang through the room and the bottle exploded and came down in a shower of glass. Ita assumed crouching position, shot up from behind a table and took shots at the gangsters. He ducked and heard one of the men curse and on the heels of that a heavy thump. He figured he offed at least one of them.

One of the thugs who had a semi automatic machine gun got mad and opened fire. Bullets slammed into the walls, ripping it apart, fragments of glass flew cutting into anything in its path. Tiles exploded, tables and chairs were hurled-hurtled into walls and shattered on impact. Screams from people pierced the air. The noise was deafening.

Ita careered down the diner, keeping a low profile, ignoring the pain that shot up his arms and legs as he crept over broken tiles. He bled like a broken spout. Then he heard firm footsteps; they were coming for him at last. Ita threw himself at the gun that belonged to the thug he dropped earlier and came back up with guns blazing. He fired without aiming and just let the bullets ride on the enemy. He took the thugs by surprise. He nailed two of the men. One of them went down spraying bullets from his machine gun at everything and nothing in particular. He got the ceiling fan; one of the blades tore off and sliced the air as it flew across the room. It slashed one of Dark Son’s men into two halves. One woman screamed.

Only one of the gangsters was left standing.

                “I guess we’re back to where we were before,” Dark Son said.

                “I don’t quite think so,” Ita said. “You took out two of my men, you’re going down.”

                “Save the speech for your maker, detective.” Dark Son raised his Glock and would have fired when a whirring sound made him reconsider.

The fan directly above him unhooked from the ceiling and came crashing down on his head. Dark Son wasn’t fast enough, and the weight of the fan hit him on the head. He didn’t go down but he was a bit disoriented. Ita figured the machine gun spray by the dying gangster got more than one fan. It was the only cue Ita needed and he took it with grace and style. He pumped the slugs into Dark Son until the chambers of both guns in his hand clicked empty.

A woman walked up to him when she believed the coast was clear.

                “You are an officer, ain’t you?” She eyed Ita suspiciously.

                “Yes, ma’am. You’re alright now,” Ita said, perching on the edge of an overturned, broken chair.

                “Yes. But are you? You’re bleeding like a pig. Come here, let me take a look at your wounds. I’m a registered nurse.”

Not everybody was an enemy, after all.

Eneh Akpan

June 24, 2013

DAY 11: Mr. Massacre

Courtesy: donsevers.com

Today’s Prompt:

Two men stop you on your way into your local post office. One flashes a badge at you. They tell you about a top secret sting operation they are about to execute and they need your help. They can’t give you any of the details, only that you are to walk into the post office, go up to the counter with the gentleman named Bert working it, and you have to say to him, “My stamps are looking a bit square these days, if you know what I mean.” Write what happens next.

Courtesy: writersdigest.com

Word Count: 2,107

Kama came to; his head buzzing like a turbojet engine in full swing. He reached for the back of his head where it throbbed feverishly, and touched his finger to it. The pain was the world. It projected black and white images to his vision and the nasty headache took it personal. He tried for his eyelids and it was a battle prying them open. His right eye was almost completely shut. It was a tad too puffed-up; it was sort of a tough job keeping it open, so Kama let it slide shut. His remaining eye could not take in much of his surround; a cloak of darkness had concealed it in plain sight.

                The floor where his bare feet rested was musty and impossibly cold. Somebody with a queer sense of humor had Kama strapped to a steel chair in a frigid zone. It tuned up the cold a notch and he shuddered recurrently. Grume and goo plugged his nostrils; he traded exhales for gasps. He cleared his gut and coughed up blood, instead. Kama closed his functioning eye and tried to focus, listening in for memory’s footfalls. Trying for how he managed to get himself in this fix. He negotiated a blank.

He remembered the chap that stood, breathing down on him the moment before… he passed out? Had he done this to him? The chap couldn’t have been more than nineteen, going by his looks, anyway. He was like young 50 cent and he had a lean, mean voice. Another strip of memory flashed across his mind; Kama remembered the questions, the first words Babyface spat in his face. It was a question and as vague as trying to translate the gurgling of brooks into human words.

                “Where’s the stamp?” Babyface asked.

Kama remembered his response. “What? What stamps?” Babyface compensated him for throwing that question with a whack over the head.

                “In case you haven’t noticed, I ask all the questions, mister.” The tall, huge man-kid Kama called Babyface said. “It’s your duty to respond. Now, hand me the darn stamps.”

At that point, Kama was getting on the fringe of hysteria. “I don’t have the slightest idea what you’re talking about. Could somebody please, tell me what is…” The question expired on his lips when the idea of any whack over the head crossed his mind.

