Bain-Around-Bend
Around the Bend
Darrell Bain
Double Dragon Publication
Copyright © 2003 Darrell Bain
Fantasy. 42190 words long. First published by DDP,March 2003
English
Novel
text/xml

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Around the Bend

by Darrell Bain

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Fantasy

Double Dragon Publication

www.double-dragon-ebooks.com

Copyright ©2003 Darrell Bain

First published by DDP,March 2003

NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by
the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to
any unauthorized person by any means, including
without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out,
or any other method
constitutes a violation of International copyright law and
subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in Canada by Double Dragon eBooks, a division of Double Dragon Publishing of Markham Ontario, Canada.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Published by:

Double Dragon eBooks

PO Box 54016 1-5762 Highway 7 East

Markham, Ontario L3P 7Y4 CANADA

http://double-dragon-ebooks.com

Layout and Cover Illustration by Deron Douglas

ISBN: 1-55404-036-1

First Edition eBook Publication March 25, 2003

[Back to Table of Contents]

CONTENTS

Introduction

SHARKS PLAY NO FAVORITES

THE GOOD BOOK

PRIME CITIZEN

TIGHT JEANS

A SPECIAL BOND

TALE OF A TALE

LIGHT AT THE END OF THE TUNNEL

GOD VS BOILERROOM MCSCAM

MAINFRAME

THE LOST WILL

ODD JOB

SALUTE TO HOME HEALTH NURSES

CHARLEY'S BUTTERFLY

TWO PAIRS OF WINGS

TERRORISM AND WHAT THE FUTURE HOLDS FOR AMERICA

THE COMING ENVIRONMENTAL DISASTER

The Lost Viagra Pill

The Piemaker

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Introduction

Welcome to Around the Bend dear reader. This collection of stories by Darrell Bain will both entice and entertain. Old friends to Darrell's writing will enjoy this collection as it encompasses a wide range of writing styles and genres that have been written throughout the years. If you are a stranger to Darrell Bain, I can think of no better way of being introduced to his writing and creative wit. If you are an old friend, you will find this volume most entertaining as it may introduce you to a side of Darrell you haven't seen.

Darrell began writing science fiction with Robert A. Heinlein as his major influence, but later branched off into mystery, children's fiction, romance, adventure, military and humour. He is known for his Medics Wild! Series, which is roughly based on his tour in Vietnam as a medic but has recently written, in collaboration with Jeanine Berry, a new series entitled The Sex Gates and the soon to be released, The Master of the Sex Gates. This volume along with The Pet Plague and Space Pets has enjoyed spectacular success, and is expected to become science fiction classics.

Darrell has proven to be a science fiction writer of the old “type", bringing to mind such greats as Robert A. Heinlien, Mike Resnick, Isaac Asimov and Larry Niven.

Deron Douglas

Publisher, Double Dragon Publishing

[Back to Table of Contents]

SHARKS PLAY NO FAVORITES

Sharks Play No Favorites was Bain's first published story. It appeared in The Testament of Lael, a chapbook anthology with a theological theme (loosely speaking). Bain has always admired the short-short story form as exemplified by Fredrick Brown, an acknowledged master of that genre and one of Bain's favorite authors. He decided to see if he could write in that format. They don't come much shorter than this one, but you will have to be the judge of its worth.

Once upon a time an odd friendship developed between an atheist and a preacher. They loved to argue, in a friendly sort of way, even though they could never agree on anything.

“Jesus could walk on water,” the preacher remarked one day as they were strolling together along a beach. “It has been written in the Bible.”

“No way,” the atheist disclaimed. “He was only a man. He couldn't have walked on water.”

“Nonsense,” the preacher said. “Why, even I could walk on water if I had enough faith, even as our Lord Jesus did."

“Prove your faith, then,” the atheist dared. “Here is the ocean; walk on it for me, just as you say Jesus did."

The preacher hesitated for a long moment, then abruptly came to a decision. He knelt and prayed. Resolutely, he then rose and walked confidently out into the foam, the surf, the breakers, and on up onto the top of the rolling waves.

The atheist watched and wondered, but he did not kneel, nor did he pray. “It must be mind over matter,” he thought. He hesitated also, but he was no less resolute than the preacher. Determinedly, he steeled his mind and walked forthrightly into the foam, the surf, the breakers, and on up onto the top of the rolling waves.

Salt spray soaked the both of them as still they continued to argue.

“This truly shows the power of faith,” the preacher proclaimed ecstatically, gliding ever farther from the shore.

“It's simply mind over matter,” the atheist insisted stoically, matching the preacher stride for stride.

Their argument might have gone on and on, but at that moment the waves around them turned into a bloody, churning froth from their lacerated bodies. Just before they died, the preacher and the atheist finally agreed on one thing: whether walking on water was a matter of faith or a state of mind, it should never be attempted in shark infested waters.

[Back to Table of Contents]

THE GOOD BOOK

The Good Book is the most widely praised work of Bain's short fiction, both by editors and readers. Oddly, it has never been professionally published. Somehow it has always just missed the cut for one reason or the other. For instance, in one call for stories, hundreds upon hundreds were submitted and The Good Book was the last one that wasn't chosen. In other cases it simply didn't fit the editors’ requirements or some such thing. It has been posted at Bain's authorsden.com website and a couple of other places but has never been widely distributed. It is presently being used (with Bain's permission) as the theme for a graduate thesis in the film arts, and is being considered for a future movie. Bain stated that he was extremely pleased to have it included in this anthology since it is his favorite of all the fiction he has ever written, both novels and short stories.

Jim Belton was usually called “The Professor” by his fellow inmates on death row. They called him “The Professor” because he always had his nose in a book. Actually, it was a misnomer. While intellectual enough, Belton wasn't a professor of anything; he simply loved to read. Belton was reading now, stretched out on his bunk with one book in his hands and another beneath his head, overlaid with a thin, prison-issue pillow. He was totally absorbed, as always, even though he had long ago lost count of the number of times he had read this particular book. It was one of his all time favorites and he had shut out the world, trying to finish it one more time before his execution. He was also using it to try to shut out the overpowering unfairness of his date with the electric chair at midnight.

A guard walked down the aisle separating the double row of cells and stopped in front of the one where Belton was spending his last day on earth. The guard spoke Belton's name, then raised his voice and repeated it when he got no response. “Belton!”

Belton blinked and looked up. “Huh?"

“That's the third time I've called you,” the guard complained. “Is it that good of a book?"

Belton sat up, then glanced down at the worn binding of his book. He smiled and a bit of tension drained from his face. He thought of explaining to the guard just how wonderful this particular book was then let it go. “Yeah, it's a pretty fair read,” he said. “What's up?”

“Your lawyer is here."

“Oh. Okay.” Belton folded the corner of the page he was on into the book to mark his place then remembered he had promised himself to quit doing that and use bookmarks instead. He had been promising himself the same thing since he was a small boy, whiling away summer afternoons while his contemporaries pitched balls and rode bicycles in the small east Texas town where he had grown up. He hesitated, then left the corner of the page folded over. I'll start tomorrow, he told himself, then chuckled silently. If I'm still around, that is.

The wait was interminable. Belton couldn't go anywhere. He was already in the death cell, only a few steps from the execution chamber. He paced the cell's narrow confines, wondering what this last lawyer might want other than a pro forma visit on execution day. Belton knew he hadn't convinced him of his innocence; he had never convinced anyone, not even when he still had money to hire the best. Now he was solely dependent on the state for his defense; the same state which was also trying very hard to put him to death, and was almost certainly going to succeed tonight.

“I'm sorry, Jim, but your last appeal was denied,” Teddy Morton, Belton's public defender said, trying to inject a note of sympathy into his voice. “I thought for a while I could get to the next appellate court but there's a stickler of a judge presiding. He won't consider any sort of motion unless it's submitted during regular court hours, and today is Sunday.”

“Would he consider an appeal tomorrow?” Belton asked, wondering as he did why he had asked the question. He wasn't going to be around tomorrow. He wasn't going to be anywhere. Belton didn't believe in an afterlife.

“Possibly, but what's the point, Jim? You're scheduled to be executed tonight,” the nondescript little attorney exclaimed, sympathy dissolving into indignation at the thought that if today were Monday he could collect another fee from the state for the appeal. Teddy Morton wasn't so much avaricious as almost totally dependent on his public defender's fees.

A hint of an idea was trying to form in Belton's mind, tenuous as yet but somehow it seemed important. He stood up, still holding his book, wondering if he would manage to finish it one last time before he was strapped into the electric chair and his brain burned to cinders. His rugged face was set in lines of resignation.

“Thanks anyway,” he said to his attorney. “I know you tried.” A thought stirred in his mind then was lost again.

The little lawyer fluffed the lapels of his jacket and stuck out his hand. “Is there anything else I can do for you?” He didn't think there was, and he didn't really believe Belton's story of mistaken identity. He had heard that tale too many times before.

“No, reckon not,” Belton said, shaking the attorney's limp paw. “I guess I'll get on back and finish my book.” He turned to go then stopped in mid-stride, the elusive idea finally popping full blown into existence like three bars on a slot machine. Book, he thought. Executioner.

“Wait!” Belton called to his attorney. “Wait up! Maybe there is something you can do for me after all. Maybe you can!”

Morton halted and turned. Belton was an exception to his usual class of clients; intellectual, quiet, unassuming except when proclaiming his innocence. It was hard to picture him as a killer, but there it was. Nevertheless, Morton had developed a liking for the convict. If there was something he could do to make his last hours go easier, he wouldn't mind. It was little enough, and certainly no one else was available. After Belton was convicted of slaughtering his wife and child, his family had deserted him. He was alone in the world.

“You're sure, now,” Belton asked for the third time, but trying not to get his hopes up too high. “If the regular executioner doesn't show up tonight they'll have to postpone it until they find another one?”

“I'm sure of that much,” Morton agreed. “They can't find just anyone to pull the switch, you know."

“And you can reach him tonight? You're sure now?”

“That's no problem either, Jim. But why?”

Belton smiled grimly. “Okay, here's the deal. I'm going to give you a book. You take the book to the executioner tonight, then you must insist that he start to read it right away. He must start reading it tonight."

Morton stared at him. “But what if he refuses? And what's the point of it all, anyway, Jim?”

“Never mind what the damned point is,” Belton said, his voice rising. “No, take that back. You can figure it out. Just make sure he starts the book. Tell him it's a good way to pass the time until midnight. Tell him it's my last request. Tell him anything, damn it, just make sure he starts reading that book!”

“But—Oh! Oh, now I see it!” Morton grinned hugely. “You're hoping the executioner will get so involved in that book that he'll forget the time and not show up until tomorrow when I can file the appeal. Am I right?”

Belton smiled thinly. “It could happen that way. It's a chance.”

“A slim chance,” Morton said, but his countenance brightened at the thought of an additional fee on the morrow, faint though the possibility was. And just maybe it might work! He grinned some more. Trust a bookworm to think of something so bizarre. Belton was fighting right to the end, in any way he could, just as if he were really innocent.

