The Red Ferrari

Everyone at school gave congrats on her latest victory. “You’re pretty cool, Nicole,” one boy said, “almost as rad as your old man.”

Nicole just shrugged, reconciled to their fascination with her father’s Ferrari. There was always a chorus of “Ews” and “Ahs” whenever it roared past. Still, there were no complaints as she toweled herself dry after swim practice. She was back on her competitive form, studies were doing well, and he hadn’t touched her in weeks.

Thanksgiving was only a week away. Nicole jumped in the family sedan and motored away with windows down. There was rock music on the radio in the brisk fall air. The terrible secret was behind her. She smiled and swayed to the beat. Out of sight and out of mind.

Two errands to run on the way home. Groceries and car service. With her mother gone, Nicole was stuck with the cooking. Lynette always whined about going to McDonald’s. Well, that prima donna is eating Brussels sprouts tonight, Nicole resolved, as she browsed the aisles at Safeway.

And that spoiled brat is visiting her mother on Thanksgiving, come hell or high water. Nicole furrowed her brow and pulled into the Jiffy Lube. Across the road was a Ferrari dealership. While she was waiting for the lube change, she spotted a familiar red shape.

She walked over and peered into the garage. “That’s my father’s car, isn’t it?” she asked the mechanic.

“Yup. Sure is, Nicole.” He gave her a gap-toothed smile and wiped his forehead with a shirt sleeve. “Some beauty. Dr. Larsen is a fine man with a fine taste in automobiles.”

“What’s he having done this time?”

“New wheels, tires, and some touch up work.”

“Touch up work?” Nicole frowned. “Has the car been in an accident?”

“Oh, no! Of course, not!” He laughed nervously. “Dr. Larsen would never do a thing like that to his beauty.”

“Look, ah . . . Jim,” she said, noting the tag on his greasy shirt. “Would you mind if I had a look? I’d love to see the work you’ve done.” She fixed him with her baby blues.

“Certainly, Nicole!” He beamed. “More than happy to show you.”

“Are those the old tires over there?” She pointed to a stack of wide-treads on the cement floor. The Ferrari was hoisted at eye-level, with two new tires yet to go on.

“Yup. Those are them.”

“Hmmm.” She ran her fingers over the grooves. “They’re not very worn. Funny.”

“That’s Dr. Larsen for you. Always wants the latest and greatest.”

“What else has been done to my father’s car, Jim?” she asked.

“Well, there’s . . . the cosmetic work . . .” He blushed under her stare. Though only a few years older, he was not in her league.

“Where?”

“I think it was . . .” He fumbled around for a work light and trained it on the front fender.

“Could it be here?” Nicole indicated a spot of fresh paint.

“Yup. That’s it.” He stooped over for a closer look. The body work had been done in the shop next door. “Hmm . . . interesting . . . they said it was only scratches . . .”

“What do you mean?”

“Just listen,” Jim said, tapping around the fender. “Can you hear the difference, Nicole? Where it sounds hollow and solid?”

“Uh-huh.”

“The hollow areas have been filled in with bondo,” he said. “Here, let me show you.” His hands shook as he guided her finger. “Just curl it back like so . . . and use the knuckle . . .”

“Hey! What the hell’s going on?” An officious looking man in a sport coat and tie approached them. “No customers in the garage. You know that, Jim.”

“Sorry, Mr. Cellini.” Jim dropped her hand and stepped back. “I was just showing Nicole her dad’s car.”

“Ah, Nicole Larsen, the swimmer!” His features lit up. “I’m Bob Cellini, sales manager. Your dad and I go way back.”

“Nice to meet you,” Nicole said.

“Pleasure’s all mine. Sorry about this but insurance and all.” He held out his hand in a preemptive gesture. “How about waiting for your father in the lounge? We have soft drinks, magazines and television.”

“No, that’s ok. My car’s across the street. I’m sure Jim can show me out.”

“Certainly, Nicole. And when you’re ready to own your very own Ferrari, just give old Bob a call.” He presented his business card, flashed an angry look at the mechanic and hurried off.

