She Ran

She ran. Into the forest, into the night, into the unknown, her legs pumped, up and down, carrying the woman further from her owner and murderer. Denied clothing during her captivity, she ran naked, desperate to delay the inevitable, to live a little longer. Finally, her body gave up and she staggered to a halt. In this part of the forest, the trees’ canopy blocked even the man in the moon from seeing her ordeal. In the gloom, she located a tree and leaned against it, panting so loudly she was sure they could her. 

As she recuperated, her wet feet seemed odd since no rain fell during her confinement. She lifted a foot and rubbed the sole with two fingers and smelled. Copper! Blood! The beating her bare feet took during her run now caused a sharp ache in both feet. 

With her heart rate approaching normal, the woman took stock of her situation. She peered back down the trail. At least she thought it was the direction she came from. In the dark, direction became relative but no flashlights pierced the night, at least not yet. She stopped to consider if they even pursued her. Why not wait until daylight to conduct the hunt?

***

Ten days earlier, a nineteen year old hooker strolled Wilson Street, four city blocks devoted to go-go bars, porn shops, a cheap hotel and whores. She shared her beat with teenage runaways, always surprised how many men like the young ones. Women of thirty looked fifty, even sixty, as drugs, beatings and just the life sapped their youth. Released from jail for the second time, with her fine paid by her body, she wistfully wished for a different life but with no education, no money, and no family left, she seemed stuck. 

Her chest vibrated from the rumble as the sound echoed off the buildings lining Wilson Street. She looked around to see a Porsche 911 glide up next to her. A large man, a handsome man, a man dressed to match his car, rolled down the window and she whistled.

“Nice ride, mister.”

“Take me around the world, sweetheart,” he said.

She hopped in, “Any place you want to go.”

She started to regain consciousness in a boat. Barely making out the name, Lake View Water Taxi, she thought he said to the driver that she just drank too much at lunch. 

***

The murderer, Burke, taunted his victim inside the lodge‘s basement, showing her the tools he planned to use, screwdrivers, saws, electric drills. Hanging from the ceiling by her wrists, the woman pleaded, cried, blubbered, and finally pissed herself. Burke roared his glee and used a strap on her back. Her captor, she never heard his name, stopped the beating, reminding Burke that they wanted her in prime condition for the hunt. He cut her down and dragged the terrified woman upstairs and slammed her against a door. An evil smile creased Burke’s face as his partner opened the door on a dimly lit room. They shoved her inside where she fell to the floor. Looking up, the captive began to scream and scream and scream.

On the wall, a dozen heads, human heads, female heads, all victims of the hunt, stared at her. At first, she couldn’t look but shortly she could not look away. The faces all wore the same frozen look, not of dread, not of fear, not of pain, but pleading, probably for mercy that did not come. Burke knelt next to her and dangled the hacksaw from his index finger.

“Relax, bitch Your time is almost up.”

The night of her escape, she wriggled and struggled against the knots holding her hands together. Surprised and slightly encouraged when her left wrist moved a bit, she contorted the index finger on her other hand until it found the knot. She felt indescribable joy when the binds loosened until she remembered her island prison, somewhere with no escape possible. With no boats on the island, water taxis brought food and supplies apparently only when he phoned.  

The sadist who took her laid out a map that showed an island no more than two miles in length and a few hundred yards wide. He pointed out the only trail through the forest where she would be pursued, caught and eventually killed.

“A hundred grand! That’s what Burke is paying for you. Easy money. And a new trophy for me!” he cackled.

Once she freed her hands and feet, her gut feeling told her to flee the lodge, to put distance between herself and the men but she thought about an alternative. There must be a knife in the kitchen, a steak knife, a paring knife, a butcher knife! But these men have guns, she remembered. Even if she managed to stab one of them, the other would kill her for sure. She sat on the bed in her room and debated with herself. If she did nothing, she would die after the hunt. If she ran, they would find her, hurt her and then kill her. So she decided to at least try to live and perhaps a miracle would happen and she would kill both of them. Silently she slipped out of her room and edged towards the kitchen. She dared not turn on a light so she tip toed around the kitchen trying drawer after drawer. At length her hand closed around a handle with a serrated blade, probably a steak knife. Elation led to carelessness and the open drawer pulled out of its rails and dozens of utensil clattered to the floor.

The jailer and the killer both hit the floor and rushed towards the woman’s bedroom. She surprised them by leaping out of the dark kitchen, steak knife slashing indiscriminately. The bigger man, Burke, tripped over his own feet and sprawled on the living room floor, his gun spinning out of reach under the dinner table. The other man yelped as the woman’s knife cut deeply into his right biceps. Bleeding profusely he gripped his pistol in his left hand and fired. The shot went wild and the woman bolted out the front door and ran.

***

Leaning on the tree, she knew she hurt one of them, the guy who grabbed her, she was pretty sure. The wound certainly was not fatal, meaning that as soon as he got bandaged, the two would set out after her. Every moment she stood here meant they moved closer. In the end, she decided to take the fight to them. She would make her way back to the lodge. Maybe, just maybe, she would find a gun. Not likely, but a hope. Maybe she could find a phone or a radio and call the mainland, wherever that was. Her challenge, getting there. Clearly, she could not backtrack up the trail. The rough, the unmarked, wild section of woods leading to the western shoreline beckoned to her as the only choice.

Fearful that the men would see her bloody footprints on the trail, the would-be prey brushed dirt on her tracks as she crossed to the opposite side where the wicked and forbidding trees, shrubs, rocks, insects and small animals loomed. Glancing up the trail once again and seeing nothing but black, she stepped into the unseeable. 

According to the man’s map, the coast lay a mere hundred yards away. Anyone could hike that far, even exhausted, even in the dark, even naked, even with bloody, aching feet. Frightened by the sounds of scurrying animals and eaten alive by mosquitoes, the girl persisted, placing one bleeding foot in front of the other, just once more step and she would make it, she said to herself. Weariness depleted her strength, even youth has a limit. Slumping on a tree trunk she slipped into a sitting position and closed her eyes. Videos of her dead family and friends played on her closed eyelids. At first amused, then appalled, at how few would miss her, she shed a tear.

The screech of a nearby animal roused her. She battled to see but the darkness of the nighttime forest defeated her. She knew if she stayed in the forest, she would die. She knew if she managed to reach the lodge she would probably die anyway. She willed herself upright and took a step into the lake. Initially, the cool water soothed her burning feet but the lodge remained hundreds of yards up the shoreline.