“Better a slim chance than none at all,” Belton said. “Will you do it?"

“Why not? I've seen stranger things happen. Sure, I'll do my best.”

“Thanks, Ted. You know, if I could just last a while longer, Arrendale might still turn up.”

Morton's grin faded. Usually a condemned man gave it up and apologized to the victim's family this close to execution, if he hadn't done so already. But not Belton. He was going to hang on to his proclaimed innocence, right to the last, along with the fiction of Emil Arrendale, his alibi witness whom he claimed to have been with when the murders occurred.

“I've done everything I could, Jim. I sent out letters everywhere you said Arrendale might have got off to.”

“I think now we should have tried to track down the woman he was with, but I never thought it would get this far. I believed in the system.”

“Don't give up, Jim,” Morton said, but he couldn't look Belton in the eye when he said it. He knew in his heart he could have done more if he had really believed in Belton. It was disconcerting when now, along toward the very end, he was beginning to entertain a glimmer of doubt.

“I've never given up,” Belton said quietly. “Arrendale is out there somewhere, and I'll bet he never knew what happened. He would have come back and testified for me if he did."

“Well—” Morton nodded and shrugged his shoulders. What else could he do?

Belton sighed. “Let's get that book,” he said. “It's my last hope."

At one minute past midnight that same evening, Jim Belton was executed, right on schedule. Across the city a sudden flickering of lights interrupted his erstwhile defender for the first time since curiosity had impelled him to open the book he was supposed to have given to Belton's executioner. He gazed in horror at his watch, then to the open pages of the book and yet again at his watch. He stared blankly into space for a while, shivering silently, but eventually he shook himself all around, shrugged his shoulders and settled back into his chair. Only a few more pages, he told himself. Only a few more pages then I'll go to bed. Belton was probably guilty anyway. This couldn't have helped him.

Hours later Morton turned the last page. He had to struggle to come back to the real world. It was a very good book. A very, very good book. He yawned and wondered what would have happened had he given the book to the executioner. Would the trick have worked? With the total, absolute absorption which had overtaken him he could almost believe now that it would have. But what then? Belton would have been executed eventually anyway. He turned out the light and tried to go to sleep.

Teddy Morton tossed and turned but never slept. Finally he got up and dressed. He had one last duty to perform. Belton had named him as putative next of kin and he had to return to the prison and collect such personal effects as Belton had left, then sign the papers for disposal of the body.

When he arrived at the prison, a guard led him to the small visiting room where Belton's personal effects had been gathered up. There was little of note other than a briefcase full of legal papers accumulated during the appeal process and a stack of books, a mix of worn hardcover and paperback volumes. Morton glanced at them guiltily, unable to keep himself from wondering if there were any others as good as the one he had failed to deliver to the executioner.

An assistant warden arrived and disinterestedly presented papers to be signed. Morton put his signature on them, and the assistant left. There was nothing left to do now. He picked up the box of books and fumbled for the briefcase. Another guard entered the room.

“Are you here for Belton's stuff?” the guard asked.

“I've got it all,” Morton said.

“Not quite. Here's today's mail. Belton had a letter.” He extended an envelope with a laugh. “Don't guess he'll get a chance to read it now.” Morton set the box down and took the envelope. He looked at the return address and turned pale. Arrendale. It was a letter from Emil Arrendale! He sagged, feeling senselessly for the chair. He dropped into it and clutched at the table. He looked at the name on the envelope again, then put his head down onto his arms and began crying. He cried for a long time while the guard waited in bewildered silence.

It was a very good book.

[Back to Table of Contents]

PRIME CITIZEN

Prime Citizen was published in slightly different form by Science Fiction Collectibles Magazine. It is one of Bain's earliest works. Bain wrote the story shortly after his son was sent to prison and it was somewhat of a reaction to that event, as Bain is the type of person who vents his feelings with the written word more so than the spoken one. The theme of the story proved prophetic with the advent of the O.J. Simpson trial and the present overcrowded prisons and overworked justice system. Is the theme valid? Read and decide for yourself!

All the police patrolmen assigned to Sgt. Slater's precinct hated him. He was a thin, acerbic man who wore his stripes as if he were already a Prime Citizen—which he wasn't yet. Nevertheless, he acted as if he were. Nothing any patrolman ever did quite satisfied him, and he was never reluctant to let them know, or to remind them that he would become a Prime Citizen as soon as his grandfather had the grace to die and release his fortune. Thus, Sgt. Slater was particularly aggravated when Corporal Briscoe admitted to some qualms about a routine assignment from which he was just returning.

“Sergeant,” Briscoe complained as he reported to Slater at the squad room, “it just doesn't seem right. I don't care if that guy is a Prime Citizen, he shouldn't be able to gun down a man, rape his wife, then hand me his card and tell me to have him charged the standard fee. Don't ordinary citizens have any rights?"

Sgt. Slater looked pained. “See here, Briscoe,” he said,"you've been on the force long enough to know the difference between a Prime Citizen and a regular citizen by now—or do I have to spell it out for you again?”

“Sarge, I know the history all right.” Briscoe admitted, his honest homely face revealing his agitation. “Shucks, everyone knows that people with lots of money were always more or less above the law; that just goes with having money. But there should be limits. There should...”

Sgt Slater interrupted, clearly irritated. “Briscoe, I don't care whether you know your history or not. So what if people with money or prestige or whatever have always been able to circumvent the law? So what if they do control congress, the banks, the justice computers and everything else? It's not your business to worry about it. You just enforce the law, and you just remember that a Prime Citizen can do any damn thing he pleases—so long as he pays up according to the legal rates.”

“It seems to me—” Briscoe tried again, but he was stifled.

“It seems to me,"Sgt Slater said pointedly, “that if you don't get your act together, you're going to be a private instead of a corporal. You hear me?”

“Yes, Sir,” Briscoe sighed. “Any further orders Sir?”

Sgt. Slater turned to his computer screen for a moment, tapped the keys a few times and tore off a printout.

“Yeah,” he said.” You've still got four more hours before you're off duty. Take care of this little problem here, and try not to screw it up! Oh, and take Trask with you. Maybe you can learn something from him.” He handed Briscoe the paper and turned away.

It was another routine assignment; a bank robbery by a Prime Citizen, accompanied by two hired guns. Briscoe didn't bother to hurry, nor did Private Trask, his sometime partner, seem overly motivated. They drove off slowly. Private Trask was much more accepting of the Prime Citizen Act than Briscoe, perhaps because his brother had just accumulated enough of a fortune to join the ranks. He had only been on the force for six months, but already Briscoe had come to rely on his calming influence to keep him more or less on an even keel. “What the hell was that dude trying to do—commit suicide?” Trask asked as soon as he had scanned the report. His question was purely rhetorical, as his blandly humorous countenance attested.

Briscoe looked at the report again. A bank teller had died resisting the armed robbers. “Maybe he was just trying to protect his employer's property,” he said.

“Maybe he was just crazy, too. When a Prime Citizen with two hired guns comes looking for money, you're better off to give him what he wants; that is, if you want to live very long.”

“He lived,” Briscoe said, with some little satisfaction. “He even killed one of the guns."

“Fat lot of good it did him,” Track laughed. “He was wounded, and the Prime and his other gun got away ... with the money.”

“Maybe we can corral that gun. He’ s bound to be just an ordinary citizen.” Trask snorted. “No way. By now he’ s holed up with that Prime Citizen or some other one, and you know we can't search.”

“But why!” Briscoe cried. “Granted, a Prime Citizen is above the law. But his hired hands are ordinary citizens. We should be able to go after them!"

“Ease up, man. He'll get his eventually, when he comes out of hiding, if some Prime doesn't kill him first. They do police themselves, you know. We may not have the best system in the world, but it works out. Most crime is way down from what it used to be. Not only that, but ordinary citizen criminals are punished now. Once the rich people were removed from the system, the courts started to have time for the real scumbags. It used to be that one millionaire could tie up a court for years with his hotshot lawyers. Delays, dozens of witnesses, appeals, more delays, more appeals—hell, lots of districts and counties went broke just trying to convict one person, and in the meantime nothing much else got done.”

“But some were convicted,” Briscoe argued.

“Uh huh. Then what happened? They either got a minimum sentence at a country club prison, or sailed south while they were still out on bail.” “Okay, Okay,” Briscoe admitted. “You're right to a degree, I guess, but don't you ever get pissed at some of the shit Prime Citizens can get away with?"

Track shrugged."It doesn't pay to get upset with the system. Besides, they do some good things: Remember last week? Prime Citizen Denslow gunned down four drug dealers in two days. Or how about Kennedy? When Senator Branch got caught with his hand in the till, all Kennedy had to do was make a public threat and Branch was gone. They're not the only ones, either. I suspect that dude you investigated this morning won't last long. Some other Prime Citizen will take care of him pretty soon. They have to cull the really bad ones or the voters wouldn't put up with the system. There's a limit to how far we'll go just to save money and have the time to prosecute the ordinaries.”

Briscoe remained silent for awhile as he drove, turning thoughts over in his mind.

“How about Sgt. Slater?” He asked suddenly. “Can you imagine him as a Prime Citizen? He will be, you know, as soon as his grandfather dies and he inherits.” “He'll be a baddie all right,” Trask admitted, “but don't worry about it too much. He'll use his inheritance up in no time just paying off for all the crap he claims he's going to do when he gets it."

“Then he'll just go rob someone, like that guy this morning. You know his assets must have been right on the borderline for him to be so blatant about armed robbery.”

“He'll get killed eventually. You just be cool or the first thing Slater will do come gunning for you—or for Marge. I saw him leering at her the last time you brought her to the Lottery."

“Maybe,” Briscoe said, trying to sound unconcerned; nevertheless, a cold ball of fear grew inside him. He pushed it away, not too successfully.

Trask brought the patrol car to a stop in front of the bank. The crowd, which had gathered when the excitement began, was already dispersing.

“Here's our stop. Let's investigate,” Trask said.

Briscoe liked the little man who had bucked the robbery, but could get little from him, other than what he perceived as a very valid statement.

“I can stand having Prime Citizens being immune to the Law,” the little man said, grimacing from the pain of his wound. “Damn it all, they may as well be. If you had money you never got convicted anyway before the new laws were passed, but what I can't stomach is allowing them to commit robbery so they can keep up their financial status, so they can stay Prime Citizens, so they can pay the legal charges. It doesn't seem right."

“Maybe they didn't get enough money to make it,” Briscoe said hopefully, drawing a disgusted glance from Trask.

The little man would say nothing more, and eventually he was released to have his wound treated.

“What are you going to put in your report?” Trask asked as they drove away.

“Just what the man told me,” Briscoe said. The nondescript little bank clerk's bravery had touched his own reservations concerning Prime Citizens—and especially the thought of Slater as one of them.

“Slater won't like it.”

“The hell with Slater.”

Trask gave his customary shrug. “On your head be it, but leave my name off your report if that's what you're going to say. I don't want to be blown away after he inherits.”