“Thank you so much, Jim,” Nicole said, as they headed outside. “I learned so much!” She placed her hand lightly on his arm.

“Oh . . . it was no problem . . .” He stammered. “In fact it was . . .”

“Can I ask you for a special favor?”

“Sure . . .”

“Would you copy the work order for me? I need it for my records cause my dad is giving me the car for graduation.”

“Will do!” The mechanic looked positively thrilled.

“Oh and let’s keep this a secret. Please don’t tell anyone,” Nicole whispered, playing off his infatuation.

“Yes . . . ah . . .”

“See you next week, Jim.” She left with a breezy smile.

Nicole the New Attraction

“I hear we had a new admittance, Bernie,” the psychiatrist said to his chief orderly.

“Yes, we did, doctor sir.” The orderly was 6’5” and barrel-chested, well-practiced at restraining lunatics while pumping them with trancs.

“Got the case file?”

“Ah . . . should have it here . . .” Bernie fumbled around his desk and gave the doctor an apologetic shrug. “Anyway here’s the basics. Female, eighteen, legally committed by court order . . .”

“Really!” Dr. Chumley was stubby, flabby and reeked of body odor, a repulsive non-starter on the dating market. “Is she attractive?” He clasped his hands together and beamed. The only action he got was from his patients.

“Don’t know, doctor sir. Didn’t get a good look . . .” Bernie winced and rubbed his forehead. He was still suffering those damned nightmares!

They’d started two months ago. A fourteen year old girl had been admitted with Tourette’s Syndrome. Dr. Chumley took an immediate interest and performed a lobotomy within the week.

After that, she became the doctor’s pet, confined to a padded cell while doing his sexual bidding for a bowl of soup or a candy bar. The poor girl finally committed suicide by swallowing a can of Drano which she’d taken off a custodial cart.

“I can bring her file to your office when I . . .” Bernie sniffed and searched aimlessly through some loose papers.

“No!” Chumley growled. “I need to see her immediately.” By his order, all new admittances were strait-jacketed, sedated and locked in a padded cell.

“Yes, of course.” The orderly produced a clipboard.

“Hmmm . . . Nicole Larsen . . .” Chumley smiled as he glanced thru the pages. “What time she come in?”

“11 o’clock last night, doctor sir.” Bernie grabbed the keys and led the doctor down to the dungeon of padded cells.

“Ah! Ahhhhh!! Aaaahhhhh!!!” Dr. Chumley moaned in appreciation as he studied his newest patient. “I like her.”

The orderly said nothing and merely cracked his knuckles. They were still sore from busting the heads of some graveyard shifters who’d lined up to form a gang rape welcoming committee.

“Oh, Bernie,” Dr. Chumley sighed. “I think she’s the one.” Nicole was slumped against the wall, bound and unconscious. Even with dark circles under her eyes, she was very beautiful.

“I . . . uh . . . understand, doctor sir.” Bernie could still hear the screams of terror as she fought to resist the needle.

“I only wish I could’ve watched them bring her in.” Dr. Chumley stood transfixed and gazed at the love of his life. “We’ll perform a lobotomy first thing in the morning.”

“Of course, doctor sir.” Bernie nodded his assent. Fortunately, he’d been able to make an urgent call. There was still hope.

Deadly Angel author Andrew Cofrin

Trunk Music

There are lots of thrillers on the market but not like this one. This guy can write. Connelly keeps it fast and furious with plot twists and mysteries which hold the reader in thrall right to the end.

The spartan gift shop on our cruise ship to Hawaii had literally no magazines or newspapers. My brother was desperate for reading material and somehow fished out Trunk Music from a flimsy rack of no-name paperbacks. Guess he struck it lucky.

We had loads of fun with the title. My brother thought it described the rattling sound of the hapless victim being tossed around to and fro whereas I surmised it signaled the scream of terror of the poor soul making the horrible discovery.

Best find out for yourself. Harry Bosch will keep you hoppin’.