She waded into the cold lake water and took a few tentative steps. The rocky bottom dug into her torn feet forcing a loud moan from her lips. She literally bit her tongue. Light was her enemy and so was sound. The shore offered small comfort but she silently trudged northward. With tears of pain running down her face, the woman looked for another tree to rest and then, with a quick break in the cloud cover, she glimpsed the stern of a boat.

“A boat!” she rejoiced and, caution be damned, she clambered over a dead tree laying partially in the water. She didn’t care whether it had a motor, oars or a paddle. If she could shove it off, she’d be content to drift until some fisherman or sport boater found her. She carefully wrestled the rotting rowboat out of the muck and onto the shore. The night drew black again so she felt all around the small vessel for an oar or paddle. Finding none, she shrugged and shoved her salvation into the lake where it abruptly sank. Cursing her awful run of luck, she expended huge amounts of energy lugging the boat back onto the beach. She stepped into the craft and felt the bottom and found a giant hole amidships. Somehow, she stifled a howl of fury and fought back the tears. Having no options, she resumed her trek towards the lodge.

A brilliantly lit deck, that encircled the entire building, greeted her. When she emerged from the shrubs, her first impulse was to run up the steps and get inside but common sense prevailed and she crouched behind a scrub pine tree and watched. She still didn’t know for sure if anyone pursued. With no way to tell time, she surveilled the building for what seemed like fifteen minutes or so. Then, driven by incredible tiredness and pain, she picked up a rock to use on the glass door and charged the stairs. The two goons left the place unlocked so she tossed the stone away and dashed to the bathroom.

Drawing a warm bath and letting out a deep sigh, she immersed her ruined feet in the water. Finding tweezers in a drawer, she pulled out barbs and scrapped off small stones embedded between her toes. Shortly her instinct to live overcame the small comfort of the tub. She found wool socks that she pulled on and a man’s extra large shirt that fit her like a baggy dress. She could not bring herself to put on the underwear she found. She located the basement and killed the deck and house lights at the circuit breaker box and grabbed an old flashlight and a ball of twine as she came back up with an idea beginning to take form.

The woman stood near the front door on the blackened deck unsure if she wanted to see a torch coming or not. A light meant certain death. Finding no weapons in the house, except for that pitiful steak knife, left her helpless. She considered running again but, with no place to go, her throbbing feet anchored her to the lodge. 

Then she saw it, just a flicker in the distance, but there they were, coming back for her, for her life, for her head. Disappointment, hopelessness, and dread tap danced inside her skull. Sobs of huge tears drove her to her knees where she thought about giving up, just  sitting on the stoop until the two men arrived. Would Burke still hunt her in the morning, she wondered, or would he take her to the torture chamber in the basement, or just shoot her where she sat.

Burke’s chamber! Tools, screw drivers, saws, the drill. Weapons! A germ of hope, albeit small, cleared her brain. Survival instinct kicked in and she stood and flattened herself and inched along the wall to the door and fled through the dark house to the basement stairs. Being careful of the trip wires she laid earlier, she wove a quick mesh of twine across the top of the staircase. 

She turned the knob on the door to Burke’s work area. Nothing happened. She twisted it again, same result. She swore out loud and pounded on the door in frustration at the only locked door in the house. Just then, the sound of the lodge door opening keyed her senses. She doused the basement light and thumped her flashlight on. It responded with a feeble light, enough for her to spot a box and crouch behind it. She clicked off her lamp, whispered a little prayer and waited.

She heard Burke searching inside the lodge and, not immediately finding his prey, knew he danced his maglight around the living room, around the trophy room, around the kitchen, and the bedrooms. She heard him rage at losing his victim and screamed what he planned to do to her. His light ultimately settled on the basement door. 

“Can’t be any place else,” she heard him mutter.

The door crashed open and a huge figure filled the doorway, his light shooting laser-like beams across the black cellar. He saw the twine mesh and he giggled.

“Think that string is going to stop me? You dumb cow.”

He took such glee in shredding the mesh that Burke forgot to check the steps and he stumbled on a trip wire. With nothing to hold onto, he cartwheeled and landed on his head which now lay at an odd angle to his torso. The woman breathed for the first time since Burke smashed the door but she would still be helpless when the other guy came.

He did come but not down the stairs. Rather, he broke the only window in the basement, mounted at the top of the wall, allowing in a tiny bit of moon light. She cowered in utter horror when a head, shoulder and arm came through the window. The hand held a pistol that the man started shooting aimlessly. The girl, meanwhile, scrambled away from the gunfire and felt a sharp prick on her bare arm. She fumbled in the dark for the object and her hand closed around a long stick with a sharp end.

“Oh, dear God,” she thought, “An arrow.” 

Now down on her hands and knees, in the dark, with bullets bouncing around her, she searched for the bow but when she found it, she did not have the strength to string it in the dark. It didn’t matter, Time was up. He heard her searching and fired in that direction. One of the bullets ricocheted off the floor, hit her ear lobe and drew blood. The slug slammed into the concrete wall sending chards of cement into her eyes momentarily blinding her. While she cleared the junk from her eyes, more of the man squeezed through the window exposing his entire upper body.

Quieting her raging emotions, she grasped the arrow with both hands and, standing directly beneath her captor, she shoved upwards with all her strength. The arrow punctured his belly spilling blood all over her. She twisted the arrow and pulled it out along with a length of intestines. The man swore, screamed, pleaded, as she jabbed him again and again. She hit her last target, his neck, and blood spurted onto the basement‘s floor, ceiling and walls. He gurgled for a moment and then became as still as his companion. 

She sat on the bloody cellar floor until the rising sun exposed the carnage. Burke broke his neck in the fall and the other one bled to death. She took most of the day to lug two large men, Burke massive, about twenty yards away from the lodge. She left them as carrion for the animals. 

Sleep came hard and fitful, full of dreams of heads, blood and guts. In the morning, she found her own clothes, washed up and dressed, and then she searched both bodies and every nook and cranny in the lodge but was unable to find a phone. Hers probably lay at the bottom of whatever body of water surrounded the island.

Completely drained of adrenaline, the woman sank into a lethargy, unsure of how to get off of the island. No boat, no phone, no radio. She wandered the grounds around the lodge until she came upon a large shed. She looked at the door with trepidation. What horror might be inside? More heads, bones, bodies?  Finally she decided that nothing could be worse than what she’d already been through and yanked open the door.

Inside, supplies filled the building. Toilet paper, paper towels, crates of canned food, a freezer filled with steaks, chops and chickens. Enough to last months, maybe a year. Her blood chilled. With no way to call the mainland, someone must make regular visits but how often, once per week, per month or per year? 