The tall man-kid seemed to notice and a smirk spread across his face. “You’re wasting time, champ. The only virtue in the world I do not have is patience. Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock.” He synchronized his forefinger with an imaginary pendulum.

‘You lack a lot more than you know.’ Kama thought but didn’t say aloud.

                “I got to get my hands on those stamps ASAP. I know you have them, so don’t play games with me cause I don’t play fair. You got just two options. One, you can either give me what I want and two, or you can tell me where I can find ‘em. Cause I know they ain’t on you. I frisked your ass a hundred times already.”

                “That is no option,” Kama sneered. “What if I don’t have them?”

                “Suit yourself. I’m gonna ask you one more time and if you don’t wanna cooperate me and you are gonna take a walk down the corridors of terror. The type that’s gonna make you cry for hell.” Babyface leaned over Kama their noses almost touched. “Where are the stamps,” he hissed.

Babyface looked dead serious, like he would go through with his threats of doom and gloom and he would too. And so was the crowd with him. They had indeed come to collect and Kama was the only thing between them and their prize. The problem was Kama didn’t have the stamps. Whatever the stamps were Kama had a strong impression these were not your regular post office stamps that these dudes, who had apparently kidnapped him, were trying to pull out of him with a chain fall.

                “The way I see it, you guys already turned out my pockets and forgot to return my pants, if I may add.” Besides the boxers on him and his armless T-shirt, Kama was naked. “So, you probably know I don’t have it on me. I would suggest you start searching someplace else. People, I’m completely ignorant of the situation.”

He could as well have been talking to the stone pyramids of Egypt. The men who were by guesstimate, four in number neither moved nor flinched. They were like robots programmed to do one thing: retrieve information. Anything shy of their responsibilities didn’t really count. Kama conjured and contrived, did the best he could to call up an image, any object in his mind that could come off as a stamp. Exasperated, he opened his mouth to speak and one of his captors cut him off.

                “Better get on with it, the boss would be here, before long.”

                “You mean there are others? How many people exactly indulge in this obsession with stamps that perhaps, don’t even exist? Somebody let me out of here.”

The man-kid leaned forward and glowered over Kama. Kama flinched, shut his eyes and waited for the blow that would probably hurt like a bastard. There was no blow not even a rap over the head. Kama raised his eyelid a crack and saw Babyface leaning over him.

                “I want you to look at me and listen up. I’m going to tell you something worth more to me than your very life and I ain’t one to repeat myself. So listen good and try not to fuck this up.”

                “Yesterday, at exactly 0800 hours, you walked into a post office but not before talking to two security operatives.” The man-kid saw Kama’s eyes light up with comprehension and rammed his words into the opening. “You were given a simple mission, and you downright flunked it. What we want to know is, who did you talk to after you left Bert’s counter; who followed you and what did they want; and did you give them any piece of information that could lead them back to us?”

Relief washed over Kama like a heavy downpour. He leaned back on the chair as far back as his chains would allow him and brayed laughter. The room’s walls caught it on the rebound. The men exchanged glances but nobody touched Kama or instructed him to quit.

                “That’s all the information you wanted and you had to go through all this drama?” Kama stopped chortling and composed himself. “It was the first time ever I set eyes on the bunch of weirdoes. At the post office, when they beckoned to me, I obliged because I thought maybe, they wanted directions.” He shrugged. “They looked lost and totally out of place. The one on the driver’s side flashed a badge, freaking secret service. I asked him, ‘Am I in some kind of trouble, officer?’ And he said, ‘No, no trouble at all. We’d like for you to do something for us.’ ‘Like what?’ I asked him, a little flustered. I mean, it was the secret service. He registered the fear on my face and waved it away. ‘Don’t worry. All you have to do is deliver a package to a man named Bert, he’s at Counter 5.’ I told them if there were no strings attached it was totally ok.”

                “You were nuts trusting the secret service. I mean, they don’t exactly call what they do ‘Secret’ for nothing, do they? Tell me, what did they say and what did you do with it?”

                “The dude beside the one that was talking to me must have been the boss from the way he acted, he took the stick of cigarette out of his mouth, spat on the gravel and said, ‘We can’t give out any of the details. It’s for your safety.’ I nodded. It’s the secret service. Nobody in his right mind cares about what they do or don’t do. ‘Like my partner said,’ the agent continued. ‘Find the gentleman named Bert at the counter and say to him, don’t try to play 007 and ruin the operation, just say, My stamps are looking a bit square these days, if you know what I mean. And then beat it.’”