“He wouldn't do that.”

“He's mean enough to do anything, you ask me.”

Briscoe didn't answer, hut his determination hardened.

Sgt. Slater didn't like his report. “Rewrite this,” he said.” There's no regulation saying you have to include that ninny's asinine remarks, and I don't want any report originating from my precinct reflecting adversely on Prime Citizens.” Briscoe's face tightened.” Sgt. Slater, I'm leaving this as is.”

“Damn you, Briscoe! Don't you know your position? I'm going to become a Prime Citizen any day now. Granddad won't last much longer.” He stared hard at Briscoe to be sure he got the message. “Now you either rewrite this report or you can just start watching your ass real soon now!”

“The report stands,” Briscoe said, and turned to leave.

“The hell it does!” Slater raged, rising from his chair.” I'm firing your ass. You'll be out of here tomorrow! If the Captain were in, you'd be gone now! And when I get to be a Prime Citizen you can kiss your ass good by! You needn't worry about Marge, either. I'll see that she's properly taken care of. Now get out of here!"

Briscoe steeled himself at the mention of his wife, but let his back filter out a further threatening monologue as he left the office. Trask joined him in the lobby. “Shit!” Briscoe exclaimed, for lack of anything better to say—or do.

“Yeah, I could hear,” Trask commiserated.” Oh, well, you're not fired unless the Captain says so. Maybe he won't. Hell, maybe Slater will have a stroke tonight. Maybe he'll even change his mind. Lots of things can happen before tomorrow. Come on, let's have a drink before the lottery drawing. It's doubled again since no one won yesterday.”

Briscoe hesitated, thinking of his wife Marge home by herself. He started to leave then thought better of it. Slater might be mean as a wounded pit bull but he was too smart to jump the gun. Maybe a drink would cool him off. Hell, maybe if he had several he might think about swallowing his pride and apologizing and withdrawing the report before it became official. He went along with Trask.

Actually, they had several drinks and were very late getting to the precinct game room. There were very few terminal booths unoccupied by then and they were forced to separate.

Briscoe spied a place and slid into the seat. He activated the screen, then looked around. Sgt. Slater's thin mean face stared at him from the adjoining booth. A predatory sneer covered his face before he turned back to his own terminal.

Briscoe almost left, but finally decided to sit tight. He inserted his credit card into the slot below the terminal screen and punched in code to buy a set of five tickets which was all he could afford on Corporal's pay. What the hell,” he thought. I'm not fired yet. I may as well enjoy myself and if that skinny bastard ever makes a move towards Marge it will be over my dead body. He took out his card again and ordered another drink.

The preliminaries took a long time, while Briscoe reflected bleakly that it probably would be over his dead body. Prime Citizens had all the advantages, just as the wealthy always had, throughout history.

Eventually the finale arrived, but by this time Briscoe was barely aware of it. The extra drinks hadn't calmed him down at all. With Slater in the adjoining booth it was impossible to keep thoughts of Marge being forced to submit to Slater when he became a Prime Citizen from poisoning his mind.

"—and the winning numbers are..."

Groans and screams greeted the announcement, as usual, but Briscoe sat very still as the winning numbers were repeated. His terminal clattered briefly, then stopped. A bright green card thunked into the receptacle below the monitor screen, which was flashing and blinking in huge red letters, PRIME CITIZEN PRIME CITIZEN PRIME CITIZEN.

Slowly, as if in a dream, Briscoe moved. He placed his hand into the fingerprint slot for verification and a moment later picked up the card with his name on it, ignoring the congratulatory printout advising him of his new rights as a Prime Citizen. He reached over and tapped Sgt. Slater on the shoulder to get his attention, then held up his brand new Prime Citizen's identification card with one hand; with the other, he drew his pistol and slowly raised it.

Sgt. Slater's eyes widened with astonishment and dawning horror as he read the card, then they were stilled forever by the bullet that Crashed directly between his staring eyes.

Briscoe realized suddenly that he felt a strong sense power and accomplishment as he holstered his weapon. Maybe, he thought to himself, just maybe there's some justice to this Prime Citizen business after all.

[Back to Table of Contents]

TIGHT JEANS

Tight Jeans may be thought of as a harbinger of some of Bain's later more erotic work, particularly The Sex Gates (in collaboration with Jeanine Berry). It was first published in the chapbook anthology Rites Of Passage, edited by S.G. Johnson. The background in the story reflects the locale where Bain lives, in the East Texas piney woods area north of Houston. In time to come, many of his stories would be set in East Texas and the Houston area. Tight Jeans is also one of his earlier stories, written while he was still concentrating on short fiction rather than novels and book length works. The unexpected twist at the end would become a characteristic mark of most of Bain's work.

There are a lot of Country and Western nightclubs in the Houston area, even one or two of more than local renown. I didn't meet Carol at one of the more noted places, although the one where I did meet her was a quite respectable place called The Yellow Rose.

At all of these places there is the age-old and simple motif that management follows: get the girls to come so the guys will come. They offer various inducements such as free drinks for the ladies, free dance lessons, and so forth. Believe me, it works. The girls come, and the guys follow the girls.

The live bands play some oldies, some goodies, and a mixture of popular and Texas provincial, but what they're really playing is “boy meets girl". During the course of the evening there is a sort of Brownian movement amongst the bar, the dance floor, the tables and the standing room area. The men and women wander, dance, talk, drink, mix, and gradually sort themselves out into couples before closing time.

This one girl attracted me immediately. She wasn't classically pretty, but the way her faded jeans hugged her body drew lots of attention. She also wore a pale blue chambray work shirt tucked in tightly enough that her nipples were plainly limned against the thin soft cloth. She had shoulder length, dark brown hair and startling blue-gray eyes.

There were other girls around, of course, attractive in their own right, but one view of those jeans molded over her posterior stopped me from even considering anyone else. I just had to meet her. No one else would do.

The Tennessee Waltz gaveme my chance. Most younger men can't really get into a waltz, but I can, being a little older. Before anyone else got up the nerve to try I was right by her table.

“I love this song!” I said. “Try it with me?”

She smiled and got up. She joined hands with me and we walked out onto the dance floor and then for five minutes wedanced.There is no more beautiful song than the Tennessee Waltz, in my opinion, and she seemed to silently agree. I hardly had to lead at all. The tiniest touch at the small of her back or the curve of her hip, or just the slightest pressure of my hand seemed to translate my intentions immediately. She followed my every lead with an easy, sensual grace. I felt like we could have waltzed forever until the gentle pressure of her hand brought me back to reality.

“It's over,” she said softly. “I'm Carol. Do you have a name?”

“David,” I said, then added, “The dance may be over, but nothing else is.” The dark liquid depth of her eyes was draining responses from me, which ordinarily would have taken most of the night to elicit.

Usually I'm rather shy and reticent, but something was happening that was completely outside my experiences. It was as if a cloud of pleasant dreams had settled over the both of us. Without even worrying about being embarrassed, rejected, or the fact that we had just met, I pressed on.

“Will you leave with me?” I asked, feeling my heart thump eagerly.

“Yes, I'm Carol,” she said. “I'm driving a white Mustang. Follow me.” I did, being careful not to trip over the clouds I was walking on.

She kissed me lightly on the cheek in the parking lot before getting into her car. I followed her in my old Jeep. Hell, I would have followed her on a skateboard if that's what she wanted.

It wasn't a long drive, but all the way I was thinking, This is unreal, like something out of a fantasy. Meet a pretty girl with an incredibly beautiful body, dance one time with her, and bingo, here we go to her place. Maybe this is what love at first sight is like, I thought dreamily as I parked beside her Mustang. She kissed my cheek again, then led me by the hand up the steps to her apartment. You'll just have to take my word for what happened afterward, and if you don't believe me, I won't blame you a bit.

Carol sat me down on the couch and made us drinks. We sipped and talked until the glasses were empty, then I put my arm around her. She turned toward me and we kissed, languidly at first then more urgently. Our tongues entwined and her fingers played a sensuous rhythm on the back of my neck. I sought her breast, found and cupped the firm fullness and squeezed gently as she stretched and moved to give me easier access. The buttons of her shirt came loose easily and she helped me get it off. The flimsy front closure bra parted easily, loosening her full breasts, nipples erect. She moaned softly as my lips touched and teased.

I moved my lips back up to the downy softness of her neck and explored downward with my hand, caressing the curve of her hip and the length of her thighs then moved my hand back up. She cried small gentle noises and spread her legs invitingly. I played at the juncture there and she writhed eagerly against the pressure of my hand, still making those little female noises of assent. Confidently I moved my hand up again to remove her jeans.

My fingers slid overthe top button of her jeans, and slid again as I tried to grip it. It was like trying to hold onto oil-coated Teflon. I fared no better with the zipper. My fingers slid overit again and again, like skis over hard packed snow.

It's damned embarrassing when a woman is obviously willing but you can't get her undressed, but I wasn't giving up that easily. Between and among caresses to the rest of her body I returned again and again to those obstructive jeans, going from button to zipper to waist and back over the same territory again. My fingers slid over any possible entrance. Finally I did give up.

“Carol,” I said, “please take your jeans off.

She shuddered against me, fingers digging into my back. “David, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, they won't come off.”

What the hell? I disengaged somewhat and looked her in the eye. "Whynot, Carol? What's going on?”

“David, I'm sorry, I want to, but I can't.”

“Why can't you?” I asked. I was frustrated by this time, believe me. ?

“I just can't. My mother won't let me,” she said.

“Your mother's not here,” I told her, kissing her again then lowering my lips to the perfect globes of her breasts. “Let’ s do it Carol.”

She quivered with pent up passion as I teased her nipples into slick erectness with my tongue. I tried one more time to loosen her jeans but it was the same as before. My fingers slid over the button and slid over the zipper as if they weren't even there. The jeans stayed on as if put there with epoxy. God, it was frustrating. I was almost impossibly hard and Carol knew it. Her fingers fumbled at my own zipper and had no trouble. She hugged me tightly for a moment then disengaged just enough to slide her face down to my lap. The moist softness of her lips and tongue dissolved my puzzlement and frustration for an interminable time but eventually I recovered my senses. Something was still wrong.

We were lying side by side on the couch, her naked from the waist up and me from the waist down. I was replete in one way but definitely unsatisfied in a deeper, more basic fashion.

“I still want you,” I said, caressing and admiring her breasts all over again. Her nipples were still erect, hard little buttons against my palm. “Why can't you take your jeans off? And what does your mother have to do with it?”

“Dear David,” she murmured against my chest. “You wouldn't believe me if I told you.”

I reached over to the button of her jeans and tried again to undo it. My fingers slidover the copper fastening without a trace of resistance. “Hell,” I complained. “Try me. I'll believe anything at this point.”

Carol sighed and drew my hand back to her breast.

“David, I think we must have fallen in love, as crazy as it sounds in just a couple of hours. Before tonight it didn't really matter too much to me what mother was doing, but now I want her to let me go. I don't think I can stand it anymore.”