Dejected, she sat on the end of the dock, dangled her feet in the cold water and waited. She did not notice the rings in the post of the dock, rings large enough for a flag pole, for the flag pole in the basement with the bright red flag.

Back on the mainland, the water taxi owner and driver, aimed his telescope at the horizon, stared, and adjusted his instrument. Slowly, a small object came into focus but not a red flag. He’d try again the next day. 

Refried Beans and the Schnarley Code of Honor

Chuck Schnarley was a desperate, broken man.  Anyone traversing through Winnemucca, Nevada could hear Chuck’s desperate howls echoing across the vast expanse of the Nevada desert. His lamentations were as constant as the calls of the coyotes and the hoots of the Western Screech owls. Well, that’s not the total truth. Chuck managed to take short breaks from weeping by watching old episodes of Duck Dynasty while huffing and getting high from a whipped cream canister. 

Hey you, Sister Bertha Better-than-Thou, I see your scornful scowl. Enough with the self-righteousness! I mean, who among us hasn’t self-medicated with nitrous oxide from a pressurized canister, and binge-watched crappy TV shows after suffering the loss of the love of their life? Be better! Excuse my little outburst; now let’s turn our attention back to Chuck, shall we?

A cactus wren perched atop Chuck’s satellite dish serenaded him nonstop with a lovely song, offering hope and comfort in the midst of Chuck’s unending grief. But he responded to this bird’s soothing soliloquy by grabbing his .22 shotgun and aiming it straight at the bird’s head.

“Shut the hell up already! You sound like a damn car that won’t start!” Chuck was a terrible shot; he missed the bird entirely, mortally wounding his satellite dish instead. He sank to his knees, clutching the fragments of metal to his chest, sobbing, “No more Below Deck! My God, no more Tiger King reruns! How will I survive the loss of My Fifty Day Fiancée? My life is over, it’s seriously over!”

Chuck took a deep breath, a desperate attempt to soothe himself. He plopped down into his pink Princess Barbie Dreamhouse rocking chair. Please, no judgment. Chuck won that chair fair and square. That five-year-old brat at the thrift store put up quite a fight, but for two bucks it was worth the tussle. Being a small man, he could fit into it quite nicely. Only 5’4”, but big where it counts… in his heart, ya nasties! Get your minds out of that sewer!

Chuck slinked deeper into his rocking chair, his eyes becoming misty. “Why did you have to leave, LaWanna? And why the hell couldn’t you tell me to my face that you were running off with another man, someone with the IQ of a turnip!”

LaWanna was a cruel coward, making her intentions known with a brusque note taped to the bathroom mirror. “Goodbye, Turkey. Your gravy days are over. My attorney will be in touch. P.S. I’m taking the good toilet paper. Hope your ass gets chapped real good!”

LaWanna, who was not particularly adept at the spoken or the written word, had been listening to a slew of Jerry Reed music at the time of the breakup. So it was perfectly logical for her to plagiarize her “Dear John” letter from the lyrics of Jerry Reed’s, She Got the Goldmine I Got the Shaft.

Recalling this slight unleashed a righteous fury, catapulting Chuck right out of his Barbie rocking chair. And with both fists pumped high in the air, he shrieked, “Right on, Jerry Reed! I got the royal shaft shoved right up my…”

“Wooo! Wooo!” Oh my, what an inopportune time for a train to blow its whistle. The world may never know precisely where this royal shaft was shoved!

Chuck flopped back down into his  chair, clutching his chest. It felt like it was ripped out, marinated in bitter tears,  slow-roasted over a hickory barbecue pit and basted with rat piss.

But if losing LaWanna wasn’t heartbreaking enough, Chuck now had a broken relationship with his sister Noreen. All because Chuck vehemently refused to allow his sister to renege on a family promise, no matter how much she wept and begged. Chuck’s dogged refusal stemmed from his unwavering principles. To violate the Schnarley code of ethics—etched deeply into his very DNA like a birthmark or a hairy mole that couldn’t be removed, was unthinkable. 

His late Uncle Barney had always been Chuck’s role model and hero. On a dare, this brave soul consumed a sandwich made with three-month expired mayonnaise and moldy bologna. But a promise was a promise. Sure, Uncle Barney ended up losing a kidney, part of his liver, and had to endure a painful bowel resection after eating the rancid concoction, but that was integrity. That was the Schnarley way.

For fifteen years, Noreen had made a pledge to Chuck that he would have the distinct honor of naming her firstborn. Her only requirements were that the first and middle name had to be biblical. Noreen was a fine, upstanding Christian woman, much like their dear mother, Darlene.

Deeply touched by this tremendous honor, Chuck scoured the Bible for the most significant names, delving into the original Hebrew meaning. He consulted ancient Aramaic texts, debated etymology with a bewildered group of Hasidic scholars, and even attempted to learn Sumerian cuneiform just in case. He searched for years, endless consultations with pastors and rabbis, until he found the perfect combination.

Three months ago, Chuck’s nephew was born, a perfect twenty-one inches long and eight pounds nine ounces. With his thick crop of raven-black hair and full lips, he was a truly beautiful baby. The whole Schnarley clan gathered around Noreen’s hospital bed, the smell of Lysol and the sweet scent of new life filling the room. Their hearts collectively pounded awaiting the infant’s christening. Noreen gently handed her newborn to Chuck, a raspy sob escaping her lips.

In that moment, Chuck felt a surge of biblical gravitas that nearly buckled his knees. This wasn’t just a baby; this was his burning bush moment, his Red Sea parting. He, Chuck Schnarley, was the Moses of the Schnarley clan, divinely appointed to lead this new generation with a name that would echo through the ages. The weight of this solemn and sacred occasion weighed heavily on Chuck. He stood tall, shoulders back, head held high. All the other Schnarleys held their breath, so quiet one could almost hear the steps of an ant creeping across the floor.

Tears flowed heavy and profuse as Noreen asked with the softest of whispers, “What’s his name, Chuck?”

Chuck bent down and embraced Noreen, his eyes welling up with tears. His voice trembled like the engine of his brother’s El Camino as he answered, “His name is Moses Methuselah.”

Noreen, sounding as if she was choking on a chicken wing, gasped loudly. Eyes bulging, she shouted, “You had one job to do, Chuck… just name the damn kid and somehow you managed to screw that up!”

Chuck patted Noreen’s arm in assurance. “You can always shorten the names in an effort to modernize them a bit.”