Kama finished his story and stared into Babyface’ eyes. “That’s the details of my mission at the post office, it was all I did and when I came out, the car with the secret agents inside was long gone. By the way, I’ve never seen stamps that weren’t square my entire life. I wonder why people pass such dumb information and expect people to buy it.”

Back in the present, Kama’s memory was returning. He had asked the men to set him loose and let him go.

It never happened. They had dealt him the beating of his life and he had indeed cried out for hell.

Now alone in the darkness, he believed they had perhaps, left him for dead.

At the post office, Bert had given him a combination of numbers. Kama didn’t know what they meant. After he left the counter, a man had followed him. He didn’t know that Kama was aware he was being followed. Kama saw him from the corner of his eye and changed his route. The two men entered into the lavatory and the man came up behind Kama and tried to lock his arm around Kama’s neck.

Kama ducked under and connected his left foot with the man’s groin. There was a grunt as the man went down. Kama was all over him the next second.

“The number combinations, what do they mean?” Kama breathed into his ears. The double agent spilled his guts only when Kama grabbed the man’s service-issue semi-automatic and trained it at his forehead. “If you don’t start singing hero, they’re gonna be scraping your brains off these tiles in two minutes.” The man took one look in Kama’s eyes and started rapping.

The numbers were codes for a secret overseas account.

After the stint at the post office, Kama had returned home to pack but not before putting two to the head of the double agent who assaulted him in the bathroom. He’d muffled the noise of the automatic with towels he picked off the hooks. There’d been a knock on his door shortly after he arrived home. Two men guns pointed at his chest when he opened the door. That’s how he came to be in this torture chamber. But these men were yet ignorant of what he knew especially, the number combinations. Whoever was running the show had kept that part of the deal to himself.

The door opened and a man stepped inside. Kama feigned dead. He moved to where Kama was strapped to the metal chair and started pulling off Kama’s chains. He was gulping mouthfuls of air. Tired out from digging my grave, Kama thought. All the better. As the last of his shackles clattered to the floor, Kama reached for the agent’s side arm on his left hip. He came up empty. The agent who thought Kama was unconscious broke his paralysis when he saw him move and reached for his right hip. Damn, he’s a leftie, Kama thought as he lifted the metal chair that had been his prison earlier. It was heavy and ought to get the job done.

                The agent was fast but Kama was faster. He fired at Kama but the bullet went wide. Kama’s vision was adapted to the darkness and he used it. He ducked right and brought the chair down hard on the side of the agent’s head. It whipped him across the face. There was a faint crack as the man’s skull caved in. He fell in a heap to the floor.

Kama grabbed his gun and trained it at the body crumpled on the floor but it was the last anybody would ever hear from the agent. Ciao, world, I’m gone to that great unemployment office in the sky.

He fetched his clothes on a table at a corner of the torture room, strapped it on and walked away into the sun. The agency would get whiff of him eventually. The story of how former top secret agent, Kama Jackson, code name: Mr. Massacre had his face altered through plastic surgery and ripped off the secret service.

He’d salted away close to a billion bucks in hard currency.

But before they figured what to do about him, he’d be halfway across the universe enjoying the sun on some tropical beach while some brown sugar warmed his bed.

Eneh Akpan

June 11, 2013

DAY 6: Icebox

Courtesy: punchng.com

Today’s Prompt:

Take two people who dislike each other and stick them in the backseat of a cab. What happens?

Courtesy: creativewritingprompts.com

Word Count: 2,206

No storm clouds gathered when the cloudburst ripped off the sky’s high ceiling and stripped them of alternatives. As a cab pulled up before the empty sidewalk, they were stuck with only two options; to either get their butts in or get it wet. Each climbed into the cab on the opposite side, barely aware of the other’s thereness. (Correction, in their hurry, both men registered company, but none knew for a fact, who he was trucking with.)

They both chanted “Hi” but when their eyes met, the temperature inside the cab plummeted below sub zero.

                The chill ran like a single thread through seamless tapestry and ate up the warmth until the air inside the cab crackled. The mismatched company was like the weather in The Odyssey; they hauled a climate change in the car, but it was not rain. A painter and a gentleman of the bar had managed to churn out a blizzard inside a taxi.

The cab bucked down the street, its headlights beaming full blast into oncoming windshields, garnering furious honks from passing vehicles. The cab picked a tremble as thunder walked and talked. Inside, Lionel Richie sang Stuck On You through the speakers. Josh Akam (/arkham/), the painter and Reuben Idem (/he them/), the advocate sat in dead silence.