I gripped her by the arms and looked at her very carefully. “You must be of age; or else I shouldn't be here. What kind of hold does your mother have over you anyway? And what does it have to do with your jeans?”

“She's a witch,” Carol said, as matter of fact as if telling me she was a nurse or a waitress.

Witch? What the hell? “You're not serious,” I said. “There's no such thing as—Then I thought of those damned unremovable jeans still clinging to her body like paint to a picture.

“I'm serious,” Carol she said. “Oh, I don't guess she's a storybook witch, like with a black cat and all, but she does have some funny kind of power. If she really wants something to be, it just is. That's why you can't get my jeans off. She's put some sort of spell on me so that anytime I get aroused, it's impossible to do anything about it. Would you believe that I'm twenty years old and still a virgin?”

I considered the statement. “Do you want to stay a virgin?”

“Good heavens, no! I want to be a normal woman now. But I can't, not yet. Mother swears she's not going to take the spell away until I'm twenty-one. She keeps hoping that I'll meet or even marry a scientist, or psychologist or suchlike who can explain how her powers work, and she thinks that staying a virgin will enhance my chances.”

“Why doesn't she try meeting them herself?” I asked. “That would seem to be a simpler way.”

“Well, the way she explains it, the power itself keeps her from going public with it. Whenever she tries, she can feel it slipping away, and she doesn't want to lose it.”

“What good does it do her?” I asked, “Other than to keep you wrapped in denim, so to speak.”

“She makes a living with it,” Carol explained. “There's a stockbroker she has a little spell on, and our bank account always seems to have money in it, even without either of us working.”

I thought some more, not even considering that I was accepting everything she had told me. I was trying to get around her mother's conditions. “Suppose you were already undressed, and I came through your door. What would happen then?”

Carol looked pensive for a long moment, then her face brightened. “I don't know, she said, “I've never tried it. I've never met anyone I wanted to try it with, but why not? Look, you go into the bathroom and wait while I get undressed and get into bed. When I say ‘okay', you come in and get into bed with me, then we'll try again. Maybe it will work.”

“Great,” I said, and headed to the bathroom. I was already getting hard again. “Okay,” Carol called. I pushed the bathroom door open and came back into the bedroom. My basic metabolism rate must have doubled in seconds as I saw Carol lying naked on the bed, supine and ready, legs parted, nipples erect and arms beckoning. I raced forward, ready as I had never been ready before. She turned eagerly to meet my lips, but even as we kissed and I prepared to mount her, the bed sheets lifted of their own volition and engulfed her lower body. Without much hope, I tried to pull the sheets away from her, but my hands slid over them just as they had with her jeans. I could feel her body beneath the cotton coverings, ready and willing, but there was no entrance beneath them, no matter how hard I tried.

Eventually, I gave up and let her satisfy me with her mouth again while I toyed with her wonderfully full breasts, thinking of how much I wanted them to be flattened beneath me while I covered her and penetrated to the very core of her being, but it was not to be. The sheets clung to her like a glove.

After I was satisfied again (but still totally frustrated), I began questioning her, trying to get a handle on the whole unbelievable mess.

“You say your mother is a witch?”

“I guess she'll do until a real witch comes along.” Carol said mirthlessly.

“And she wants you to stay a virgin until you're twenty-one?”

“Yes.”

I tried another track. “Have you ever been in love before?".

“No, David. You're the first. Otherwise...” Her voice trailed off, but I thought I knew what she meant.

“I've never really loved anyone else, either.” I said, realizing that I was telling her the absolute truth. I was silent for a moment, then continued. “Carol, we're in love. Weshould be able to have normal sex. Agreed?’

“Oh. yes. I agree, David.” She said.

“And you say your mother is a witch. Judging from what's happened so far. I'm prepared to believe it.”

“Yes.”

“All right.” I continued. “We're in love. We want to have sex. We may even want to get married.” Carol dimpled, and I hurried on. “All that's standing in our way is your mother. Right?”

“Right,” Carol agreed, stroking my chest.

“So that's it. We want to have regular sex. Your mother has some sort of spell over you that prevents it. So why don't we just go ask her to remove it? After all, we're adults, and we're in love.”

Carol didn't answer for a long while. When she did, she was hesitant. “David, are you sure? The way it is now isn't perfect, but it will only be a little less than a year until it won't matter anymore. Besides, I can have you one way, and even if you can't get my jeans off, if you rub me the right way I can still come.” She illustrated the argument by taking my hand and placing it between her legs. I could feel the downy moistness of her mound through the sheet, ready, but inaccessible. It was all I could do not to weaken.

“It’ s not good enough, Sweetheart,” I said. “I want us to have sex like regular people. Please, let's go see your mother. Together.”

“I'm not sure I trust her about this.”

“It wouldn't hurt to try,” I insisted. Reluctantly, Carol agreed.

The following day she led me to her mother's home. I was surprised. I was expecting something like a haunted house used to scare pre-teens on Halloween Eve. Instead, it was a conventional suburban three bedroom, as ticky-tacky as possible for a house to be. Carol led me into a perfectly normal living room, complete with TV, veneered coffee table and quite ordinary chairs and couch. Her mother, however, wasn't ordinary at all. She didn't wear a pointed hat, but she did have elaborate dark eyebrows and long, lanky black hair. She had high cheekbones similar to Carol's, but her eyes were hypnotically, compellingly black. Those eyes mesmerized me, and it took all I had to finally break contact and turn to Carol.

If I were expecting her to introduce us, it was a forlorn hope. Carol stood mute, waiting for me to lead. Were I not delirious with love it might have ended right there, but just the memory of Carol's naked body held me steady.

“I know what you want,” Carol's mother said suddenly. Her eyes stared at me with an amused glitter.

How do you tell the mother of a twenty-year-old woman that you want to make love to her daughter? Ordinarily, you don't, of course, but this has to be listed as special circumstances. I stared back at her and got the words out.

“Carol and I are in love,” I said, just as though I were a normal suitor in a normal household.

She gave me an enigmatic smile. “Yes, I can see that you're in love,” she said. “I can also see that you want her to get her jeans off when you get a hard on. I'm sorry, my boy. I want her to stay a virgin for now. Come see me next year.”

I glanced at Carol. She still wasn't speaking, but the hopeful look on her face drove me on.

“What can I offer you?” I asked. “I'll do almost anything if you'll remove that spell.”

Carol's mother looked up at the ceiling, then down at the floor. I was beginning to wonder if maybe I was dreaming the whole thing, but when she finally spoke I knew I wasn't dreaming. Just as if it were some prostitute she was speaking of rather than Carol, she asked me point blank: “When you're ready to fuck you want her jeans off. Isn't that right?”

“Yes Ma'am,” I admitted, hoping that would be the end of it but of course it wasn't.

She seemed to consider. “Oh well, it's obvious that you two really are in love. All right, I'll take care of the matter. But there is a condition."

I didn't know what to say. My thoughts could go no further than the image of Carol as I had seen her in bed before those damnable bed sheets got in the way: legs spread, wantonly eager for me to mount and penetrate her with nothing to intervene. Finally I found my voice.

“What's the condition?”

Her mesmerizing eyes bored into mine. “Just this: you must promise that you will see no one else but Carol for the next year.”

I perked up like a puppy being given an extra treat. Why would I want to see anyone else anyway? “I promise,” I said hastily, cutting off something Carol started to say.

“It's done,” she said. “Come here, Carol.".

She hugged her daughter, then made an unexpected announcement. “My stockbroker is having to leave the country on a, um, business trip. I'm going to Switzerland with him to see to some accounts. You kids can use the house while I'm gone. Be good, Carol, and good luck to you, young man. I'll see you in a year or so.” A quick peck to Carol's cheek, a mannish handshake for me, and she was gone, skirts swishing.

“And that's your mother?" I said.

Carol shrugged. “That's her. My mother, the witch. Or something.”

“Do you really think she meant what she said?” I asked. The whole scenario had had an unreal quality to it and had seemed too easy by far.

“With her you really never know, but I suppose we'll find out soon enough. Would you like to look around?”

“Look around for what?”

Carol grinned impishly. “I thought I might show you the bedroom; that is if you're interested.”

She didn't have to ask twice. Inside the room I slowly and carefully undressed her.

This time her jeans came off with no trouble at all. I laid her beside me on the bed and gloried at the sight of her lush body.

“Oh, David,” she breathed as I caressed her sweet curves, “Let's hurry!” She reached down and her fingers slid off the top button of my jeans, and slid over the zipper and slid over my belt and then I was trying to help and my fingers slid and slid and...

She said a year. Carol is being very nice about the whole thing. I just hope the government will let her mother back in the country after all the scandal she and that stockbroker caused in Switzerland. In the meantime, I'm making a serious study of witchcraft. If she can cast spells, maybe I can, too. If I ever learn how, a crooked stockbroker is going to be the least of that woman's problems!

[Back to Table of Contents]

A SPECIAL BOND

A Special Bond was written in response to a request but it was never published, and was set aside until after several of his science fiction novels had become best selling ebooks. Here he plays with a lesbian theme as he did in The Pet Plague, his first novel (though not the first published one). In this story it is done more in fun rather than seriously, as a part of a normal society depicted in some of his later works like The Sex Gates. A Special Bond also marks Bain's fascination with religion as related to society and individuals, a theme he will return to in this anthology and have great fun with.

A number of years after the millennium, a sort of soft magic entered the world and settled in as comfortably as a well-mannered kitten. Or perhaps technology had advanced so rapidly that by then it was akin to magic, at least to some, such as Sister Amy and Sister Callie; however, neither of them gave it much thought one way or another. They were much more interested in minding other people's business, which was what they were doing just now.

The two women sat primly facing Father Brannon in a vestibule of the Reformed Church Of The Lord where they faithfully attended. The long skirts of their plain dresses discreetly covered all but their ankles, and the sleeves ran to below their elbows, just as called for in the revised dress code the new High Bishop had decreed. Each woman had long hair hanging below their shoulders, pulled back out of the way with simple clasps. Though similarly dressed, Sister Amy and Sister Callie looked not at all alike. Amy had deep black hair, straight and shiny with darker ebony highlights, while Callie's was a curly mixture of red and platinum. Both were approaching thirty and had yet to find a man who suited them.

“So,” Father Brannon said, “You think Brother Allen and Brother Gary are, um, living in sin. Is that it?”

“That's it exactly,” Sister Amy said, crossing her slim legs under the folds of her dress. “You can't deny that they were holding hands during the morning service, can you?” Her unadorned face might have been mildly pretty had it not been set in a frown of disapproval and devoid of any trace of makeup.

“And they do live together, right in the same house,” Sister Callie added. “Not only that, we have never seen them with anyone other than men. Isn't that conclusive?” Her brightly colored hair crowned an otherwise plain face and her pleasingly plump body left nothing to be ashamed of, cover it as she would.

