“Empty. Damn dopehead thief.”
Everyone made faces. The place stunk.
“Where to now? He has to be somewhere.”
Everyone looked at the deserted road.
“Yes, we should do something.”
Everyone looked at the elderly woman, standing at the back, knitting.
“This is no time to be knitting, lady.”
“I know where he is.”
“At my home. I’m helping him. And no one, I mean no one, will touch him. He’s trying.”
“Well, why did you come along in the search party then?”
“Because I like to keep an eye on overly enthusiastic people, let’s say!”
“Just a little prick!” She said, rolling up my shirt sleeve.
“There’s no need to get personal!” I responded, giving her a mischievous wink.
The sour expression on her face told me that my not-so-subtle attempt at humour was not appreciated.
She slid the needle into my arm, depressed the plunger, withdrew and swabbed the spot. It was all over in seconds.
“All done” she exclaimed, and I stood up, pulled my jacket back on and walked towards the door.
As I stepped out into the corridor, she called out behind me…
“You’ve got a cute butt, though!”
They say if you play Stairway to Heaven backwards it has Satanic messages. I tried it with my old stereo, but I didn’t hear anything. Same thing with Another One Bites the Dust. I played all the Beatles albums, Pink Floyd and Black Oak Arkansas. There was nothing recognizable.
Thinking my record needle might be getting old I taped a penny to the top of the arm. I went back through all the records again but still there were no hidden messages. I put on an old Rick Astley album and started turning it in reverse. My mind was blown.
My trade is rather niche: I’m a specialist, one of a kind really, and those who need my services appreciate my eye for detail.
So, what exactly is it that I do?
I dispose of weapons. Weapons used in the course of criminal activity.
I don’t just dump them, I like my methods to have an ironic twist.
Like the piano wire garrotte that I fashioned into a necklace, for example.
My latest is my favourite – A hypodermic needle, used to poison a farmer…
So, how did I dispose of it?
I threw it into one of his haystacks!
After stopping at the real estate agent to get the key, which Billbert thought looked like something George Washington probably used, they pulled up in front of the house.
“Here’s our new home,” Mr. Blanketmaker said with all the enthusiam of a game show host.
“New, Dad?” Billbert asked. “It looks haunted. How old is this place?”
“It was brand new in 1888,” his father laughed. “Come on, Son. It’s got character. Linoliamanda would love it.”
“Don’t needle your son, Hosmer,” his mother said.
Looking at the weatherworn house, Billbert thought his father probably was right. Linoliamanda would love it.
The Red Pill and the Truth
It’s amazing all the stuff ‘They’ don’t want us to know. But I know the Red Pill is available on YouTube. Take this Wuhan Flu and the so-called vaccines. I learned that the Chinese created the virus, and Bill Gates is using their 5G to make tracking chips small enough to fit through the vaccine needles to bring us all under their control. Now, I know people say they can’t get stuff that small, but let me tell you something, Mr. Smarty-pants: I’ve seen ‘Fantastic Voyage’. They shrunk a whole submarine and crew that small. And that was in 1966.
Seattle’s still sore about them stealing the name, but what else could you call the mile-high obelisk that launches the hyperdrive ships? We send them to every promising exoplanet we’ve discovered. The robot ships will mine the planets, and build more ships and space needles to continue the panspermia.
But we still haven’t solved the problem of sending fragile humans through hyperspace. If we can’t survive on Earth either, the endgame will be a galactic network of hyperdrive ports, and empty halls waiting to be discovered by some alien race, to marvel at the glorious beings who did these things.
Every few months, I get blood drawn for some condition or another.
The more blood, the bigger the bruise.
Sometimes, there’s not much of a bruise, and it goes away quickly.
But as I get older, the bruises stay for a week or more.
One day, I know the bruises won’t go away.
The scars. The scores.
The coughing and wheezing.
Blurry vision, bad hearing.
Stumbling around. Falling.
Waking up in a hospital bed with more needles and tubes and wires and bags of fluid and beeping things.
The only thing I’ll get from it all is bills.