Adolf Weber Institute

“No! I’ll never do it! I’ll never give away the location! I’ve got my orders!” A couple of beefy orderlies were bull rushing a screaming lunatic in a straitjacket. “You’ll never get it out of me!”

Dr. Chumley stood at the admin desk and signaled the orderlies to stop. “Fucking alien!” he barked at the lunatic. “You invade our planet and expect a warm welcome?” He walked over and got right in the poor man’s face. “You’re going to talk. They always do. And then we’re going to nuke your planet!”

“No! No! You can’t do that!” The lunatic shrieked and spat out a glob of phlegm.

“Ughhhh . . .” The psychiatrist grimaced and wiped the snot off his forehead. “Strap him up tight, boys,” he said to the orderlies. “We’re going to give him the seven course meal.”

“Yes, doctor sir.” They shouldered the lunatic into the shock chamber.

“And no anesthesia,” Dr. Chumley called out. “He’ll know what it’s like to bite off his tongue.”

The Adolf Weber Institute for the Criminally Insane was a dreary structure of gray dilapidation in Oakland, California. It took up an entire city block and was surrounded by a twenty foot high, barbed wire fence. The two stories above ground housed a spacious lobby, cafeteria, administrative offices and living quarters for staff.

It was in the four basement levels where the grisly work took place. The institute was a societal dumping ground for violent psychopaths, mental retards and assorted crazies. Most inmates were incorrigible rejects from other jurisdictions. A few, tragically, had simply fallen through the cracks. With no friends, family or money, they’d wound up in this hell hole through no fault of their own.

The first floor was relatively serene and could almost pass as a health care facility. The illusion ended as one descended to the second floor and was greeted with unrelenting screams of terror. Blithering idiots slated for electric shock were housed on the third while the fourth floor dungeon of padded cells was for lobotomy cases.

“Well, Bernie, I don’t think our friend will be bothering us any more,” Dr. Chumley said, strolling back to the admin desk after administering the therapy.

“No, doctor sir. I would guess not.” Bernie looked away as the comatose man was wheeled off, blood flowing from his mouth.

“Works like a charm every time!” the doctor laughed.

The seven course meal consisted of seven “treatments” of increasing intensity, the last within a few millivolts of death. The final result was a drooling humanoid with a brain wiped clean of all memory.

Deadly Angel author Andrew Cofrin

New Year 2009

Amazing that we’ve made it this far. Made it this far without getting into a nuclear war. Many thought the re-election of W would push us over the brink. But not as yet. (Knock on wood.)

 

However the abyss still awaits. The geopolitical situation is more dangerous than ever. Fifty years ago there were two nations with nuclear weapons. Today there are nine. United States, Russia, China, England, France, India, Pakistan, North Korea . . . and uh . . . Israel.

 

That’s right, Israel. Israel does have nuclear weapons. Our state department refuses to recognize this fact. Taboo subject.

 

Other subjects are taboo as well. Federal spending, Medicare, Agent Orange, the Cuban missile crisis, Pentagon secret weapons programs, the Spanish flu epidemic of 1918, what FDR knew about Pearl Harbor, the siege of Waco, Hiroshima and Nagasaki, and the murder of Pat Tillman, just to name a few.

 

Funny how the issues which really matter are taboo. The powers that be seem intent on a modus vivendi of mutual mass destruction. But even politicians must realize the long-term unsustainability of their policies. Two factors could unsettle the mix.

 

First, the brutal reality remains that weapons accumulated are eventually used. More states with nukes means more twitchy fingers on the launch button. A hell-bent politician or a computer glitch could trigger a nuclear holocaust. Good-bye world order.

 

Second, the people may eventually grow tired of simpleton slogans and spoon-fed politics. They may proclaim they will no longer be held hostage to the threat of nuclear weapons. They may even re-learn the definition of free will and demand representation. This will not do.

 

Propaganda is persuasive when backed with brute force. Politicians will not hesitate to kill to further their agenda. However too much persuasion may prove counter-productive since the ultimate prize is control. There is no use being lord of domain with no one to lord over. Hence nukes are effective as blackmail only.