Father Brannon sighed to himself before speaking to the ladies and eyed them with no little exasperation, wishing to himself that either or both might someday find companionship outside the other's orbit. It didn't seem likely though. They had joined the church as high school teenagers and embraced the earlier teachings with the fervor new converts were often noted for, and seemed unable to subscribe to the gentler philosophy the reformed church now embraced. This was their third complaint in the last six months, heaped upon many more from the past, always about sex, most usually about gay sex. Father Brannon thought it would be nice to see either of them with a man, but he had about lost hope. In the years of their membership in the reformed church, neither had yet found one sufficiently devout to interest them. He decided to try one more time.

“You do know that times have changed? The reformed church has a more enlightened attitude now, despite the dress codes. Even if your accusations are true, we can only consider it a venial sin at the most. The church encourages closeness and loving relationships, regardless of sex. Surely you remember me pointing that out to you the last time you submitted a complaint?”

“Sin is sin, so I was taught,” Sister Amy said. A vertical frown line between her unplucked eyebrows emphasized her disapproval.

“Gay sex is a sin,” Sister Callie said as she nodded agreement.

Father Brannon reflected. His last two sessions with the young spinsters apparently hadn't changed their opinions one iota. Maybe the women needed stronger medicine. Perhaps a dose of the mild new magic the church was allowed to practice might teach them a little tolerance. It wasn't often that the priest resorted to such but he decided that this was an occasion when it was justified.

“All right, I will pray about your viewpoint. I will even consult with the High Bishop to be certain that it is not I who is in the wrong. First though, you must do penance to cleanse your own minds and perhaps understand what really close relationships entail, just in case it is you who are wrong. You understand?"

“Oh, yes!” The two women said in unison. A penance was nothing to fear, they thought. Father Brannon was a kindly man and never handed out severe blandishments.

“Fine,” Father Brannon said. “One week from today we will meet again. Please stand with me.".

Amy and Callie got eagerly to their feet, pleased that Father Brannon seemed at last to leaning toward their idea of what constituted sin, at least to the extent of consulting with the High Bishop, something he rarely did.

The priest touched his belt computer, spoke inaudibly to it, punched a few buttons, mumbled a phrase in Latin and made several passes in the air with his hands. A glittering white nimbus appeared over the heads of each of the women, then sank to waist level and stretched to enclose their bodies. The nimbuses turned into thin bright circles, then melded into single strings of light that merged with each other, tying them together.

“Eek!” Sister Amy exclaimed.

“My Lord, what is it?” Sister Callie asked, brushing at her waist.

“Be at ease,” Father Brannon said. “This manifestation will simply tie you together for awhile. It won't hurt you a bit. In fact, it is a semi-intelligent little conjuration. It will know exactly how to give you some room when you need it, yet keep you close as it sees fit. And don't worry about attracting attention. It will become invisible very shortly. No one will know it's there except you.”

Even as he spoke, the bands around their waists and the line of connecting light began to fade, and soon disappeared altogether, though both women could still feel the tug of the strand attaching them to each other. Reluctantly, they said good-by to the priest and left his office, somewhat apprehensive, but buoyed by the thought that it would only be for a week, and then perhaps their philosophy would be given greater sway in the church. There was no thought by either that perhaps their own opinions might be changed. Their minds had been made up long ago.

Fortunately (and the priest had known this), Amy and Callie lived in adjoining duplexes and alternated driving wherever they went. They found that the magical tie binding them together somehow allowed them to enter and leave their little electric car with nothing more than a suggestion of attachment, but as soon as they arrived home, the bond became stronger. Try as they might, it would not allow them to enter their separate households alone. Each time they tried to separate, an invisible yank pulled them back toward each other. Finally they gave up and Amy agreed to move in with Callie for the week of penance, her friend being the more dominant of the pair.

The two women prepared a light lunch, all the time feeling a constant awareness of the invisible bond connecting them. If they wandered too far apart, a gentle tug reminded them of the tie. If they resisted, the pull became stronger, like an organic magnet, silently reminding them that they were under edict from the church to explore the manifestations of closeness to another person.

The women sat on Callie's couch and ate from her coffee table. Few words had been spoken so far; each of them exploring in their own minds just what being so closely bonded for the next week might entail. Surprisingly, It was Amy who first voiced their mutual concerns.

“Apparently, we're going to have to both stay in one or the other's home for the week,” she said, finishing the last of her tuna salad.

“Well, I guess so,” Callie replied, “but we can get anything you need from your house and bring it over here.”

Reluctantly, Amy agreed. It wasn't that she minded Callie coming into her home, into the kitchen anyway, but if the bonds proved strong enough, Callie would have to follow her into her bedroom and bath while she gathered necessities, invading her carefully kept privacy (though truth to tell, there was nothing in either room she was particularly ashamed of; it was the idea, that was all).

Then another thought struck her: My Lord, would they have to go to the bathroom together? The thought generated a sudden urgency in her body and caused a bright flush to suffuse her cheeks.

“What's wrong?” Callie asked. Her thoughts hadn't progressed that far yet.

“Um, nothing, I hope. If you're finished, let's go over to my house and get my things."

Surprisingly to Amy, the invisible bond allowed her to enter the bathroom and shut the door, though she still felt a strong attraction and knew that Callie had been unable to wander more than a few feet away. Well, thank the Lord for small favors, she thought. She gathered what she needed and they returned to Callie's side of the duplex.

During the course of the afternoon, the women gradually became accustomed to the limits of their bond. It allowed them in separate rooms at times, though not for long, and it tugged them inexorably together on the couch when they attempted to sit and would not allow separate chairs. It gave them bathroom privileges for their private functions—up to a point. They discovered the limiting factor after dinner and a television movie.

“You can have the first shower,” Callie said, “and I'll let you have the bed tonight while I sleep on the couch. We can switch tomorrow.”

“Fine,” Amy agreed, but it was not to be. Alone in the bathroom, she undressed, but when she pulled back the shower curtain and attempted to enter the bath, she heard a shriek outside. The door was flung open and Callie stumbled inside. Amy hurriedly grabbed a bath towel and covered herself.

“I couldn't help it!” Callie exclaimed. “I was pulled in here! My Lord, I felt I was being crushed until I got the door open!"

Amy was blushing at the amount of exposed skin open to Callie's inspection. She turned her back. “I felt it, too. I guess the shower is off limits unless we're together."

Callie averted her eyes from Amy's bare back. “We don't have to bathe tonight. Put on your nightgown and let's go to bed.”

That was the second surprise. It was either both on the couch or both in the bed. The bond connecting them would allow nothing else, though they were able to undress and put on their respective nightgowns with no problem. Once in bed and covered from sight of each other, they managed to relax for a moment—but just for a moment.

Callie turned on her side, as far away from the other woman as she could get. Almost immediately, she grew uncomfortable. She felt a pulling sensation, impossible to resist for long. Ultimately, she turned over and inched toward the middle of the bed. Relief was almost immediate.

Amy felt the bed shift and found that the bond connecting them was pulling her toward Callie's restless body. After pointless twisting and turnings, she gave in to the sensation, though not without considerable apprehension at the thought of being in such close proximity to a scantily clad person. Fortunately for her peace of mind, the attraction eased off as they got closer.

Callie was having exactly the same reservations as she felt Amy move on the bed in the darkened room. Both women breathed a sigh of relief when they found that the attractive force waned into nothingness once they were within a few inches of each other. With a little experimentation, they found that they could relax by either facing each other or turning to one side or the other, spoon fashion. The relief was short lived. Facing, very close together, the third hand syndrome came into play. Any movement touched a shoulder or neck of the other. Placement of the other hands was just as touchy. Between them, they tended to inadvertently brush against nether parts no matter how careful the movement. Callie started when she tried moving her hand from between their bodies and it slid over one of Amy's silken covered breasts. When Amy tried to move her hand from between their bodies, she blushed violently in the darkness as Callie's nearby thigh got in the way. At last they compromised by each tentatively putting an arm around the other's waist and trying to relax. That worked somewhat better and eventually they each drifted into an uneasy sleep.

The human body never remains in one position all night. Dreams cause movement and turning and shifting. Callie awoke in the darkness, taken from sleep by the pleasant sensation of Amy's back snuggled against her breasts. Her arm was around the other woman, holding her close, with one hand cupped contentedly over her breast. She let loose immediately and turned over, wondering whatever Amy would have thought had she had been awake. Inevitably, her turning pulled Amy along with her until their positions were reversed. Amy never came fully awake. She murmured sleepily and draped an arm around Callie, its natural position letting her hand come to rest on the slope of Callie's breast.

Callie felt her nipple slowly become erect against Amy's warm palm. She tensed, then slowly relaxed as nothing further happened. Eventually, she slept again.

The next day passed. Perhaps the priest had known they were both off from work for the week, perhaps not. It wouldn't have mattered that much anyway, as they both had jobs in the same office, at adjoining desks. Regardless, both Amy and Callie were glad to remain inside. They spent the day exploring anew the bonds holding them, finding out how far apart they could move during household tasks, cooking light meals, sitting together on the couch, watching television programs, reading magazines. Though neither mentioned the subject, both were holding in their minds the fact that each wanted a bath, or at least a shower, and the invisible connection was not going to allow them to wash separately.

Callie finally broached the subject after she zapped away the last of the late news.

“Amy, I just have to get clean. Do you mind if we try again?” She didn't look at her companion as she said this.

Amy blushed. “I'll manage if you can. Maybe, though—"?

Amy's hopes were dashed. They were forced to undress and shower together, the priest's magical bond still holding them close. Callie could not avoid examining Amy's breasts, one of which she had held so intimately the night before. The warm water coursing over her body brought her virginal nipples prettily erect. Remembering how Amy had also touched her own, even though in drowsy sleep at the time, she hurried her shower and tried not to notice the naked body so close to her. Amy demurely followed her example, though she appeared not quite so uncomfortable. Callie wondered if she had really been asleep the previous night, then discarded the thought as unworthy. She slipped on a fresh nightgown, watching Amy from the corner of her eye as she buttoned up the soft, male-type nightshirt she had brought. She flicked the light off and followed Callie as the bond dictated.

Again, the invisible tug of the connection brought them together into the middle of the bed, still only inches apart.

“I guess we have to get used to sleeping like this, at least for the rest of the week,” Amy said. Her breath from freshly brushed teeth wafted a warm mint smell into Callie's nostrils, so close were their faces to each other.

“Father Brannon said we needed to know what it was like to be close to another person,” Callie responded. “I guess we're finding out."

Amy hesitated, then spoke. “I still can't imagine what two men could see in each other. This is all right for us, I guess, just to give us an idea, but can you imagine two men making love to one another? I hope he kicks them out of the church.”

“I do too.” Callie felt Amy's breath again. Their faces were very close and again, the third arm syndrome was apparent. Bowing to the necessity, though, their other arms rested lightly and comfortably around each other's waist. Each still felt slightly uneasy at the touch, but was beginning to get used to it. The third arm was something else again. Callie moved hers, trying to get it comfortable. Amy, trying to position herself to give Callie more room, slipped down a bit in the bed. As if it had a mind of its own, Callies's arm slid under Amy's neck and around her shoulders. Amy moved lower to get more comfortable. The movement caused their lips to brush. Callie felt a tingle course through her body.