Noreen was an angry camel, spittle flying with every word. “Oh… let’s see how that works, Chuck. The shortened version of Moses Methuselah would be Mo Meth! Mo Meth! That really sets a child up for success, doesn’t it, Chuck?!”

Noreen’s shrieks, a combination of high-pitched wails and guttural growls, reverberated through the hospital. One might have mistaken them for the demons Jesus cast into the pigs. Chuck, in an ill attempt at humor, chuckled, “Is there a priest in the house? Because it looks like someone is in dire need of an exorcism.”

That statement dumped gallons of petrol on an already out-of-control fire. Tempers flared, F-Bombs detonating left and right. Security was called and threatened them with arrest. But sweet Baby Mo Meth, slumbered peacefully through it all.

As if his troubles with Noreen weren’t enough, Chuck was soon confronted with an even more shocking revelation. His seventy-five-year-old grandmother, Sis (a tough old broad with a penchant for chain smoking and dirty jokes), had been moonlighting as a stripper at a local club, The Fox Den, or affectionately known by the community as “Herpes Haven,” or, my personal favorite, “Club Chlamydia.” Chuck had discovered this sickening reality purely by accident.

Chuck strolled into the strip joint without a care in the world. He grinned, thinking, “I bet they hired some strippers from Reno. That’s where all the hotties hail from.” Chuck ordered a whiskey neat from Sampson, the burly bartender who ushered him to a front-row seat. Here Chuck settled in, panting with excited anticipation, imagining a menagerie of beautiful women paraded before him like a smorgasbord. His feet hit the floor and stayed there,  immovable, stuck in a puddle of sticky goo. Chuck shuddered, “This damn well better be hair gel. And only hair gel.”

He nervously scanned the joint. It was dingy and dirty, a real dive. Completely empty except for two people: a rotund man clad in a stained Kiss Me I’m Irish t-shirt, who smelled like he’d been marinated in bratwurst and onions. He was trying to win his date, a seven-foot redhead squeezed into a butt-skimming gold lamé tube dress, a stuffed bear from one of those stupid crane game machines. The tall redhead, noticing Chuck’s stares, shouted with a deep, sonorous voice, “You’re in for a real treat, honey! A real treat!” Her Irish date grinned a toothless smile, “It gets less awful the more you drink.”

”The song, “ Pour Some Sugar on Me” blared through the space, Chuck’s pulse rising exponentially with every beat. But once the spotlight flared, Chuck’s excitement curdled into a cold, guttural dread. His eyes, which had been so eager for “hotties from Reno,” now betrayed him with the horrifying vision of Sis, his seventy-five-year-old grandmother, in a sequined thong and her pasties. Oh, those pasties. They did not look straight ahead. No, those pasties stared straight down at the floor, her pendulous breasts swaying back and forth, back and forth. Acid, thick and profuse, crept up Chuck’s throat. And he tried, oh how he tried to look away, but the sight of her 36 XL breasts (that’s extra long in case you were wondering) hypnotized him, his eyes tracking every single, solitary, sickening tit-swing.

She slithered toward him on the floor, her liver-spotted hands clawing in the air. “Grandma, it’s me. It’s Chuck!” But Sis could neither see nor hear Chuck’s frantic cries. She had forgotten her hearing aid that night, and cataracts made it difficult for her to see in the dark. She writhed and slithered, like a geriatric cobra, licking her lips seductively. Chuck’s body and eyes were paralyzed; he couldn’t move or avert his gaze. But the fatal blow to Chuck’s stomach arrived when Sis performed a downward-facing pretzel dog, carnivorously staring right into his eyes. The contents of the Chinese buffet, where Chuck ate earlier, erupted out of his mouth like Mount Vesuvius, coating everything and anyone within a ten-foot radius. To this day, Chuck is reduced to a quivering puddle of sobbing jelly if he even hears the opening bars of the song that dares not speak its name.

Trying to obliterate the visual trauma of his barely dressed grandmother gyrating and contorting her leathery body into unseemly positions from his brain, Chuck rocked faster in his chair, repeating over and over, “Happy thoughts, think on happy thoughts. Like the time you owned a successful restaurant.” Chuck was speaking of the Chuck Wagon, an all-you-could-eat buffet for the low, low price of only $9.99.

His customer base was predominantly the elderly, as it’s a well-known fact that one’s sense of taste is usually the first sense to go in aging adults. Lack of impulse control typically followed. His clientele was quite cantankerous. On more than one occasion, Chuck’s brother Sid had to break out the mace and blast a spray right into the faces of rioting octogenarians. Imagine flying canes and dentures, even a few broken hips. Nothing could get these sassy seniors into a fighting mood quicker than running out of banana pudding.

Fortunately, many of Chuck’s clients were quite wealthy, especially Bea Minsky. She was the eighty-seven-year-old owner and founder of Aunt Bea’s Flooring Emporium, estimated value: forty million dollars. Bea was a former beauty queen, always sporting a full face of makeup, with the shape of her eyebrows in continual flux. Usually alternating between the “horizontal woolly worm” or the “shocked Spock.”

She was a regular at the Chuck Wagon and the most generous tipper, giving at least 5%. This beautiful elderly woman would later be Chuck’s wife, the two separated in age by only fifty-five years.

As Chuck continued rocking, reminiscing on happier times, he had an epiphany. Had he not hired his ne’er-do-well younger brother Sid to be a cook at the restaurant, he would have never married Bea. Would never have experienced a life of opulence for two glorious years. Actually living the dream of being a sea captain, tooling around in Bea’s houseboat, The Coupon Clipper. He even bought a ridiculous captain’s hat, complete with a fake parrot that squawked pre-recorded phrases like, “Ships Ahoy, Matey.” Granted, what Sid did was against all bounds of human decency. However, Chuck knew he owed Sid a debt, not of gratitude for his unconventional ingredient choices when cooking, but gratitude for inadvertently launching Chuck into the gilded cage of marital bliss.

Three months after opening its doors, Chuck extended an invitation to Lloyd Layman, the redoubtable food critic of their local newspaper: The Winnemucca Web, to experience a free meal at the Chuck Wagon. Lloyd, a five-hundred-pound malcontent shut-in, enthusiastically accepted the invitation to stuff his face with gratis grub. He waddled in on Fiesta Night. Burritos, tacos, fajitas, and Sid’s specialty, refried beans, were on the menu.

