Uncle John’s Bathroom Reader Presents Flush Fiction (8 page)

I lay the chef’s knife next to my butchered Coke can and sit
down next to him on the couch. I’m about to touch him on the shoulder and tell him that it will work out, that another position will come open, that tons of universities would kill to have an anthropology professor like him, that he’s the best teacher I’ve ever had. Then I remember Nancy’s point about
customer diversionary tactics.
They will say and do anything to get out of a commitment; they’ll lie right to your face and not even feel bad about it later. I stand up and go back to my card table, my cutting board, my knives.

I tell Professor Kievit that he just needs to do something that will make him happy right now. I tell him that sets begin at $295 and individual knives can be purchased separately. I take cash, check, Visa, or MasterCard.

He looks at me like a struck dog, and that makes me feel good, like I’ve done the right thing. By the time I pack up my demo kit and fold my table, I have Professor Kievit’s credit card number and he has fifteen new knives.

Siobhan Gallagher

A
nything goes at night. It first happened to me when I was walking back from the bar—they always say you should watch out for Anything because it can strike anywhere and at any time. I guess I should’ve listened.

I was knocked out and dragged several yards before regaining consciousness. Anything almost had me in the van but I managed to twist out of Anything’s grip and run away. I made it to the apartment building, leapt up the stairs, and slammed the door behind me. I slumped to the floor, breathing hard. Then I listened for footsteps—they say Anything will often trail you, find out where you live, and stalk you. Anything is a creepy bastard.

Well, I didn’t hear Anything, so I stripped down and went to bed. I’d call the police in the morning.

Except in the morning, Anything struck again.

I found my moped had been vandalized: handlebars and seat missing, gas tank empty, tires flattened, key scratches across its body. And I cursed, because who else but Anything could have done this?

I wound up taking the light-rail to work, thanks to a friend who lent me his card pass. It would be an agonizingly long trip, and this woman-man person sitting next to me needed a bath. There wasn’t even a signal, so I couldn’t call the police and make a report, or bitch to my friends what a shitty day this was turning out to be.

But of course, if Anything can go wrong, it will.

The light-rail screamed to a stop, nearly throwing us all out of our seats. The conductor came on the intercom and squawked
something, then went silent.

One woman cried out, “Did anyone hear what’s going on?”

Being the brilliant person that I am, I stood up and said, “It could be Anything!”

Everyone gasped, and one lady fainted.

I shut up and sat down, because they all gave me
that look
like I was some doomsayer. Well, someone had to say it! We all know Anything can happen, no use in denying it. But then Panic started, and if there’s one thing worse than Anything, it’s Panic.

Panic hollered, banged on the windows and doors, shoved people into one another, which in turn caused people to shove people into people. And, of course, I was pressed against the wall by the smelly she-male and almost gagged. Fortunately, someone managed to get the doors open and we all poured out—though I was mostly dragged out by the wave of human hysteria.

I ran the next ten blocks to work and arrived at the office in a disheveled, sweaty state. The bossman’s secretary asked for a reason for my tardiness in a tone that matched my school teachers.

“I can’t discuss Anything,” I said.

Her little mouth popped open and eyes grew large. “Did Anything happen to you?”

“Heh, yeah, last night.”

“Oh my. Have you told the police?”

“Well, I was going to…” I patted my pockets—dammit! Where’s my phone? I looked to her. “Mind if I—”

“I’m sorry, but it’s company minutes.” She cradled the phone receiver close to her chest.

I sighed and did a half-turn. “All right. I just hope Anything doesn’t happen to your grandmother.”

The phone receiver clattered onto her desk. “
Don’t
say that!” She quickly composed herself. “The police station isn’t too far from here.
Go report it.
I’ll tell Mr. Ren that you called in sick.”

“Thank ya, thank ya.” I nodded and rushed out.

I walked across the street and up a few blocks to the station, which was overflowing with aliens. Not an ideal place by any means. And it was hours before I managed to get a hold of the police chief—literally, by grabbing him around the waist.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” he growled.

“It’s Anything!”

His face drained of color and he walked over to a window, and stared aimlessly out it. “I lost five good men to Anything.”

“Did—did they die?”

“What? No, they quit the force. Anything will do that to a man.”

“Can Anything be undone?”

He shook his head. “Not that I know of.”

That was that. I went him home and decided to start that memoir that I always wanted to write but never got around to. But as I started typing it, I had a feeling that sunk and kept sinking.

I was being watched.

“Dammit, I can’t work if Anything is looking over my shoulder,” I said out loud.

Anything was on my balcony, staring through the glass door. My heart and I jumped. But I had beaten Anything before and I could beat Anything again—at least that’s what I told myself. Self-therapy helps, you know.

I shook my fist at the glass door. “Anything, whatever you want, you can’t have it.”

But Anything is a stubborn thing and stayed put. I threatened to use the gun-I-don’t-have, but Anything still wouldn’t budge.

The lights went out. That’s what I get for not paying the electricity bill on time. Glass shattered. Pain sprinted up my leg. Putting two and two together, I realized I had just stepped on my disco ball.

I tripped and fell.