                “It’s a real gullywasher and I ain’t heard zilch from the weather forecaster and I been on the radio all day. Where is anybody when you need them?” said the cabbie, wiping the windshield with a towel. He turned around briefly and studied his passengers sitting like ice statues each staring out at the storm on his side of the window. “People, is it cold in here or is it just me?” Silence. “Tsk.” The cabbie turned around and observed he was headed for a bump in the road. He veered to the right but the cab was going too fast. The impact chucked the vehicle into the air and yanked the passengers out of their seats into each other’s arms.

                “Get your hands off me, fool,” said Akam, shoving the lawyer away.

                “Easy on the suit, Picasso,” said Idem, brushing imaginary dust off his suit.

                “Ain’t we just the 3-piece combo of the moment,” said the cabbie, keeping his eyes on the road for a change.

                “Bet, you left your posh SUV back home to stand guard over your land, ugh?” said Akam.

                “And your overrated wagon’s sitting in your garage just in case my SUV trespasses on your property.”

                “Funny, I don’t recall the last time my home was completely empty.”

                “Oh, I forgot,” said Idem, a smirk ran the stretch of his chubby face. “Mr. Freakazoid has a dog.”

                “And a wife,” said Akam. “Don’t you forget that; and a wife.” Then he added. “Unlike some people I know.”

                “Is that so?” said Idem, facing Akam square in the face. “Correct me, if I’m wide of the mark, which I’m usually not when I get on your pitiful case; I used to think your wife and dog was one and the same?”

The cabbie had an ear pasted to the backseat. He’d pictured a scenario where the dispute fell flat and this mobile court disintegrated into a whirlpool of confused madness.

                “Now that I think about it, you two never mentioned where you were going. Not that I recall though.”

                “Shut up and drive,” the Accuser and the Advocate yelled. The cabbie couldn’t help wondering if it was a rehashed job.

                “Thought you’d like to know,” the cabbie said. “In a few minutes, this road’s gonna give on an intersection. What’s it gonna be? Right, left, or drive on through?”

                “Drive right through.” Again in almost perfect unison.

                “Then you won’t mind if I took a detour. It’s the safest short cut around town. And mind the glass, it’s breakable, you know?” The cabbie whose name you don’t really wanna know took quick peek at his passengers and…

                “Watch the road! Watch the road you fool, are you trying to get us both killed?”

                “Damn, such attitude from men who can’t wait to tear each other apart,” said the cabbie. “Tsk, tsk, tsk.”

The cab ducked between two tall buildings and went bumping along a dirt road.

                “So much for your safest short cut,” Idem, the Advocate said, as the cab dive-bombed a depression, rattling his teeth.

                “By the way,” Akam, the painter-turned-Accuser said, not yet over the fight. “It’s not escaped my notice the way you’ve been gloating over my wife, recently. Doesn’t that qualify you as a sex-crazed maniac? I keep thinking I might return home someday and find you bust into my home and violated her.”

                “You’re a veritable source of pain, has anybody ever told you that? Quit the name-calling, I don’t wanna fight you…”

                “Fight me? I won the case remember? The land’s mine already. That’s the reason you been bitching every damn time you saw me. Even the flowers on your side of the land are graying. I bet they hate your freaking guts, too.”

Reuben Idem glanced out his side of the window at people scurrying about in the rain. He seemed worn-out from arguing. The cabbie heaved a sigh of relief. All was peaceful and the fight could have taken place eons ago. Lionel Richie’s voice poured through the speakers singing Sail On.

“Let me get something straight, Dali.” Idem pulled off his suit and laid it over his lap, stroking it like a pet. “I wanna know how it feels to live on another man’s property. To throw a foulmouthed lie in court, like you did, and win over some guy’s family land and occupy same with the helpless owner standing by? Cause if I had my way, you’d be as homeless as those people on the sidewalk.”

                “Oh boy, you gotta be kidding me.” The cabbie pulled a face. “Ladies, ladies, you end this right now and the cab fares on the house. This mobile court of law is hereby adjourned.” He slammed his fist against the dashboard and knocked over some CDs.

Akam was massaging his neck when Idem addressed him. He winced as if he had been dealt a blow below the belt.

                “If you want a war why don’t you go pick on somebody your size? I won the lawsuit because I am the legal owner of the land.”

                “Naw. The way I remember it you won cause your father who passed ownership to you was a townsman, while my unfortunate father was an outsider who happened to own a land here.”