 

It is interesting to note, therefore, the recent advances in surveillance techniques and non-lethal weapons. Airport body scanners, facial recognition software, data mining algorithms, taser stun guns, particle beams which induce headaches, urban assault vehicles and ultrasound generators are just a taste of what lies in store.

 

All this to repulse a foreign invader? Don’t be ridiculous. It looks more like a rapid-fire menu for crowd control in a police state. The line for microchip implants forms to the right.

 

Robot soldiers will be less likely to commit war crimes, they tell us, because they’re not prone to human emotion. Uh-huh. Since when did the powers that be become concerned with war crimes?

 

The future is uncertain. A bovine public may not always remain so. Politicians will replace nukes only with viable alternatives. Obama is the new man and technology continues apace. Robot soldiers, unlike their human counterparts, will never disobey orders.

 

Our acquiescence will be assured.

Deadly Angel author Andrew Cofrin

Insectoid

We’ve been following these things for a number of years. Insectoids. Human beings who are part human part insect.

 

Insectoids are human. Technically at least. One cannot tell the difference from basic appearances and mannerisms. The only distinguishing characteristic is a scaly growth behind the ears.

 

Some of the their “anomalies” really do look like insects. The mutants of the mutant if you will. That is how we learned of them.

 

The scientist showed a few slides of “humans” with apparent birth defects. Some looked like grasshoppers. Others like household flies. One poor sod had the face of a dung beetle. The audience gasped.

 

Sorry didn’t mean to shock you. Guess I’ve grown accustomed to this. Fortunately none of the mutants survived very long. The scientist cleared his throat.

 

One might consider Insectoids to be an example of evolutionary regression. What with mankind evolving from slimy substance to fish to chimpanzees to modern day homo sapiens. Though Insectoids are genetic mutations, they’re actually a step up the evolutionary scale.

 

Average IQs are 25 points higher than humans. Overall energy levels are very high. They’re capable of prodigious work.

 

Insectoids are physically attractive for the most part. They love to get out and mingle. With their vivacious personalities and good looks, they have no trouble finding “dates.” The scientist smirked. Which brings us to their methods of reproduction.

 

Insectoids reproduce by placing their seed into the human sigmoid colon, via the act of anal intercourse. The seed combines with human feces to produce microscopic embryos. Most interesting.

 

Oh God, I think I’m gonna get sick, someone mumbled.

 

Female Insectoids are incapable of reproducing in this fashion. Only the males, with proper penetrating genitalia, are able to “impregnate” humans. Or so we thought.

 

Further research has shed new light in this area. Turns out Insectoid females are more than capable of infecting humans. The scientist beamed. Why use the back door when the front door is wide open?

Deadly Angel author Andrew Cofrin

Help Barack Obama

Barack Obama needs your help. “Change” may have won the election but the economy is in the tank. The only change voters will notice are the loose coins floating in their pockets.

 

Congress enacted the “Stimulus Package” and followed up with the “Wall Street Bailout.” No doubt they will herald in the New Year with the “No American Left Behind Economy.”

 

The last thing Barack needs is to be out-sloganed by his own party. He will look weak and uninspired, devoid of leadership. Bold policy initiatives must always be trumpeted with slogan fanfares.

 

JFK gave us the mythical kingdom of “Camelot.” LBJ served up a double helping of “Guns and Butter” and “The Great Society.” Reagan woke up the country with “It’s Morning Again in America.” Clinton chided us with “It’s the Economy, Stupid.” Bush alerted the nation to the “War on Terror.”

 

As the first African-American to be elected to the presidency, Barack Obama has taken his rightful place in history. But a thrilling life story and the first lady’s wardrobe won’t satisfy voters for long. They will soon require something of substance, something they can sink their teeth into. Like a hot and juicy slogan.

 

Barack Obama faces a host of challenges in his presidency. Please don’t let this man stand naked before the world, bereft of slogans, sure to be a sitting duck for a “Culture Wars” rebuke.