And that’s the last thing I remembered before waking up the next day. The entire apartment had been ransacked, but
I’m not sure if Anything had anything to do with it. Probably did, that bastard. Since my place looked like hell, and being the only person to survive Anything, I took the day off to clean up. Though I ended up working on that memoir that I usually never get around to. At least
now
I have something worthwhile to say.

Seems you can die from a lot of things, but not from too much of Anything.

Charles N. Beecham

I
guess the first tragedy in my life came the day that Cricket got run over. I cried for a week. Dad put her in a wood box and buried her in the backyard. I didn’t think any dog could take the place of Cricket. Then one day a Boston bulldog came to our house and just kind of stayed. One day a man walked by and told my dad that the name of our dog was Jiggs. “Everyone knows Jiggs,” he said. “He kills cats, you know.”

It wasn’t long after that when some woman knocked on our door and announced that our dog had killed her cat.

Jiggs was a dedicated cat killer. His execution style was quick and clean, in that his victims never suffered. He grabbed each one by the neck and with a short whipping action snapped their neck! Then he would calmly walk away.

We moved to another house while I was in kindergarten. The people who formerly lived there had a kid named B.M., and he was about the meanest kid who ever lived. He left a poor wretch of a cat behind—his tail had been cut off, and he had burn spots all over his body. We named him Bob, although my dad said that we shouldn’t get too attached as he wouldn’t have long after Jiggs discovered him.

One night we awakened to the worst racket. Every dog and cat sound known to zoological science and some new sounds were emitted:
Grrr! Fssst! Wowellll!
And then it was quiet. My dad said that he had better get the shovel in the morning and lay Bob to rest.

The next morning Bob was at the back door waiting for food. That’s the last we saw of Jiggs.

Desmond Warzel

S
o I go up to Dutch in the hotel bar after the show and tell him I want to lose the title, ASAP.

Naturally he thinks I’m joking and turns back to the double vodka he just ordered. Sure, a wrestling title’s just a prop in a TV storyline, but it’s still an honor. The equivalent of star billing.

“I’m not kidding, Dutch,” I insist. “I saw Ricky yesterday.”

He isn’t amused. “Ricky” is Rick King, the highest-drawing world champ in company history until he disappeared six months ago. After an appropriate mourning period, Dutch slapped together a tournament, the Rick King Memorial Tournament, and put the belt on me. Killer ratings, too. I could never draw the crowds Ricky did, but Dutch figured I’d do until he could build up a credible challenger to beat me.

Dutch doesn’t like me making jokes about Ricky.

“He showed up in my hotel room,” I explain, feeling like the dumbest guy ever bred. Dutch thinks I’m on something, and he is
pissed
, because one of the reasons he trusted me with the belt was my pristine, scandal-proof bloodstream.

“I’m not looking forward to elaborating on this, Dutch, so promise me you’ll hear me out.” I take a deep breath and blurt it out.

“Ricky told me he was kidnapped by aliens.” Dutch doesn’t even twitch an eyelid, just keeps shooting me that toxic glare of his. “He figured it out right away. It was partly the instantaneous teleportation, partly the stark-white prison cell he found himself in, but mostly it was the detainees filling the opposite bank
of cells, specifically, their unusual quantities of limbs and their violations of radial and bilateral symmetry.

“Well, that’s how he put it. You know, he’s a Yale man.

“Anyway, Ricky noticed two things. First, every so often, guards, no better-looking than the inmates, came and took away two prisoners, and, shortly thereafter, brought one of them back. Second, one, and only one, of his possessions had accompanied him: the championship belt. That’s why it wasn’t with the rest of his stuff, Dutch. Ricky added these circumstances up and realized that what he’d thought was the humming of engines was really crowd noise, filtered through countless layers of, well, whatever UFO bulkheads are made of.

“Ricky studied the occupants of the other cells and noticed that, diabolical as they appeared, each was hideous in its own way. He figured it must be one being per planet, and he was Earth’s representative. It made sense when he considered the years of TV signals that had radiated into space, all showing him besting his foes and wearing that gold belt embossed with WORLD HEAVYWEIGHT WRESTLING CHAMPION. The only part that strained credulity was that intelligent beings had apparently thought our storylines and match choreography were legit.

“Don’t look at me that way, Dutch, that’s what he said.

“Well, when the guards finally came for him, he tried to explain, but they either couldn’t understand him or didn’t care. They shoved him out into an enormous arena whose floor and walls were already stained with blood of every hue. Big video screens everywhere, and seemingly infinite grandstands receding up into the dark, filled with all kinds of aliens raising all kinds of hell. Weird-looking cameras every ten feet.

“Ricky had observed the winners living to fight another day. The fate of the losers remained a mystery. Ricky’s a logical guy, and he saw one logical course of action: fight to win.

“And he did. They stuck him in there against some blue, shaggy, yeti-looking character, and Ricky wore himself out beating on the guy, looking for a vulnerable spot. He finally got in a lucky genital shot, and it was nowhere near where you’d expect.

“Afterward, he sat in his cell, nursing his wounds, and concluded that the straightforward approach couldn’t work forever. He regarded the menagerie in the other cells, each creature a distinctive product of its native environment. Ricky’s only chance was to exploit what made him unique. His potential opponents sported all manner of natural weapons: horns, spikes, tentacles, fangs. But only Ricky possessed an Ivy League biology degree.