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Known to his always changing apartment neighbors as "that weirdo who always sits outside on the porch and reads", Kevin will read just about anything except horror. Some of his short stories have appeared in print in such magazines as Lynx Eye, Show and Tell, and Starblade, among others. In his spare time when he isn't fooling with his short stories, Kevin is still plugging away at his first novel--a mystery. Kevin also likes walks on the beach, sunsets, fishing and, like any beauty contestant, longs for world peace and an end to poverty and disease everywhere. He also is annoyed that the movie vision promise of "2001: A Space Odyssey" never came about. While wanting permanent moon bases immediately, he will settle for chocolate and hold it just right so that it sorta looks like The Monolith. Justice by Kevin R. Tipple "If I see one more of those damn roaches wandering across the floor, I’m going to puke." Steve shifted on the couch, wiping his hand on his torn jeans. Red sauce smeared into the fabric and joined other colors already there, making the newest addition indistinguishable from the rest. "This is true, Tom. The situation is simply appalling." Regardless of his appearance, Steve’s language steadily improved as he consumed more beer. It was a phenomenon that occurred usually by the second football game on Sunday. However, his other habits deteriorated just as predictably. He tossed the mostly empty pizza box onto the floor. Steve stood. "Want another beer?" Tom set his paper plate full of crusts on the floor next to the ripped recliner. He shifted back and another piece of stuffing slipped out. It drifted to the floor. One of the roaches shot across to investigate the offering plate. The box was already too crowded. The halftime scores appeared and Tom muted the TV. He didn’t need the expertise of a bunch of old fools who used to play the game. Maybe Cosell never did, but at least he was interesting. The banging started again from below. Furniture crashed. Somebody really needed to put that old man out of his misery. Stupid fool. Steve stepped across the floor debris carrying the two beers. Little globs of foam slid down the slick sides of the wet bottles and dropped to the floor. One could almost tell what it was hitting on the floor by the way it sounded. Wet, smacking sounds were okay, as that was splashing on paper of some type. If it hit silently, that could be a problem. "We simply must clean our abode." After his grand statement, Steve swung his feet up onto the coffee table. Newspapers and fast food wrappers fell to the floor. The roaches didn’t move at all. They sat content in a beer-and-pizza fog. The banging ceased from below and all was quiet. A roach skittered across paper somewhere, and then all was quiet again. "What we really need is a dog. Or better yet, one of those sheepdogs." Steve turned from the latest beer commercial and glanced at Tom. Secure in the knowledge that the twins were never going to provocatively strut into his life, Steve nodded. That was all the encouragement Tom needed. "You know––a sheepdog. I saw one on a cable channel. It has two heads, because it is half dog, half sheep." They both laughed. When Steve finally came up for air, the pounding resumed from below. "There is no such thing." "Steve, there is, I saw it on TV. It has a dog head, and a sheep head, all on the same body. That way, the dog will eat the scraps and the sheep side will eat the paper. Everything else goes out the window." Tom began to convulse with laughter. The banging from below got louder. "The only thing is, we would have to buy a shovel." Steve began to laugh really hard. "Why? It’s half dog, isn’t it?" He started to choke as he laughed. "Problem solved." The cheerleaders came on to start the third quarter and Tom turned up the sound. These were some hot, hot women working their way to movie and stage careers. *** Old man Henry glanced up at the ceiling. The television roared through for the last time. Every Sunday it was the same stupid situation and he had complained to no avail. Now, as the punks knew him, old man Henry was glad the regularity. His preparations were nearly done and the time was near. The canisters were almost everywhere and he was ready. All the sentimental stuff had been moved out weeks ago. Everything that was left could burn. He turned one of the old gas burners on low and placed the last can on the floor. No need to pop its top, it would do it in a bit. He went to the door and picked up his walking stick. It wasn’t a cane; it was a walking stick, because that is what a gentleman carried. Those punks wouldn’t understand. He selected his Sunday hat and stepped outside pulling the door gently shut. Wouldn’t want a stray spark from the strike plate on the doorframe setting everything off early. It was a beautiful day. Since most of the neighbors had moved out as the area deteriorated, nobody of consequence was in danger. He strolled across the cracked pavement to the abandoned bus stop bench. The bench was all that was left in this area of promises of a regional transportation system. The world was simply going to hell in so many ways they all couldn’t be fixed. He shifted on the bench to gaze at the small bird perched on the corner of the building. Hopefully it would move, as it wouldn’t be long now. *** Steve got up to get another beer, crushing an unlucky roach into the floor. He picked it up as it struggled to live, and flipped it out the open window. Then, he spat out the window for good measure. The stationary figure dressed in a suit on the bus bench caught his eye. "Hey, old man Henry is staring up here at us. What do you suppose he wants now?" "Who cares? Flip the fool off." Steve turned back to the window and promptly flipped him off. Old man Henry stood, bowed, and lifted his hat. "Good day, gentlemen," he called as he settled back on the old bench. Steve turned away from the window as he flipped him off again. Stupid old fool used to be fun, but now he was just a boring pain. He pulled the refrigerator open as the world roared in flames around him. *** Across the street, Henry watched as flames shot out the windows and through portions of the open roof. Pieces of flaming debris landed in the yard as the area reverberated with the sound of the explosive thunderclap. As the echoes died away, the area became quiet. People began to drift out of the neighboring buildings. Sound started again as more and more people came out to gape at the carnage. Sirens wailed in the distance as he pulled out a large cigar. Henry slowly prepared it for lighting as he surveyed the scene. After all, this was definitely something to savor. He lit one end and began to puff contentedly. "Sure is a crying shame the way roaches will try to take over. The things are hard as hell to kill. You just about have to burn them out," he said to no one in particular. He puffed deeply as the first engine pulled to a squealing stop. "And good day to you, kind sirs," he yelled as the first firefighters piled off the truck. It began to pull away, laying hose to the water main on the corner. "What a positively beautiful day it is," he said as he continued to enjoy the cigar, and small clouds of smoke began to obscure the bright sun. THE END Kevin R. Tipple © 2006 |