 

With that in mind I’ll give it my best. Something with his name in it to commemorate his historic achievement.

 

“Barack Obama’s Super Society.”

 

Hmmm, maybe not so good. Readers are welcome to submit better ideas.

Deadly Angel author Andrew Cofrin

Television Democracy

Mass media spews forth a steady stream of gossip and propaganda. Literacy rates continue their downward spiral. Sensationalism reigns supreme while vital issues are ignored. Our democracy has been dumbed down to a twenty second commercial.

 

We appear to exist in two universes: television and literate. Television viewers don’t read much and book readers don’t view much.

 

The cool medium is heavily processed. Production video, fancy studios and facile commentators come easy on the brain. A colored light show of pure relaxation. Sugar and spice and everything’s nice.

 

Reading text, on the other hand, can be heavy lifting. There’s no one to process the message for you. There’s only you and the material, eyes on the page.

 

The literate universe: books, periodicals, websites, contains a wealth of information. The television universe: photo ops, sound bites and slogans, is streamlined to a slice.

 

Serious discourse requires historical context. Past events weigh in on the present and shape the future. Some issues play well on television but others do not.

 

Nuclear proliferation, climate change, and federal cost overruns are just three which threaten our existence. Let’s access the wealth of information in the literate universe and leave the television universe to those who deal in celebrity gossip and cheap thrills. 

 

Deadly Angel author Andrew Cofrin

One World

A world without strife

A world of no contention

A world of peace

One world . . . 

 

Things were seeming dicey for the Illuminati. Yes, they’d done well with their tax cuts, promotion of moral values, projection of military power and curtailment of civil liberties. But the American people were getting restless. There was even talk that some no longer trusted their government.

 

Yet the Illuminati were unconcerned. Global warming, government secrecy and corporate takeovers were proceeding as planned. The media were in the bag. Train kept a movin’ down the tracks. Another terrorist attack or weather event would dispense civil liberties to the dustbin.

 

The American people have been over-fed on cheap entertainments, awe-struck with celebrity, and dumbed-down to oblivion. Like so many bit-sized bits, they’ve become shrunk-wrapped to the television conformity. Witness the mass hysteria on display after the 911 attacks.

 

No idea of Constitution. No interest of Founders.

 

One World . . . 

Deadly Angel author Andrew Cofrin

Super Phony at a Lesbo Bar

Barry had the typical male-hetero fantasy. He loved to watch girls kiss other girls. Porn sites on the internet no longer sufficed. He wanted to watch in person. But where? Gals at the bars were on the defensive or with guys.

 

He’d heard of this place on the outskirts of town. A super hot night spot for gays/lesbians. Exclusive. Door charge was twenty bucks.

 

Yikes! Barry winced and paid, hoping it was worth it.

 

It was. There was a disco dance floor and laser light show. A DJ spinning the latest house tunes. A fancy bar and plush banquettes.

 

Barry couldn’t believe his luck. Place was chock full of talent on a happenin’ Saturday night. Gals boppin’ skin on skin to the disco beat. He bought a pink cocktail and sat towards the back.

 

The plan was simple. Play it cool. Don’t do anything stupid. Just relax and enjoy the show.

 

And what a show it was. Not ten feet in front of him were two gals locked in an embrace. Lost in the music. Oblivious to anyone around. Tongue-kissing with abandon.

 

Probably high on ecstasy, Barry thought. He nursed his fifteen dollar drink and gaped open mouthed. One gal reached her hand up the other’s skirt. Yes! He leaned back with a shit eatin’ grin.

 

Suddenly he couldn’t see. Someone was blocking his view. Barry glanced up to the sight of three beefy specimens.

 

They glared at him in open hostility. Bull Dykes! Flexed muscles, leather outfits and butch hair-cuts.

 

Barry never got to finish his drink. He was frog-marched out of the bar and dumped on the sidewalk.

 

Deadly Angel author Andrew Cofrin