                “What!” The cabbie pumped the brakes and sent his passengers flying out of their seats. “Ain’t that a bitch? I’ll take it anyway I get it, bro. If I was from out of town and I owned a place to hang my hat and park my car in some strange town, I’ll go with it. 100%.”

                “You don’t have to break every bone in my body to make your point, you know,” Idem said.

Akam grunted. “Easy on the pedals, cabbie. I got family waiting for me.” He turned to Idem. “You are the lawyer so tell me what part of the law places a local above an outsider?”

                “There’s no law in this part of the country. All they got is a bunch of clowns in costumes and an excuse for a judicial system. They all run jungle justice around here. It’s only a matter of time before the government get wind of these fools and run ‘em out of court, literally. And you, where will that leave your sorry butt and your dime a dozen paintings? And let’s not leave the dog out of this.”

Akam and Idem both owned houses by the lake. The houses once belonged to their fathers who had erected no walls to mark the boundary of their properties. The idea for a wall was Idem’s who wanted some privacy as he called it. The men got into a dispute about ancient landmarks, which was settled in court. Akam won the lawsuit and Idem screamed foul play up and down the aisle. Of course, he vowed to appeal and challenge the court order.

                Ever since the lawsuit, the men have been on non-speaking terms. If Akam’s wife Ada saw these two in the same cab, she would shit a brick.

Idem lived alone, well, not exactly, ‘he lived with his jeep and gadgets’ as Akam’s wife loved to explain it. Idem’s car had developed a glitch just around the corner where he bumped into Akam and a few moments before the downpour. He left it at the mechanic’s. Akam on the other hand, was out sightseeing. He loved taking long walks to inspire his muse. Akam had a wife, a boy and a dog.

                Fate used these circumstances to stick two sworn enemies in the backseat of a cab.

Akam sat ramrod straight as if someone had run a current of electricity through his side of the seat. “You know what, I’m peeved about you dragging my wife into this bull.”

The cab slowed to a crawl. I Can’t Make You Love Me by Boyz II Men had replaced Lionel Richie.

                “Just because she don’t let you get anywhere near her don’t make her the butt of your jokes. I’ve been really trying, doing my best to let it pass, look the other way. But you never get it, do you? And I believe the reason is pretty simple; you are the only family you got. It’s impossible for such a man to understand relationships.”

                “Nice speech for a man who doesn’t know squirt about dignity,” Idem said.

Akam points a finger in Idem’s face. “I’m not going to say this a second time, get the dang off her case.”

                “Let me guess or you’ll paint a butt naked portrait of me and present it to the people who visit at your gallery?”

                “I just might.”

                “Hey, guys, fellows. You don’t need all this drama. You guys are both respectable citizens. You really wanna fling your R-E-S-P-E-C-T out the window cause of this… this… this…” He fumbled for the right word in his mind but just before his brain could process the phrase and present it to his vocal cords, Akam lashed out at him.

                “Mind the road, cabbie. This thing’s way out of your league. This water runs deep and it’d be sad to have an innocent guy drowned in its waves.”

                “Nobody’s drowning but that bitch you left at home…”

                “Now, that’s the last straw. I’m going to punch your lights out right this minute.”

Akam threw a punch at Idem. Had Idem hesitated for one second, Akam’s fist would have detached his head from his body. But he ducked in time and the punch went over his head and straight through the window. Akam hollered as shards of glass pierced his flesh.

                “Okay. That’s it, gentlemen. This claptrap goes so far. We gonna have a little talk and if we can’t get a neutral ground, your silly butts can hail a cab.”

That did it. It was the end of the fight. The cabbie swerved into the curb and administered first aid.

And surprise, surprise, Idem helped Akam into the backseat of the cab then, shut the door quietly. He went around and hopped in on his side mindful of fragments of glass. The cabbie handed him polythene to hold over the busted window and keep out the rain.

The cabbie turned the ignition, put the car in gear and hit the road again.

After some moments of awkward silence, Idem shattered the melting ice.

                “Can I tell you a story, Akam?” Idem turned to Akam who had his eyes closed. “Do you want to know why I picked on your wife every time we got into a fight?”

                “Man, you really think it’s wise to bring that stuff up at this moment? You got a spiritual problem or what?” The cabbie was openly furious. “Take a look at the man. He’s had it.”

Idem continued. “I mean, seriously. I’m not trying to pick a fight, I’m happy to be alive right now.”

                “Okay.” Brown sighed. He didn’t open his eyes. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

                “She dumped my ass for you. I’m amazed she never mentioned it to you. She wasn’t one to keep a secret.”