The place was packed, and everyone was in high spirits, except for Chuck and Sid. The two of them had a vicious fight earlier in the day over Sid’s demand that he be allowed to take the night off so he could attend What the Truck?, Winnemucca’s biannual monster truck rally. They almost came to blows until Chuck threatened to expose that Sid had stolen their neighbors’ pet groundhog, Rocky. This loving, cuddly creature became Sid’s de facto emotional support animal and potential source of protein should the economy worsen. Sid’s jaw clenched as he sneered, “Fine. But I’m warning you, it might taste like shit.” Chuck gave a wry smile in return. “That’s nothing new, Sid. All your stuff tastes like shit.”

Chuck scurried around filling empty beverage glasses, while Sid glowered in the kitchen. Despite the palpable tension between these two titans of culinary delight, the restaurant buzzed with laughter and raucous camaraderie. Lloyd adored the beans, his quadruple chin(s) wobbling as he gripped Chuck’s arm and said, “These beans are simply fantabulous! I can’t quite place the seasoning, but it’s heady and earthy, quite delectable. I’m on my fifth bowl already! My compliments to the chef.”

Chuck’s heart swelled with pride, realizing that he was an entrepreneur. Heck, I might even be able to franchise this thing. I can see it now, a Chuck Wagon in every town.

But Chuck’s fantasy of obtaining cheap food nirvana would soon come to  collapsing ruin. Within six hours, over thirty people would be hospitalized with severe food poisoning. Bea Minsky and Lloyd Layman were among the victims. The ensuing investigation discovered that the source of the foodborne illness was the beans, of which Sid was in charge. Lab tests revealed that these refried beans were full of the dangerous E. Coli bacteria.

The police strongly suspected that Sid had, ahem, placed something awful in the beans. However, without any cameras in the kitchen, police could offer no proof that he committed a crime. Subsequently, all charges were dropped, but the damage was already done. The fallout from the food poisoning scandal was devastating. Sid fled to Wyoming with Rocky to escape further scrutiny. The Chuck Wagon shuttered its doors, and Chuck’s reputation was in tatters. Lloyd wrote a scathing review from his hospital bed, giving Chuck’s former restaurant the unfortunate moniker, The Upchuck Wagon. And as a final kick to Chuck’s dignity, Lloyd penned that eating at the Chuck Wagon was “a most shitty experience.”

And poor Chuck was riddled with guilt, so intense that he visited Bea every day of her six-week hospital stay. They played Canasta, watched old Perry Mason reruns, and sang every song recorded by The Inkspots. They’d share a Jell-O cup, bodies pressed together, gazing into each other’s eyes. During this magical time, Bea fell deeply in love with Chuck, and he in turn fell deeply in love with Bea’s money. The two married rather quickly after Bea proclaimed, “No nookie until you make an honest woman of me.” Chuck swallowed hard; he had hoped, really hoped, that his could be a “nookie-less marriage,” but old Bea was hornier than a twelve-point buck. However, the allure of spending Bea’s vast fortune weighed heavier than his repulsion over “putting out.”

They married at the courthouse after Bea’s release from the hospital. Chuck had sweat buckets the whole time imagining his wedding night as described by Bea, “an evening of unleashed lust and passion with a side of leather chaps, thong underpants and flavored body paint.” His face blanched, and he threw up a bit in his mouth when Bea whispered, “I bought some earplugs for you. I’m a real screamer, like a cougar in heat. Rawr!”

Sis served as their witness. She was honored to be included and doubly honored that Chuck had taken her advice to heart. She continually told Chuck, “Chucky, when you’re young, marry someone old, rich, and sick. But when you’re old, marry someone young, good-looking, and stupid. That way they’re too dumb to take all your moola from the first marriage. Hell, I’m on my fifth marriage. He’s thirty-four, drop-dead gorgeous, and dumb as a bag of rocks.”

Sis threw rice after the marriage was finalized, and Bea celebrated by squeezing a handful of Chuck’s…well, you know. She whispered lecherously between compresses, “Chucky’s getting lucky.” Chuck’s mind raced. Maybe I can say it got shot off in the war. Or maybe I could say I took a vow of celibacy after converting to Buddhism. Or maybe I just down half a bottle of Benadryl and a fifth of whiskey and get it over with.

His immediate terror was tempered only by the ironclad certainty of the prenuptial agreement. Chuck had ensured every clause was airtight: he would receive half of Bea’s vast fortune, provided their union lasted two years and one day. But fate, it seemed, had a cruel sense of humor. Bea passed peacefully in her sleep on their second anniversary, leaving Chuck a mere twenty-four hours short of inheriting millions. 

A bitter lump formed in Chuck’s throat, thinking of the injustice. The only thing he received from Bea’s estate was fifteen thousand dollars and custody of her three yapping yorkies: Winkin’, Blinkin’, and Nod. Meanwhile, Bea’s two ingrate sons inherited the bulk of her estate, including the Coupon Clipper.

Now Chuck lived in a cruddy, roach-infested fifth-wheeler along with three humping yorkies. His only means of transportation was Sid’s abandoned El Camino from when he absconded from the state.

“Oh, how the mighty have fallen,” he thought. Chuck was angry at Sid for his little bean stunt as it cost him the restaurant and his reputation. But his real ire was directed at Sis, as she was the one who introduced him to his now ex-wife. Chuck recalled their phone conversation that took place just two weeks after Bea’s death.

“Chucky, it’s been two weeks already. It’s way past time for you to get back in the saddle. I’ve got the perfect woman for you. She’s a dancer at The Fox Den. A real smart one too, she’s got a PhD in pole-itics. A genius even, her IQ is at least thirty-eight triple F.” A croaky cackle seasoned by decades of cigarette smoke erupted from Sis.

“I’m interested. What’s her name?”

“Oh Chucky, her name is a pretty one, and it describes her perfectly: LaWanna LaPlenty.”

After hearing this unique and very enticing name, Chuck was sold. He knew without seeing her that he had found his bed, I mean, soulmate. Their courtship was brief; just a mere two weeks after meeting, the two married. Whenever Chuck felt frisky, which was quite frequent, he’d say with a wink to his beautiful bride, “LaWanna wanna?”

However, after six months of wedded bliss, LaWanna didn’t want to wanna anymore. Around this time, Chuck noticed that Keevan, the beefy meter-reader with a 1970s porn-star mustache and the requisite cold sores that accompany said mustaches, had been coming around more than usual. A short time later, Chuck received the breakup note from LaWanna, followed by an apology note of sorts from Keevan. The IQ of a turnip had met the spelling skills of a second-grader, but they were still capable of heartbreak.