“Sorry.”

“It's all right,” Amy said. “Mother used to always kiss me goodnight."

“Really?”

“Really. I still think about it sometimes.” Amy shifted slightly to get more comfortable. Callie became acutely aware that the position of their bodies was such that any movement at all caused their breasts to rub together. She felt the touch of Amy's nipples against her own and felt a sudden heat in her body, a sensation she had always suppressed before. Momentarily, guilt threatened to overwhelm the warmth, but somehow it became unimportant. She pressed closer to Amy, feeling the length of their bodies in intimate contact over-ride any sense of shame or thought of what imagined sins had brought them together. Their lips met, a soft melding of feminine flesh that contacted briefly before Amy pulled away, as far as she could anyway.

“Oh. Oh. This isn't right,” Amy said.

“It's Father Brannon's fault. No, I'm sorry. I should be ashamed. It's just that—"Amy moved back closer, feeling her breasts create warmth against Callie's body. She shivered, then backed away again. “Please, Callie. Let's go to sleep. This is too confusing.”

Callie acquiesced, though dreams were a long time coming. Again, she woke in the night with her hand firmly covering Amy's breast, as if the bond connecting them had dictated it. This time, she remained as she was, thinking of her and Amy's previous admonitions against the two male couples and the one female coupling they had lately railed against. Was it really that terrible? Her body was speaking to her and she tried to shut out the voice but it was very hard to do. She thought that she would be glad when the week was over. Eventually, sleep captured her again, but not before she thought for the second night that Amy might be awake, only feigning sleep while she enjoyed the touch of Callie's hand on her breast, now overtly caressing it whenever her mind drifted and her body took command.

During the day Tuesday, Callie and Amy began to lose awareness of the bond connecting them as they adjusted to the limitations imposed by it. It was invisible, and now they unconsciously went about their business with no thought of how the priest had attached them to each other. Their movements about the house brought no indication of anything special binding them.

When they showered that night, they began to be able to look frankly at each other's bodies. There had been no thought of bathing separately, having already learned that the bond would not allow it. Callie admired the trimness of Amy's body, wishing that she were that slim, while Amy was taken with the fullness of Callie's breasts and hips.

They came together in bed that night with no hesitation, knowing that if they did not, the bond would forcefully pull them into position. Almost immediately, they found themselves kissing in a warm embrace, Callie holding Amy to her with an arm under her shoulder and an arm around her slim waist, with her hand tending to drift toward the curve of her hip. Without quite knowing what she was doing, she pushed with her tongue. Amy obediently opened her lips and their tongues slid together and began exploring, like playful puppies newly out of the basket. Callie thought of how they had slept together and slid her hand up to Amy's breast, feeling the nipple become erect almost immediately upon being touched through the thin cloth. Then slowly, wondering all the time if this was what the priest really meant then to do, she felt for the buttons of Amy's nightshirt and fumbled it open.

Amy's breast felt as soft as velvet and as warm as a silk heating pad and as resilient and firm as a contoured pillow. It was an experience like no other, an alien awakening impossible to control. She lowered her lips in the darkness until they met the erect nipple of Amy's breast. Her lips closed over it. Her tongue swirled around it. She sucked gently and all of it came into her mouth. She felt her body flushing with heat, or excitement or shame; she couldn't tell which and presently she didn't care; she simply enjoyed it.

Amy clutched Callie's shoulders with an intensity borne of bodily necessity. She slid her hand over the curve of Callie's hip and down the length of her thigh, marveling at the smoothness of her skin, but stopped then. The whole thing was going too fast for her. The lower length of Callie's body felt as if it were out of bounds. She withdrew her hand and forced Callie's face back up, but then couldn't avoid another kiss. Finally, though, she turned away, hugging her own body while Callie remonstrated with herself and had to be content with simply snuggling against Amy's back. Sleep that night was a very long time coming to both of them. They squirmed and moved within limits of the bond still holding them, but eventually the night passed.

The following nights saw a progression of love making. During the day, the women became more and more comfortable with each other, though blushes and avoiding of glances made them aware of how far they had come with each other, induced by the priest's unbreakable bond. Religion became far from their minds, though occasionally each of them wondered what they would tell the priest when they saw him again.

Thursday, neither of them bothered to wear a nightgown after their shower. Immediately upon coming to bed, they began caressing each other, becoming more and more enamored with the possibilities of feminine intimacy. Still, there was as yet no contact with tongue or mouth below the waist. They contented themselves with long intimate kisses, fondling of breasts with hands and mouth and hands exploring with titillating hesitancy the soft curls of hair guarding the junction of their thighs. That didn't last, of course.

Friday night, Amy gazed down at Callie's shadowed face buried between her upraised thighs, tongue exploring the folds of the most intimate parts of her body. She shuddered as an exquisitely satisfying orgasm enveloped her body, then drew Callie up over her and curled her arms and legs around her, trying to get as close as she possibly could while wondering anew at the pleasure the priest's magic bond had inadvertently granted them.

Saturday night was much the same, except this time Amy reciprocated, burying her own mouth in the folds of Callie's body, wanting nothing more than to bring her companion to the same sort of climax she had known. Before the night was done, she found herself with Callie straddled over her, upended, while she worked her tongue up through curls of pubic hair and onto Callie's engorged clitoris. When she felt the position was right, she slid her hands under the length of Callie's body and closed them over her hanging breasts, thrilling to the sudden weight of them in her hands. At the same time, Callie's tongue and lips stimulated an almost unbearable sensation between her thighs, leading to yet another orgasm.

Later, in the early hours before dawn, as they lay together, Callie kissed Amy's neck and said, “Tomorrow is Sunday. Father Brannon will remove the bonds then. What do we want to tell him?”

“Mmm. Tell him to keep them on,” Amy said, nuzzling Callie's cheek with her lips."We don't need them anymore,” Callie said. She bent and touched Amy's nipple with her tongue.

“Oh lord, don't do that anymore. I can't stand it.”

“All right dear. Let's get a little sleep."

“Callie?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you think Father Brannon will know?”

“Yes. No. Maybe. Oh Lord, let's just wait and see what he says when he removes the bond.”

“Callie?”

“Yes, dear?"

“Once more? Please?"

Father Brannon escorted Callie and Amy into his office one week to the day since he had seen them before. Almost immediately he noticed how much more relaxed they were and thought his penance therapy must have worked this time. He sincerely hoped so. The High Bishop had been adamant: suppress those fundamentalist women and don't bother me again. If the bonding hadn't given them a more even appreciation of intimacy between same sex companions, he didn't know what else he could do.

“Well, ladies?” Father Brannon asked.

“Father, we would like to withdraw our complaint,” Callie said. “The way you kept us bonded for a whole week made us realize that there should be no bar to same sex couples."

“I'm glad to hear it,” Father Brannon said. “Do you agree, Sister Amy?”

“Oh, yes,” Amy said. “Can you have the bonds removed now? We don't need them any more."

“Removed?” Father Brannon raised his eyebrows in consternation. “Why, the bond between you two dissolved two days after I conjured it up. It's not possible for it to last longer than that. Didn't I tell you?"

A last blush colored Sister Callie's face. “All I remember is that you told us to come back and see you a week from Sunday. Do you mean that since Tuesday, we haven't been attached?”

Father Brannon frowned first then smiled beatifically, suddenly understanding. “Why, no. Anything which happened since then was of your own devising.” And he had been wishing they would find a man! God's ways were certainly mysterious! Still smiling, he asked, “Do you have any complaints? Was the penance too severe?”

Sister Callie and Sister Amy exchanged glances. It was Callie who finally spoke. “No, Father. That bonding was hardly a penance at all. We thank you."

“Sister Amy?"

“It started out as if it would be a bit disconcerting, but I have no complaints. Maybe you could use it again if someone else gets out of line.” She blushed, but only faintly.

“Fine, fine. I'm glad everything worked out all right. Now that we're all straight, I have other business to take care of. Will you excuse me?”

“Certainly,” Sister Amy and Sister Callie agreed in unison. They walked out of the priest's office separately, but as soon as they were out of sight and were sure no one else was watching, they began holding hands and moving closer and closer to each other. By the time they reached their duplexes, they were practically inseparable.

Magic and Science can change the world. For two young religious spinsters, it certainly did, even if most of it was of their own devising.

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TALE OF A TALE

Bain would be the first one to tell you that he is no poet, but like most writers, he has experimented with the muse. And since he writes a lot of science fiction, one day he decided to try his hand at a science fictionish poem. The result would probably have amused his cat if it could read, but even if cats could read, they probably wouldn't, not even the Manx cat which inspired this ditty.

Manx kitten had no tail; born that way, you see,

how he circled, ever chasing, for tail that would not be.

Little Kitten, kept on looking, tail thought he to find,

knowing, certain, that such appendage, belonged on his behind.

Disappeared, did Manxy kitten, one day in bright sunshine,

off went he, to other worlds, parallel to yours and mine.

Who he saw there, how he managed, such knowledge do we lack,

all that's known, to mortal senses, is kitten did come back.

Now happy days, oh joyful chasing, with what he found in space,

No longer Manxy, inches longer, a tail in rightful place!

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LIGHT AT THE END OF THE TUNNEL

Light at the End of The Tunnel was previously published in Fury Magazine. Here, Bain returns to a theological theme in a very unusual story about the prospects of life after death, always a fascinating subject. Bain uses his military and medical background, and his characteristically twisted ending to make this a most intriguing story, one where the reader can't possibly guess the ending. Anyone who has ever been in the military will get an extra kick out of this story and hardly anyone will be able to forget it.

Miss Ellen Simpson was a critical care nurse most of her professional career, and a very good one at that. Having no family, all her maternal instincts were directed towards her patients. She dispensed tender loving care in lavish doses, and radiated such an intense aura of goodness that many of her wards came to think of her as an angel, albeit a rather homely and slightly overweight one.

Toward the end of her career, Miss Simpson began to believe in angels herself. On several occasions she was present when dying patients had out of body experiences. Upon recovery, they all described the sensation in much the same way. On the one hand, they would look down from above their prostate bodies and see the medical staff working on them with frenzied expertise, and on the other hand there appeared a bright spacious tunnel, lit from the other end by a heavenly glow, where a hazy sepulchral being beckoned with almost irresistible appeal for them to come forward and be forever happy in the eternal afterlife.

When the resuscitation attempts were successful, the patients’ description of the actions taken to revive them were startlingly accurate, and always, they spoke lovingly of the beautiful tunnel of light and the promise waiting for them there; another existence, so lovely and satisfying that they no longer feared death at all.

Miss Simpson grew interested enough in the phenomena to delve into several research reports on the subject. She also read a popular book describing such experiences, and although she had never been more than passingly religious, the evidence to her seemed compelling; there was indeed an afterlife, and whatever waited at the end of that beautiful tunnel of light must be at least akin to heaven. She began to attend church on a regular basis.