                “Now that’s some crazy ass shit. All this for the love of woman?” The cabbie turned to Akam. “I bet when she dump your ass too, she gone get out there and sing, ‘What’s Love Got To Do With It?’”

Akam with a grin spread across his face was the first to see it and screamed. “Watch the road, stupid.”

The cabbie spun around but there was nothing to watch out for anymore. The cab was over the sidewalk and knocking down a lamppost. They all scrambled out as the post dropped on the roof of the car creating a bad dent.

The storm had piped down to a sprinkle. The cabbie walked up to his cab and assessed the damage. The CD player was still in business and Boyz II Men was performing End of the Road.

                “This crazy mother is adjourned,” he said.

Eneh Akpan

June 6, 2013

DAY 2: Plague House

African Pear Tree with Fruit. Courtesy: gibex.com

Today’s Prompt:

You put your house on the market and, on the first day, an extremely old woman comes knocking on your door. She’s not interested in buying your house, though. Instead, she tells you that this is the house she lived in as a child. The friendly mood suddenly changes when she reveals something terrible that took place in the house years ago.

Courtesy: writersdigest.com

Word Count: 2,721

                “You got a fine house up for sale, young chap, I tell you,” said the old lady walking the stoop towards Abrams.

Abrams had put his house on the market and this old woman was the first one up to come knocking on his doors. Already, Abrams had started hating her guts. And chances of her making a bid for the house was next to nothing. Don’t get your hopes up, dude, he thought to himself.

                “Come on,” she said, as she reached the landing. “Let’s have a look around. No hesitating.”

                “My pleasure,” Abram said as he slid left to allow his very unwanted guest access to his apartment.

                “Have I introduced myself? I’m sorry, how rude of me. I’m Elizabeth,” she gave him what was probably a smile.

To Abrams, it was a grimace. And he had an idea she’d been old when the Children of Israel were still going in circles in the wilderness. The old woman, Elizabeth, was still talking.

                “This is a perfect place for a bachelor or a couple of young men your age who decide to stick together but not for a family. And the size of the family has got nothing to do with it.”

                If Abrams heard her comment, he didn’t show it. He shrugged off the speech, the last part in particular. In his mind, he got a Tippex and blotted out that line completely. “Do you want me to give you a tour of the building? I know, it’s a little on the expansive side and might tire you out easily. But you can take quick breaks between section tours.”

                “Do not wear yourself out, young man. Really, that would not be necessary. I can find my way around this entire house in pitch darkness,” said the old crone.

Abrams presumed Elizabeth’s statement was the ranting of a senile woman. Possibly, talk induced by loss of memory, which is a natural symptom of old age. Yet, intuition prompted him to ask, “I presume you’ve been here before. Probably, visiting with the previous owners?”

“Boy, this apartment has been up before both your parents were boy and girl. Why, I grew up in this place. Sure, a lot of renovation and innovation has gone down here; much of the original fittings, which for your time are outdated, have been thrown out. Ultra modern house wares have replaced the archaic but I’ll bet my graying hairs that the room positions are pretty much the same.”

Abrams pulled out a mental script and struck out the phrase, ‘Potential customer.’ He replaced it with ‘An unlikely customer.’ He figured since this was his very first customer after he put up the For Sale sign that day, this was going to be a long day. “Ma’am, I’m really sorry but I got a house to sell. I believe you won’t mind dropping by some other time for a little chit-chat on housekeeping.”

                “You were expecting someone?”

                “I do expect folks with a taste for class to see the sign,” Abrams tipped his thumb toward where he believed the sign he posted might be. “And come asking for the owner of the house. Me.” He tried to keep his voice rid of aggression and succeeded.

But the old hag would not be denied the opportunity to revel in old times.

                “Did you know my mama loved to sit under the shade of the African pear tree round back to do her needlework? And sometimes, she read a book or two. She was the Reading Housewife. Papa used to tease her with that name. I remember she used to let me sit with her under the cool shade, sometimes. How we cherished those special moments, my two younger sisters and I.”

The sternness, which had tautened the skin on the woman’s face like a pachyderm’s hide, fell apart in a smile as memories of the good old days invaded the old woman’s bosom. Her aspect was totally transformed. Abrams thought at that instant, she could’ve been accused of being pretty and such accusation wouldn’t have been farfetched.

                “May I have a look at the tree one last time if perchance its life has been spared by the forces of change? I sense that by now, if by a twist of fate, it still stands, our once lovely African pear tree would be the ghost of a memory. Time’s coarse hands must have stripped it of its beauty nevertheless, if it stands, I’d love to see it again and maybe touch it. I want to sit under the shades just one last time. Even when my legs carried my body away, my heart stayed. This is home. It’ll always be home to me.”