“Hi LaWanna and me are off to chase sunsetz and make some new mammaries Sorie for the mess we left you in but mayb you can tak comfurt in noing your bill will go down by alot since LaWanna and me won’t be taking those long hot showers Sinsearly Kevan the meader reader” 

Chuck ripped the letter to shreds and set it on fire, a cathartic symbol of letting go of the past and straining toward the future. Chuck buoyed his spirits with the thought that no one could drain the Schnarley blood flowing in his veins. A surge of pride washed over him, thinking of his prominent ancestors who came before him, like the late Karl Schnarley, who invented that culinary wonder known as aerosol cheese. He too possessed the Schnarley traits of bravery and honor, enduring frequent pungent explosions and gross disfigurement in the lab. His early attempts to heat the can to peak- cheese -meltiness, culminated in the loss of his eyebrows and the tip of his nose. But the man continued undeterred with his quest to break the code of stuffing cheese into a metal pressurized container, ensuring him a legacy of innovation and perpetually cheesy breath.

As Chuck gazed out at the setting sun, a flicker of determination ignited inside him; he too could emerge from the ashes like a triumphant Phoenix… perhaps even a Phoenix with a slight E. Coli sensitivity and a lingering fear of strippers and horny old ladies. But Chuck was a Schnarley after all, a blood relative of the man who invented spray cheese for God’s  sake. Failure was not an option, even if the mere mention of refried beans still caused his eyebrows to twitch.

The Fishhook Man

The barb winks and waves at me in the garage’s dim light. My father calls from inside the house, but I am too enthralled to hear him. The hook reminds me of a nightmare that begins as a pleasant dream.

I am fifteen and crammed into the back of an old Astro van with my older brother and cousins. The seats are coming apart at the seams and the felt covering of the ceiling sags, caressing my father’s and uncle’s heads in the front. Any free space between all of us is filled with coolers, luggage, and fishing equipment.

“Last turn and we’re there. Hand me a cold one, will ya?” My dad calls from behind the wheel.

Internally, I groan. He is a heavy drinker, though never belligerent or abusive. A functional alcoholic. I am sitting closest to the cooler with the beer. I reach in.

“Ow!” I pull my hand back quickly and observe a bright red pinprick. The growing droplet of blood shimmers in the sunlight. Peering over the cans and ice, a little fishhook rests in the ice. The barb turned upward. Its point holds my blood, as if bragging it has something that belongs to me.

“Who puts a jig in with the pop and beer?” I ask no one, reaching in, carefully this time.

“You all right?” My brother asks, as I pass the frigid can up to our dad.

“Yeah. Just a pinprick. It just surprised me.”

I wrap the bottom of my shirt around my finger to clean the blood and stem the minor bleeding. Looking out the front window, I observe the larger Upper Peninsula trees. The early afternoon sunlight pierces the canopy, a view that always makes me feel like I am underwater.

The resort comes into view bringing a smile to my face. Pale blue paint covers the bar and office building. There are four rickety steps that lead up to the entrance, above which large white letters read: Cisco Resort & Bar. The gravel drive extends beyond down a hill to dozens of small cabins.

Across from the resort entrance is a red cabin. My smile broadens. Every summer my family rents this cabin for a weeklong fishing trip. It is like a home away from home. The Astro van brakes squeak as my dad parks in front of the cabin. We file out with a series of groans and sighs of relief. I stretch, feeling my limbs come back to life, as the blood flows more freely.

I take in the fresh northern woods air. It tastes different. Cleaner. The lake hides behind the resort. It’s cool blue rolling surface wearing a glittering reflection of the sunlight. I turn toward the red cabin. It sits in the shade of several large trees. The windows are open; these old cabins don’t have air conditioning. Along the edges of the ancient siding, the paint curves upward like dried leaves. Distracted, I saunter over and lightly run my fingers over the rough, ancient paint.

Sharp ticking taps rhythmically pull my attention upward. I look up and grasp at a meaty grey palm hovering centimeters from the glass. The index and middle fingers slowly alternate tapping the windowpane.

“Teddy!” Dad calls. I jump, looking back at him and the rest of my family unloading the van. “Are you that eager to get in there?” He asks, forcing a chuckle, as he tends to do. “Come on. Let’s go get the key.”

“Yeah. Okay.” I respond absently. I walk across the gravel and feel myself drawn to look back at the window. A grey curtain gently wafts in the light breeze. My breathing relaxes, and I rush to join my dad.

We cross the drive and climb the steps leading into the Cisco Resort & Bar. The inside light is low. Various neon signs hang behind the bar top. Following my dad, I read different domestic beer names in bright colors. Fishing trophies and pictures fill the remaining blank spaces on the wall. The bar stools are old, with thick metal frames and ripped black leather cushions. The bar top is scratched from years of service to the workers and customers alike.

My dad sits at the bar. I walk past him. “I’m gonna see if there’s anything new in the game room.”

“Need any quarters?”

“No. I got some. Thanks.” I say, as I enter the game room a few feet away.

My brother, cousins, and I spent a lot of time in this recreational room in previous summers, and, just like I thought, everything remains the same. The room is long and narrow. To my right, shoved into adjacent corners is a hunting game, Buckshot something or other, and a Top Gun themed pinball machine. Near these are two high top tables with no stools and each with an ashtray centerpiece. In the middle of the room is a pool table blemished with stains and torn felt. My middle and ring fingers skip across the billiard table rail as I move to the other side of the room. There is a door that leads out near lake and to the left of this exit are two more arcade machines. One is Area 51, a shooter my brother and I have easily spent a hundred dollars of dad’s money and, more impressively, almost beat. The last game I don’t recognize.

“That’s new.” I breathe, observing another shooter-looking arcade cabinet titled: Carn-Evil. Zombified clowns, carnival workers, bloody balloons, and colorful but muted ribbons decorate the game.

I glance at the doorway to the bar. I can hear my dad already talking up a storm with the bartender. He had ‘the gift of gab’, he would say. One of his many ‘truisms.’

“I’ve got time.” I convince myself and fish a dollar in quarters from my pocket. They cling and clatter as I insert them in the machine. After the fourth quarter, an evil laugh bellows from the game. Two words flash on the screen in a bloody font. 

ONE LIFE

I lift a bright blue plastic gun from the holster and use the barrel to hit start.

“What’d you find, kid?” My dad asks.

I jump, startled and look away from the opening roll that describes whatever scenario made a carnival become evil and zombie infested. 

“Why you gotta sneak up on me like that, Dad?” I ask, returning my attention to the screen and wait for the bad guys to pop out.

“Just wanted to see what you were up to.”