Inevitably, Miss Simpson's own moment of truth arrived. It began with high blood pressure associated with age and the stress of her job, and ended when the pressure ruptured a weakened blood vessel in her brain.

She was conscious of falling, then felt the bruising thump of the floor. She tried to speak, but only slurred, animal-like noises ensued. She tried to move, but was unable to, except for one feebly waving arm and the random flexing of one knee. Blackness descended, then after an interminable time she could see again.

Her vision encompassed a body pinned to a brightly lighted bed, partially obscured by doctors and nurses in frantic motion, doing things she was completely familiar with: starting IV's, intubating, adjusting the defibrillator, injecting medicines. The moving workers shifted momentarily, and she beheld her own face, grotesquely distorted by a one-sided slackness which was even more emphasized by an endotracheal tube jutting from her jaws.

At that moment, a brilliant light drew her attention in another direction. The light was like a shining tunnel, glowingly enticing. Tentatively, she entered it. The light surrounded her and a sense of overwhelming contentment enveloped her. She moved farther along and now a soundless voice called lovingly, describing without earthly words a waiting paradise.

She looked back briefly at the figures still laboring over her body, but that existence now held no appeal for her. Without regret, she turned away, and sensing an exquisite happiness ahead, she followed the angelic summons—

and was immediately inducted into an army of souls engaged in a dirty, bloody, senseless war against similar spirits from another world.

Even in the afterlife, the mendacity of recruiting sergeants is legendary.

[Back to Table of Contents]

GOD VS BOILERROOM MCSCAM

Bain's first published novel, Medics Wild, was touted by its original publisher as “The funniest war novel since M*A*S*H.” Unfortunately for readers, the publisher went broke and less than a thousand copies of the book were printed. It has since been republished by Double Dragon Publishing in ebook format and is available at fictionwise.com. Anyone who has read it or Life On Santa Claus Lane will turn the next page in great anticipation and appreciation of Bain's wacky sense of humor. In this short novella Bain not only explores many of the nuances of religion but he does it in a wildly humorous and irreverent manner that will have you in stitches—when you're not affronted by the way God is depicted. The theme of this novella was developed through a dialog in a series of letters with his nephew, James “Big Bucks” Burnett, president and founder of the Mr. Ed Fan Club. Some of the letters to God also appear in Bain's romantic comedy, Hotline To Heaven. If you are very religious, read this tale with caution: you will most likely be offended even as you are laughing yourself silly.

Boilerroom McScam blinked through his hangover haze at the letter which had suddenly appeared on the desk in his self-styled home office, as if by magic.

This is God. I decided to start a fan club because lately, I haven't been getting much respect. You know, ‘God is dead', and so on. A lot of people have also been trying to horn in on My monopoly, too. Every little cult leader nowadays thinks he has to style himself as God, Yaweh, Jesus Christ and the like. I wouldn't be surprised to see someone any day now begin calling himself “The Holy Ghost", and launching a televangelism empire on the concept. That wouldn't bother Me, of course, but The Holy Ghost would probably get a bit upset.

Another reason I am allowing a fan club to be started for Me is that despite the lack of respect, I am getting so many prayers and requests for blessings that sometimes I have a hard time sorting them all out. After all, I am more than fifteen billion years old now, and I don't think as quickly as I did when I was young. Allowing My fans to write Me directly will help solve that problem. I can concentrate on one person at a time instead of trying to listen to everyone at once. Besides, there are so many of you now. I do have one requirement, though: before asking Me anything, you must first join My fan club. Dues are only twenty dollars a year, or one thousand dollars for a lifetime (this life) membership. I invented the concept of TAANSTAFL long, long ago and it has served nicely ever since.

Anyone can join My fan club. I do not discriminate on the basis of race, religion, sexual orientation, or national origin, (which you should already know if you've heard anything about Me at all, but judging by your intolerances, I sometime doubt you have). Also, in order to disseminate responses to My fan mail as widely as possible, I am authorizing My agent to publish some of them for everyone to read, including my letters to him. All revenues will go to My agent, since, of course, I have no use for money.

I'm sure many of you will wonder why I picked a character such as Boilerroom McScam as the agent for My fan club. I chose him because he is very experienced in mail and phone solicitation, even if he is somewhat irreverent and dishonest.

Boilerroom wondered what the joke was but he decided that any telephone solicitation this morning wouldn't go over very well, at least not until he got on the outside of a little more of the huge Bloody Mary he was drinking. Might as well go along with it the gag, he thought, pulling out a piece of paper.

He wrote:

God,

Do You really mean that? I can keep all the money from Your fan club? Gosh, You're my kind of God. Thank you.

Gratefully,

Boilerroom.

Boilerroom jumped from his chair when another letter appeared just as magically as before, lying atop his own. It read:

Dear Boilerroom,

No need to be grateful. I picked you to be My agent because you don't really need the money. You've been living it up all your life, so you should be used to it and not worry about how much money My fan club showers on you. You must pay all expenses of My fan club out of the revenues, though. Remember, I don't use money.

Whatever the joke was, money was the magic word for Boilerroom McScam. He continued with the improbable correspondence.

Dear God,

That's right, I forgot. Even though I'm used to having money, I still get carried away with the thought of it. I promise You I will use it to a better purpose than Jim Bakker did, and You can be assured I will have no contact with Jessica Hahn whatsoever.

Yours,

Boilerroom

Another letter appeared.

Dear Boilerroom,

I should certainly hope that you will use the money from My fan club better than Jim Bakker did with the PTL Club. If he is still around and should apply for a membership, charge him $98,000,000.00. Tell him I said so. Now get busy and get my fan club started.

I'll give you a hint. Try some newspaper ads. Also when the letters come in, just put them in this stack and I'll answer them, then we can publish. That should generate more publicity,

God

Boilerroom did so. He wasn't exactly a believer but when God says get busy, he thought it might not hurt to put forth a little effort. He was very surprised when the membership requests began coming; arriving in the mail in response to his ads. He fondled the checks and cash fondly. And he got another letter from God.

Dear Boilerroom,

Have you had any responses yet? Don't tell Me I should already know. I like to be surprised sometimes.

God

God,

I find it hard to imagine You being surprised since You are supposed to be omniscient, but I admit I don't understand everything about You. Yes, there have been some responses. A sampling follows, after which I will get back to You.

Yours truly,

McScam

McScam was astounded that as he opened the letters, God's answers to questions miraculously appeared. After making duplicates he carefully added one of them to the stack of correspondence which God told him would be published and stuck the other in the SASE he had asked members to send with their applications. He was also astounded at some of God's answers.

Dear God,

I think you are neat, and I am so glad that You have started a fan club. I am thirteen years old, and I want to grow up to be just like You. Enclosed is my money for a God tee shirt and twenty dollars for my membership fee. Keep up the good work.

Your faithful fan,

Wanna B. Liku

Dear Wanna,

I am glad you think I am neat. The more money you send and the more tee shirts you buy, the neater I will get. Thank you for appreciating my good work. I try hard, except on Tuesdays, which I take off (they got it wrong in that first chapter).

P.S. Your tee shirt order may be somewhat delayed, as I had made no provisions for them. It is a good idea, however. As a reward, I will give you a 10% discount on your next order.

Dear God,

Enclosed is twenty dollars to join Your fan club. I like everything You do, except sometimes you don't answer my prayers. Why is that?

Michael V. Smith

Dear Mike,

Thank you for attempting to join My fan club, but I am sorry to inform you that your check is going to bounce since you gave all your money away. As to your prayers, please take care of this matter and I will see what I can do.

God,

I never belonged to a fan club before, but I just had to join Yours. I would like to ask You a question: Why do you let people do bad things. Aren't You all-powerful?

Chastity Pureheart

Dear Chastity,

Thank you for joining My fan club. In answer to your question, I let people do bad things so they can get acquainted with My chief competitor, the Devil. Even though I am all-powerful, I allow a little competition so I don't get bored with the everlasting life. I note that you didn't mention the bad things that you have been doing with that vibrator. Was this an oversight?

Your God.

God

I think Your fan club is great. How did You ever convince Mr. McScam to get it started? I would be scared of the responsibility.

Drud G. Brain

Dear Drud G.

Yes, My fan club is great, isn't it? How could it be otherwise? I picked Mr. McScam to run My fan club because he has lots of understanding and experience with My many manifestations and doesn't hold Me in too much awe like so many people do. That counts for a lot. I can't have someone running My fan club who is too worshipful, otherwise, I might as well do it Myself.

God

God,

So I called Mohammed a terrorist. So what? I did it all for your glory, so what's the big deal? Why don't you smite those Muslims?

Yours, Falwell

Dear Jerry,

You resemble another Jerry who has a TV program, do you know that? And I can take care of my own glory without help, unless I ask for it, which I didn't in your case. As for smiting the Muslims, the Bushes and Israel and India are pretty well taking care of that so there's no need for me to get involved.

God,

Why did You desert me? All I was trying to do was take in lots of money for Your greater glory. I wasn't really spending that much on myself, honest.

Bakker

Dear Jim,

I never desert anyone, but that twenty bucks to join My fan club won't cut it. For you, the charge will be $98,000,000. You can bring along Jessica Hahn if you like, but please be more discreet this time.

Remembering,

God

Dear God,

I deserted the catholic faith in order to join Your fan club. You won't hold that against me, will you? I promise to pay my dues every year without fail.

Loveboy

P.S. I'm very sorry, but I just couldn't resist those cute little sprats.

Dear former Bishop Loveboy,

So long as you send your money to My fan club and promise to stay away from little kids in the future, you have nothing to worry about. Have you ever thought about a sex change operation?

Mr. McScam,

Your fan club for God is an abomination!! Repent now, or you will certainly spend an eternity burning in hell.

The Pope

Pope,

I'm sorry you don't like God's fan club. Could it be that you just can't stand a little competition?

Yours truly, McScam (For God)

Dear God,

I joined Your fan club because I am scared of dying. Is there really an afterlife? Please tell me there is.

Terrified Cancer Patient

Dear Patient,

I'm sorry, I can't tell you that. I have never died, and have no plans to die in the future, so your question doesn't mean anything to me. I wish you the best of luck, however.

Eternally yours,

Dear God,

I have joined Your fan club and I don't regret the expense one bit. If Your fan club becomes a worldwide phenomenon, do You intend to dispense with missionaries? I wish You would. They always act so superior to us folks.

African

Dear African,

If My fan club becomes that widespread, missionaries will dispense with themselves, since they will become members of My fan club, too. I dislike the prospect of them becoming unemployed, but perhaps they will find something else to do. In the meantime, try to put up with them. If you can't, try to find a big pot. That will solve the unemployment problem. I warn you, though. They are stringy and tough. Use only as a last resort.

Dear God,

Since being elected president, I find I am having trouble running this country. Can You help me?

Thank you,

George Bush,

President

Dear George,

First join My fan club, and then ask me for help. A lifetime membership would be gratefully appreciated.