                “Whatever, just don’t die on me, grandma,” Abrams muttered under his breath, barely above a whisper.

Elizabeth beckoned to him. “Will you grant me this single favor?”

Abrams fetched a sigh. The emotion displayed by the earlier cheeky old woman moved Abrams to feel for her, despite himself. Whatever brought this lady back here intends to piece together the fragments of her broken life, Abrams thought. He decided he wouldn’t want to be caught dead standing in the way of progress.

                “Come on, ma’am. Let’s go see your tree.” He took the old woman by the hand and led her through his kitchen to the back of the house where the African pear tree loomed above the building, ancient and gradually shedding its leaves but far from withered. It has served its purpose as shade against the sun at high noon but if it would juggle an old lady’s memory Abrams would hang on for the ride.

                “My tree. My happy tree,” the old woman croaked and almost lunged for the tree. But all she could manage was a crawl, it was all her failing strength would permit her. She stopped a few meters shy of the trunk. She held her position for a while fixing the tree with a solemn stare like a person admiring a long lost object of affection found by a stint of chance.

Then she rushed into the tree as fast as her legs would carry her which was almost the walking pace of a healthy individual.

                “My happy tree,” Elizabeth said again, tears careening down her cheeks. “I’d hoped but I’d never dreamed I’d set eyes on you, again. Not this up, close and personal.” She stood there hugging the bark of the tree. After what looked to Abrams like an eternity, she broke the embrace and slumped into a bench wedged into the ground under the scanty shade of the African pear tree. She invited Abrams to join her. “Here,” she said, patting the space next to her. “Come, sit beside me. I want to tell you a story. It’s important I say this now that the house is on the market so you don’t make the same terrible mistake my family made.”

Abrams who had expressed resentment towards the old lady the first time she walked up his stoop into his house, into his life had nothing but admiration for her. He joined Elizabeth on the bench which was made of wood and built so it went around the trunk. The wind was cool under the tree and there were no birds to ruin the moment with their chirrups.

                “It’s a long story, pardon me,” she said.

Abrams shrugged. “No worries, ma’am. I’m free most of the day, today. You couldn’t have picked a better day to tell a fine story.”

Elizabeth’s face fell and as Abrams started to wonder if it was something he did she said, “I don’t want to disappoint you, but it’s not such a fine story. Maybe, in the beginning it was. But the goodness thawed quickly like ice in an oven; things grew bleak and tragic as time moved on.” She drew in breath and when she let it out, she shook with intense emotion. “My father built this place in the early 30s. On April 14, 1940, I came into this world. I was the first of three daughters in a family of five. Papa was a tiller of soil who maintained his place on the top rung of the social ladder. Of course, he was wealthy to have afforded a place like this in that age. Mama helped on the farm sometimes but what’s the use? There were sufficient hired hands to get the job done without mama getting her hands soiled.

                “Right here where we are seated is where mama used to get her groove on when she wasn’t caught up organizing or attending socials with papa, which was quite often. My siblings, Rebecca and Monica were born on June 16, 1945. They were twins. Meet the family.

                “There are some who would say the evil was triggered by the coming of the twins, but those are just the ideas of raving lunatics.” She coughed a little and Abrams made to go get water or soda but Elizabeth gripped his wrist. “It can wait. Let me finish the story. Like I said, we were happy at first, living as one big happy family. Doing family business with the gravity of fellowship expected in a loving union. We were good together and soon came to believe tomorrow was forever.

                “I remember we used to have a maid. Awan (/her wand/) she was called, if memory serves. And she was a darling. Why is she important to this story, you wonder? Awan was the first person on the scene when Rebecca’s body was discovered drenched in blood and lying between rotting fruit.”

                Abrams shifted in his seat. “She wandered off to the farm, tried to climb a tree without adult supervision, fell off, banged her head and zonked out and the maid revived her. Please, tell me that’s the way it happened.”

                “She had been ripped to shreds by some monster. And what do you mean by adult supervision? We three girls could climb any tree efficiently, at age six. Papa made sure of that.”

Abrams felt panic claw at his lungs. His interest in the story had waned. “Elizabeth, if word of your story got outside these walls, the rebound will knock down the price on my property. There might be a need to give it over to charity.” Even though Abrams was beginning to like Elizabeth why, he even called her by her first name, he had nothing but distaste for this part of her story. He almost wished he hadn’t let her into his house but he couldn’t deny the action would have haunted him to his grave.

