Crossover
Flash Fiction Story
by Kenneth M. Kapp
You have a limb missing? What did you expect? You’re in the space force, Mr. Smith!
No, we’re not all Mr. Smith’s. That’s you – come back from the dark side. Mission control never says where, or what it is that we do. They got drugs that wipe memories. But no drug’s perfect. Some memories creep around the edges. And, well, limbs can grow back. Stem cells just take time and tuning.
You’re saying you know things are different, that tying your shoelaces didn’t seem right. It was no longer “in” your fingers. Rabbit ears one over the other not working.
What are you complaining about? Others have it far worse. But you have only one body and are concerned it’s no longer yours? Come on – where’s your patriotism? What’s a limb when others say they regret having only one life to give for their country?
D-dd-rump-ta-tump, bully for them, you say? If they’re saying they’re not doing. “Invest your own son.” Old fashioned, aren’t you? The SPACE FORCE is coed if you haven’t noticed.
Better the Devil
Flash Fiction Story
by Kenneth M. Kapp
The Devil’s Tavern was on the corner of Sixth Avenue and 66th Street and for good measure, was six steps up from a double door that was hinged in the middle. Often people who had one too many would push open the wrong door on their way out and with the momentum gained from the descent, stagger down the street instead of the avenue or vice versa. Eventually when they got home and were questioned by their spouse as to why they came home so late, they’d blather something about the “Devil pushed me out the wrong door.”
However, it was not that devil that plagued most customers, but the identical twins: Yu-No and Do-No. They played fair and never double teamed a customer. With eyes behind their heads, they could gab with someone at the bar all the while monitoring the door. They alternated claims on anyone new to the Devil’s Tavern. If a drinker moved out of town that was marked by Yu-No, then he would get the next two new customers. Afterall, devils can afford to play fair.
The twins were of unknown origin. One week they would appear as if they came out of Africa, the next week, one would swear they were oriental and by the end of the month, a smile would reveal a mouth of bad teeth and you’d swear they were from somewhere that didn’t fluorinate the drinking water.
The reputation of the bar was known throughout the city. Temperance organizations petitioned City Hall to no avail. It rained whenever picketing was organized outside the tavern and heavy waste trucks would screech by accidentally spraying water and dropping foul smelling garbage on those demonstrating.
Nevertheless, loyal drinkers would push through the picket lines, snickering that the protestors were getting the devil’s just due.
However, there is always someone who feels strongly that the Devil’s Tavern was evil and is willing to enter totally into the fracas. Gordan Goodfellow was such a man, called by some “G-G” and by others G Goodie he was over 5’ 9” in his stocking feet, even wearing cushioned heels.
G-G built up for this ascent into hell, conditioning himself by drinking a minimum of four times a week in his neighborhood bar. It was a half-block away from his flat and the street was level. Nevertheless, most nights when he returned home, he looked like he had been to war. His wife would mop his brow and help him to bed, saying, “I’m so proud of you, G-G, you’re fighting the good fight.”
Finally, it was time for Armageddon: G-G versus the No twins. Word got out, and once G-G ascended the six steps a small crowd gathered on the corner across from the Tavern. One hour went by and then other. The clock struck midnight on the City Hall Tower. In was midweek and closing was 50 minutes away. Whispers went around the crowd; one person wanted to make a wager, and another suggested a betting pool. An old man took off his hat and suggested they collect for G-G’s widow, “For sure enough that’s what’s going to happen.”
At last, the habitue’s were heard coming down the stairs. Muted muttering that gave nothing away. And then, the twins, heads hanging, bent over in defeat, their heads missing the lintel above the door. And lastly, G-G, smiling, only swaying the slightest. The devils scurried off down Sixth Avenue, their arms linked, singing a song about where they met.
Parson Brown, from the Church of the Great Temperance rushed across the street and embraced G-G. “Tell me, tell me…” and he was unable to complete his question.
G-G understood, burped gently into his fist. “Don’t worry. They’re gone and won’t be coming back.”
The parson signaled to his flock cautiously waiting across the street and the Hosannahs were raised. He hugged G-G and asked, “How did you do this?”
“Oh, it was easy. I used to date their mother, Who, in high school and threatened to tell her that her boys were out drinking again. You see, it’s not really the devil Yu-No or the devil you Do-No but their mother Who Yu No.”
That Sunday the title of Parson Brown’s sermon was: Better the devil you know rather than the devil you don’t know. Unfortunately, that proverb has been with us ever since.
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