“They got a new one. Figured I’d check it out while you got a drink and the key.” In my head, I add, ‘I wasn’t sure how long you’d take.’ My eyes remain on the screen. The first undead clown shambles out of a tent toward the screen. I can see mine and my dad’s reflection.

“Well, be quick. We unload the van and get the boat in the water.” He finishes the last of his beer and turns to leave.

“I won’t be long. Promise.” I say raising the plastic light gun and dispatching the virtual enemy.

I didn’t catch the story, not that it really matters for games like this. As far as I can tell, the player character is investigating some paranormal activity at a carnival on a wharf. Whatever happened zombified the clowns and carnies and civilians. It seems like an average set up for this kind of arcade machine. A bad thing happens, and a good guy comes in to ‘investigate,’ which may as well be another word for shooting everything that moves. Most enemies walk or run up to the player. Others pop up right in front. After a few waves of this, the game introduces hatchet throwing clowns. I laugh dryly as I shoot a hatchet twirling toward the screen. It spins off its trajectory and out of harm’s way. Why do carnival clowns have hatchets? It’s silly.

A new enemy appears. Its movements are odd compared to the others. The thing feels more real. It peeks from inside a striped tent. Its actions are exaggerated and childlike. I shift my weight, finding this creature’s animation unsettling. Suddenly, it somersaults out and then jumps upward on one leg with the other sticking out, and its arms raised in the air. Compared to everything else, this is so life-like.

The creature is a large round thing with grey skin. Different sized fishhooks pierce its skin protruding from within. It leans left rocking its head and gives me a wave wiggling its thick fingers. Dozens of hooks curve from beneath each fingernail like cat claws. More barbs curve out of its mouth like metal fangs catching the light, as it smiles hungrily. Its eye sockets are empty and pitch-black holes. Fishhooks curve up and down from within the abyssal pits where its eyes should be like twisted eyelashes.

I lift the bright blue gun and shoot.

Nothing happens.

I shoot again and nothing. I use a grenade pickup and, still, nothing.

“Busted game. What a rip off.” I whisper and roll my eyes.

The Fishhook Man approaches the screen. It frowns then cocks its head again in that strangely naive way. The creature catches my gaze and waves, lowering and raising each finger individually. It giggles silently then reaches out, grabbing the edges of the screen. Its claw-hooks catching the plastic frame of the arcade cabinet. 

I drop the gun and take a step back. Incomprehensible noises dripping in fear fall out of my mouth. The Fishhook Man pulls itself out of the screen. I back into the pool stick rack, knocking everything on it to the ground.

“What the hell’s goin on back there?” The bartender calls from the front.

I look toward the bar and back to Carn-Evil.

The Fishhook Man is gone. 

Three words and a countdown flash at the bottom of the screen.

GAME OVER

CONTINUE?

I run out the side door, panicked and confused. Throwing the door open, I stumble down the stairs and fall into the dirt. My chest pounds pumping more fear-instilled adrenaline into my veins. 

Outside, all the color of the world is gone. The trees are barren save for some chains carrying massive, barbed hooks hanging from the branches. The sky is grey; I am unable to tell if there are clouds or if that is just how the sky looks now. The lake is drained of its water. Pits of bubbling tar wait for a meal along the lakebed. The door slams against the buildings outside wall.

I push myself up and run back inside. I grab the door and slam it shut. My ribcage rattles feeling like it’s going to shatter under the pressure of my pounding heart.

The inside of the bar changed. I am standing in a courtyard. There are four pillars that hold up a walkway ten feet in the air. There are four walls with no windows or doors, even the door I entered is now gone. The pillars and walls stretch upward forever until they fade into an obscuring grey black. Like the trees outside, there are dozens of chains carrying hooks hanging from the void above. In the center of the courtyard, there is a chair suspended by some of these chains and hooks.

On the chair, a man sits, quiet and still.

Distorted carnival music begins to play.

The Fishhook Man swings into view. Its limbs lifted and palms skyward, as if mocking an aerial dancer. It starts swinging and spinning around the man in the chair, who begins a slow rotation around the room as well. His chair turns, and he faces me.

Terror strikes through my confusion.

The man in the chair is me.

I feel myself shift. My consciousness is pulled into this other body, my other body. I am trapped in the chair. I cannot move. Forced to participate in this horrifying midair waltz. The Fishhook Man slowly gets closer to me with each rotation. It bounces lifting its limbs with playful terrifying grace. Closer and closer until it is nearly nose to nose with me.

The music stops.

The Fishhook Man smiles wide and slams its face against mine. I feel the barbs pierce my flesh. I feel it pull my face as it reels back with a horrid guttural cackle.

The tab of a can hisses and cracks open. I hear my dad’s voice behind me pulling me back from the nightmare. Back from the dream memory.

“Lost in thought, Theo?” He asks before taking a gulp.

“Yeah.” I say shaking my head, as if I could cure the physical revulsion. “Just remembered a strange nightmare.”

I turn to him, noticing a small metallic glint reflecting the garage’s dim light. 

A tiny barb pokes out of his tear duct, catching the light, winking and waving at me.

The Marionette Mauler

My workshop smelled of cedar and epoxy resin. I considered inhaling deeper until I was windmilling across the clouds, but my self-medicating attempt was interrupted by a knock on the door. It was my good friend Miller. I tossed him a beer and led him inside. He stared at the legal summons on my workbench.

“What’s with the legal paperwork?” he asked.

“Puppet trauma,” I muttered.

Miller laughed. “What, do you have to ‘point where the man touched you’ on the doll?”

“No,” I said, rubbing my eyes. “The guy who bought my last piece—a professional puppeteer—is suing me. He says the puppet is ‘acting out.’ He’s claiming I traumatized the thing while I was building it.”

Miller grew quiet, searching my eyes for stolen goods. “Well, did you?” he whispered.

“Did I what!?” I didn’t like his accusatory tone.

“Did you touch him without his permission?”

I spoke slowly through gritted teeth. “He’s made of wood! I carved every part of him. He’s an inanimate object! Of course I didn’t ask for consent because he isn’t human. He can’t talk.”

Miller reeled backward like he’d been smashed in the gut with a cinderblock. When he caught his breath, he shook his head in disgust. “Wow. He couldn’t talk, so you never asked for consent. You are a monster! A monster! Keep the beer—God only knows where those lips of yours have been.”

It wasn’t even two days later when a rent-a-mob showed up outside my shop with placards and slogans. They were mostly LARPers and cosplay kids spruced up like life-sized puppets: heavily drawn nasolabial folds, pasty white makeup, red circles of rouge, and valentine lips. They swung latex axes and magical swords, shrieking that puppets had feelings, too. A cloaked wizard led the rhythmic chant: “Hey Bob, what do you say? How many puppets did you hurt today?”