                “Don’t be silly. Back then, much of this vicinity belonged to my family. It was farmland. Papa would have disapproved had he seen Rebecca wander off into the plantation all by herself. No, something wicked this way came, slew her and threw her body among rotting African pears under this same tree. Papa was out on business and mama was fast asleep in her bedroom. I know because Awan walked into our room and told us to keep the noise at the minimum so we don’t wake ma up.

                “All three of us were in our bedroom playing practical jokes on one another. I think it’s why Reba as we used to call her said she was going to play outside. I should have stopped her and made her stay indoors with us but I did not. I feel responsible in part for her death. It’s the cross I’ve borne with me through the years.”

                “Elizabeth, it wasn’t your fault. You can’t torment the old woman you became for what was only a figment of a little girl’s imagination. You were girls. Even adults make mistakes you ought to know that.”

                “Still. She was under my care.”

                “The maid was home. She was much older. She did nothing to stop your sister.”

                “I let her down. I let ‘em both down.”

Concern for the old woman creased Abrams brow. “You shouldn’t talk like that. You’re frail, you shouldn’t upset yourself for no reason. You know what? Why don’t you think of the priceless moments you spent here with your mom while I fix you a cool glass of orangeade? No? Why the hell not?”

Elizabeth was slowly shaking her head.

                “I need you to hear my story. It’s important that you hear me out. If I’m going to tell it then I must tell it all.”

Abrams had stood up to go get the juice. He filled up his spot again. “Okay, Elizabeth. But you gotta quit hurting yourself over childish misgivings.”

                “I’ll try and remember that.” She smiled and to Abrams it was the best thing to happen to him in a long time.

                “Did they ever catch the devil responsible for the crime?”

Elizabeth glared at him and he felt like an ant under a glass. “Where have you been all your life? Haven’t you been listening to my story? Like papa used to say, You can’t hit ‘em if you can’t see ‘em. The only lead, which was no lead, the investigators had was the palm frond they found beside Reba’s body. But hell, this was an oil palm plantation, palm fronds were literally everywhere.” She waved her arms over her head like a drowning man would flail in a river.

“Monica turned up dead a week after Reba’s body was found down here. She died in the bathroom and yes, palm frond was found beside her body. Her eyes bulged in their sockets, her mouth agape like somebody who had died from shock of coming face to face with their worst nightmare. A day after this incident, papa shipped me off to my aunt’s place. Dad was beginning to suspect his rivals trying to intimidate him and run him out of business.

“All was calm on the farm after that. Several months later, Awan visited my aunt’s place to break the news of my parent’s demise. They both passed on in their sleep. By noon, when any of them was yet to come out of the bedroom, Awan had gone in to check up on them. The first thing she noticed was the palm frond placed neatly beside each body. She knew before she called out to any of them. She knew the truth.”

                “What did the doctors say?”

                “You mean, besides ‘died peacefully in their sleep?’ By then, it was no longer a secret that something was picking people off on Patrick Farm. The reports stated ‘extreme shock’ as cause of death.”

                “What do you think was the cause of death, Elizabeth?” Abrams said. To his surprise, the old woman laughed.

                “I never accepted the medical reports and I couldn’t care less. During the years I was growing up with my aunt, I came back to this town frequently. But I never set foot within the walls of this house until today. This place was dead to me. I mingled with the townsfolk, and I heard rumors.

“The deaths did not start with my family and I know of at least, one family that lived here in recent times after the farmland has been taken over by state-of-the-art housing schemes.”

                “I heard the story, too,” Abrams said. “There was nothing supernatural about their deaths. The gas tank they were using to barbecue out here exploded. The ensuing furnace gutted the entire household. It was an accident, that’s all.”

                “Did any one mention the fresh, unsinged palm frond which appeared mysteriously beside each roasted corpse?” Abrams was stunned but said nothing.

“Every time a complete family–husband, wife and children took residence on this piece of land, they died off one by one. I am the only surviving member of any family that’s ever lived here.

                “Four.” Elizabeth demonstrated with her fingers. “Four innocent families have fallen at the feet of the unseen murderer that stalks this land. I believe it’s a cursed place for families. You are one of several single folks who have lived here and not taste tragedy’s dish. Something here does not have much respect for family maybe, because it was deprived of its loved ones in its lifetime.”

The next morning Abrams slipped out of the house and wrote under the For Sale sign, Buyer must be a long-term bachelor.

Eneh Akpan

June 2, 2013