I lifted a tiny corner of my curtain and peered at them. They were pureed into a frenzy, a crazed darkness ripping their souls right out of their eyeballs. I clutched my cedar-shaving chisel like a weapon in case the demonstration grew violent and they wanted their pound of puppet-flesh. My heart sank. Miller, my best friend since grade school, was out there, too, holding a placard that simply said: “I Knew His Lips Were Dirty.”

For the next twelve hours, I didn’t move from my perch by the window, nor did the protesters vacate my property. They multiplied. I coughed repeatedly, an attempt to rid myself of the jagged wood splinters clawing at my throat. I was just a regular Joe earning an honest living, and now I was being accused of being some kind of puppet-trafficking pervert. Believe me, if I were a pervert, my victim of choice would never be a marionette.

Weeks later, I was hauled before a district court judge and realized I was toast. The Honorable Kevin Brooks looked suspiciously like a grown version of Disney’s Pinocchio. And the guy who was my public defender, Tyler, kept popping cannabis gummies into his mouth like they were Werther’s Originals. He wore a white, pit-stained shirt, unpressed khakis, and white Vans. That first-year public defender smelled like stale B.O. and Takis Zombie Nitro chips.

The Judge peeked over his spectacles. His nose was a long, sharp elephant’s trunk that twitched every time the prosecution spoke.

“Mr. Arthur,” the Judge barked, “we are here to address the grievous emotional and structural damage inflicted upon the plaintiff, Cletus, and his guardian, Mr. Gary Simpson.”

I wanted to hurl looking at Cletus. His shoulders shuddered and he wailed like a toddler whose binky got stolen. “I feel so dirty!”

Several jurors sneered and shot daggers at me. One elderly woman dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief and wept softly. I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs, “Gary has his hand up Cletus’s butt! He’s the one making him speak! And can’t you brain-dead people see his lips vibrating whenever Cletus talks?” I felt like I was in the middle of an alternate universe. Cletus, a hand-carved wooden puppet, was actually sworn in, his teeny hand trembling on a black Bible, vowing with his screechy little voice to “tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”

The Judge’s nose lengthened a few inches as he leaned toward the witness stand. “Proceed, Cletus,” Judge Brooks whispered, his voice full of a creepy, paternal warmth. “This is a safe space. The monster can’t touch you here.”

Gary Simpson, the “guardian,” sniffled loudly. His lips weren’t just moving; he was practically over-enunciating, yet the jury watched Cletus’s painted mouth like it was the Oracle of Delphi.

“He… he used coarse-grit sandpaper on my inner thighs,” Cletus wailed. The puppet’s head did a 360-degree, mournful Linda Blair swivel toward the jury box. “He said I was ‘too rough around the edges.’ He wanted me smooth for his own sicko satisfaction!”

The elderly woman in the front row let out a strangled cry and nearly fainted. The other jurors resembled a row of heavily used thrift store toys—smudged, cracked, and leaking the scent of mothballs and cedar-chest rot.  I nudged Tyler; we were losing this case fast. But he was useless, trying to peel the wrapper off a CBD gummy with his teeth, his eyes glazing over like yellow, crusty road-rash wounds.

I looked back at the stand. Cletus was pointing a shaky wooden finger at me.

“And then,” the puppet shrieked, “he tried to force me into those satin britches! I told him they were too tight, that I couldn’t breathe, but he just kept pulling! Pulling! Pulling!” Cletus tugged at his teeny weighted anxiety vest and melted into a pile of screams.

A teary-eyed Judge Brooks ordered the bailiff to take Cletus out of the room. The puppet raised a minuscule middle wooden finger in my direction as he was carried out on a white, doll-sized cot.

The trial transformed my life into a dumpster fire of wood chips and bad press. I was no longer a craftsman; I was “The Marionette Mauler.” Every morning, I had to push through a throng of protesters screaming for my head, while the 24-hour news cycle analyzed my history of using 80-grit sandpaper on defenseless pine.

But then Tyler, my gummy-chomping public defender, actually found the evidence we needed to prove my innocence.

The courtroom went dead silent while the “Pandamonium” video played on the 70-inch monitors. The camera zoomed in on his bare, shiny pine bottom, his satin britches drooping around his ankles, gyrating against a plush purple panda while screeching in that high-pitched voice, “It’s pandemonium time, bitches.” I had forgotten to carve a dick for the little guy, so the panda’s dull black eyes just stared straight ahead, likely composing a shopping list in her mind. Then came the photos—Cletus sprawled nude in a porcelain bathtub, squeezed thigh to thigh with a bevy of barely clad Barbies and a very confused G.I. Joe doll.

“Look at the defendant!” Gary Simpson shrieked, pointing at me while Cletus “sobbed” into a doll-sized tissue. “He drove Cletus to this! The puppet was self-medicating his trauma with plushies and plastic! He was trying to fill the hole Robert Arthur carved in his heart!”

The jury foreman, a rotund man with a Care Bear tattoo emblazoned across his bicep, stood up before the Judge could even call for the verdict.

“We have reached a decision,” the foreman announced.

Judge Brooks—whose nose was now so long it was resting on the court reporter’s shoulder—nodded gravely. “And?”

“We find the defendant, Robert ‘The Marionette Mauler’ Arthur, not guilty of the trafficking charges.”

The courtroom gasped. Miller, sitting in the front row, dropped his “I Believe the Wood” sign in shock.

“However,” the foreman continued, “we find him guilty of ‘Negligent Creation.’ For bringing a being into this world with such clear, vile tendencies and then failing to provide him with a mandatory 12-step program for wood-based deviancy.”

Judge Brooks banged his gavel. “Robert Arthur, you are free to go. But Cletus is to be remanded to a state-run rehabilitation center. And you,” he pointed his long, wooden nose at me, “are banned from ever touching a piece of cedar again.”

Tyler leaned over, his breath smelling like Doritos and a million bong hits. “See, man? The panda video totally shifted the vibe. You’re a free man. Well, a free man who can’t ever buy a 2×4 at Home Depot again. Want a gummy?”

I looked at Gary Simpson. He was packing Cletus into a velvet-lined crate. The puppet caught my eye one last time. He didn’t flip me the bird. He just stared with those hand-blown glass eyes—the eyes I had given him—and for a second, I realized that humanity’s shared brokenness wasn’t just our greatest strength. It was the only thing keeping the puppets from winning.