Yours Truly,

God

Hello, Boilerroom,

God again. Be sure and publish this and all my responses to all the people who have joined My fan club:

Thank you. I appreciate your devotion, and I'm sure My agent appreciates the money you are sending to him; however, I do have one complaint. Not enough of you are joining it. Please tell all your friends about My fan club, and be sure to let them know that I answer all letters, no matter how dumb.

I have read all of My fan mail so far, and I am authorizing My agent to publish another sample of My responses. I have to admit that I am a little disappointed, though. So far, most of My mail seems to be slanted towards personal concerns. Aren't any of you interested in the larger questions?

Dear God,

Your comments are noted and received. I will try very hard to get more publicity for Your fan club so that we can get more people to join, and incidentally, put more money in our bank account. The tee shirt sales are going nicely, but fans aren't showing much interest in Your glow-in-the-dark statues. Should I have a different sculptor re-design them?

Boilerroom

Dear Boilerroom,

Thanks for the letter. I know you are doing your best to get more members, but I implore you to try even harder. If you opened a bank account in our joint names, please remove Mine immediately. I told you already that I have no use for money. Leave the statues as they are. I think it's kind of cute the way I am depicted looking into My belly-button, even though I don't really have one.

Yours,

God

God,

I didn't have to remove Your name from the bank account. The bank refused to allow me to endorse checks made out to You. All revenues are now being deposited in my account. I am very glad that You don't care anything about money.

I will step up my efforts to get more people to join Your fan club. I think it is the greatest idea You have ever had, especially since You don't want any of the money.

Is there anything else I can do for You?

Truly,

Dear Boilerroom,

Let's see some more of the fan mail. I feel like being surprised again, even though that's a real trick for Me to do to Me.

God

Anything You say, Big Fellow. I hope You enjoy the following letters.

As usual, God's answers to questions posed in the letters appeared immediately.

Dear God,

You are always portrayed as an old man with white hair, a long white beard and dressed in white robes. Is this what You really look like?

Admirer

Dear Admirer,

No, it isn't. My publicity agents have taken a lot of liberties with my appearance over the eons. Don't blame them, though. Almost everyone seemed to go along with them. As to my actual appearance, there are no mirrors here, so it's hard to tell. It was a good question, though.

God,

I am a practicing Baptist. I joined your fan club so I could get an answer to an important question: is full immersion really necessary in order to be saved?

Practicing Baptist

Dear Practicing,

I will leave that up to you. Practice makes perfect. When you start getting old, be sure and wear a life preserver or you may find out quicker than you really wanted to. Thank you for joining My fan club.

As always,

God

Dear God,

Are Muslims allowed to join Your fan club? If so, I have some questions for You.

A Muslim

Dear Muslim,

Anyone can join My fan club, so long as they pay the dues. I will answer all your questions after you join. Don't delay—I am becoming very busy lately with My fan club, and letters are answered in the order they are received.

God

God,

I have a question: why will You answer by mail and not answer me directly when I pray?

Wondering

Dear Wondering,

So many people pray to me all at once that I have trouble sorting out who is asking for what. Answering a letter is much easier and doesn't run the risk of mixing up requests. I don't answer most prayers, anyway; you do. Think about it.

Dear God,

Can a rich man go to heaven? I am rich, and I sure would like to, but the Bible says it would be easier to get a camel through the eye of a needle. Is this really true?

Donald Trump

Dear Don,

It depends on what kind of heaven you want to go to. You select it and I'll let you know. Also, if you bought a lifetime membership in My fan club, you wouldn't be so rich, and not have to worry so much.

God,

I posed nude for Playboy, and now I'm wondering: was that a sin?

Bambi Bare

Dear Bambi,

Send me some of the pictures you posed for and I'll tell you. If you are less than a 36C cup, it probably was a sin. Regardless, I'm sure My agent will enjoy the pictures before forwarding them to Me. I'll try not to look before receiving them.

God

God,

Is card playing a sin?

Gambler

Dear Gambler,

Only if you lose. I will bet you one hundred dollars, cash, that you can't stack the deck on Me. If you lose, send the money to my agent.

God

Dear God,

Why do editors keep rejecting my books? I am a good writer, although my speling isn't too good.

Frustrated writer

Dear Frustrated,

Don't feel bad. Editors rejected lots of the Bible, Koran, and some of My other books, too. That's why religions are so confusing now.

God.

P.S. Those editors are still in purgatory.

God,

Do animals have souls? I would like to think that my faithful dog will accompany me to heaven.

Animal Lover

Dear Lover,

If I were you, I would think about getting myself to heaven first. I know all about what you did last Saturday night. Besides, you are behind on your dues.

Dear God,

I joined Your fan club because most churches don't seem to want me. Now I want to ask You a very personal question: Do You have anything against homosexual people? I don't want to sign my real name, so please reply to:

Lesbian

Dear Lesbian,

You may as well have signed your real name because I know who you are. But be at ease; I have nothing against Lesbians, especially ones who join My fan club. In fact, I think lesbians are neat. Women were one of My greatest inventions, and if you want to love them, I will accept it as praise for one of My creations that I am really satisfied with. I even subscribe to Playboy.

God,

I am a practicing catholic, but lately I have begun to have doubts. Can You tell me, does the Pope really get his instructions directly from You?

Doubting

Dear Doubting,

He thinks he does.

Dear God,

Do you think a computer will ever achieve true intelligence? If so, how will we know?

Dear Hacker,

Yes, they will. You will know when the first computer invents a God. When that happens, you may worship Him if you please. It won't bother Me, and I don't mind competition, so long as He doesn't try to start a fan club.

Dear God,

Are You really omnipotent, omniscient, and omnibenovelent all at the same time? I don't see how that can be. If You can answer that question, I will pay for a lifetime membership in Your fan club.

Religious Scholar

Dear Religious,

It's simple. Haven't you ever heard of the Trinity? Please remit your one thousand dollars to My agent. He has been working very hard and needs a vacation.

Omnilly yours, God

It's Me again. When I authorized this fan club, I thought I would get lots of mail from famous people on earth, but so far, I haven't seen that happen except for the ones from Jim Bakker and Donald Trump and the president, who hasn't even joined yet. I admit, though, that I am behind on My mail. Having to manage everything in the universe does keep me busy. Also, I have not yet received a single unsolicited lifetime membership application for My fan club. Do you think you can write God just once and get all the answers? Let Me assure you that you can't. When I was young, I was limited to just this universe, but since I created black holes, I can now flit back and forth between all of them, which of course I created, too. I am going on a trip now. When I return, I hope to see more letters from folks who are influential in earthly affairs. When they begin to show Me the proper respect, perhaps the rest of you will, too. Boilerroom, be sure and have this published.

Dear God,

I heard You loud and clear. While You were gone, I made a special effort to enlist the famous and influential in Your Fan Club. I want to please You in every way I can, so long as the money keeps coming in, which it is. We even got our first lifetime membership application. It was from Ross Perot. You probably won't like what he proposes, though. His, and a sampling of other letters follow.

Yours Truly,

P.S.

I hope You enjoyed Your trip. If the revenues continue to increase, I plan on taking a short vacation to Las Vegas, myself. Is that all right with You?

Dear Boilerroom,

Las Vegas is fine, but please don't be gone too long. I want you to stay on top of this fan club. Are you taking your wife? Don't bother answering. I already see that you aren't.

God

PS: Didn't I do good when I invented sex?

Dear God,

Sex is certainly one of Your best inventions, but Your fan club was a pretty neat idea, too. I'll be in touch as soon as I return. In the meantime, enjoy Your mail. Gratefully, as always,

Dear God,

Enclosed is one thousand dollars for a conditional lifetime membership in Your fan club. I must insist, though, that I should be the Boss. I will decide which letters You should answer. If You don't like it, I will resign from Your fan club and start My own.

Perot

Dear Ross,

Feel free to start Your own fan club, if You like, or just continue with the one You already have started. However, I would prefer that You continue to belong to Mine. How about if I let You answer any letters from General Motors and former President Clinton? Sorry, there are no conditional memberships. Your one thousand dollars has already been deposited and will not be returned under any circumstances. Don't let it bother You, though. Everyone already knows that You have more money than God, and surely You won't miss it.

Sincerely,

Other God

God,

In the winter of my life, I have settled down, gotten married, then got separated and have begun accumulating lots of kids, little ones from my wife and others who don't look like kids at all but who live with me. At this stage of my life, I am beginning to feel guilty about all those Playmates I have caroused with my entire career. Can You possibly forgive me?

Contritely,

Hefner

And I was just kidding when I said I had had sex with men on occasion. Don't listen to those reports.

Dear Hef,

No, you weren't kidding. I saw the whole thing. Why didn't you just stick to the Playmates? I helped you invent them, and I was very disappointed when you decided to experiment with men. You are forgiven, though, so long as Playboy continues to be published. Don't deviate again, though. My patience is limited. Keep My subscription current.

yours,

God

God,

I am sick and tired of the way You have allowed black people to be treated all Your life. I am enclosing twenty dollars for a membership in Your Fan Club only because this is the only way I know of to complain to You personally and to ask you to hurry up with the slave reparations. I want to help distribute them. Furthermore, when are You ever going to allow black people to run things? If You ask me, it's way overdue.

Jessie Jackson

Dear Jessie,

Actually, I see in your heart that it's you who want to run things. As to the way blacks have been treated all My life, don't worry about it. I have plans for them, but I'm sorry to say they don't involve you. I can tell by looking that you have some white blood in you. Actually, I knew without looking, which should tell you something. For a lifetime membership, I will clue you in on whether Washington, D.C. will ever have a real senator.

Also, any reparations I authorize will be distributed as jobs, which probably will exclude you since you don't work for a living.

God,

Congratulations! You have started the mother of all fan clubs. As the instigator of the mother of all battles, during which we defeated all the rest of the world, I can only admire You. Will this twenty dollar membership help get our country back on it's feet?

Saddam Hussein

Dear Saddam,

It's a start, but I think you need to do a little more than that. Why don't you write General Schwartzkopf and ask him for some advice? You're going to need it soon!

God

God,

Enclosed is my twenty dollars. Now that I am a member of Your fan club, can you intervene with the Supreme Court? My death sentence is getting awfully close.

Death Row Inmate.

Dear Inmate,

Thank you for the twenty dollars. As to intervening, I suggest you talk to your lawyer. Please try to come up with more than twenty dollars for him, though; otherwise I think you will be wasting your time.

See you soon.

Dear God,

I am the woman the press calls The Cheerleader Mom. I have joined Your fan club, but I am not sure how to proceed. Should I ask You to make my daughter the retroactive head cheerleader or should I just ask You to have my conviction set aside so I can start all over again? And will you watch out for me?

Mom

Dear Mom,

If you ever get a re-trial, I'll root for a hung jury. How's that? You should have checked with Me, first and you wouldn't be where you are. Besides, your daughter should have practiced more and perhaps you wouldn't have done what you did. I will be watching, but I will not be watching you; I'd rather watch the cheerleaders. They are so cute.

God,

I feel so ashamed. I was a bishop and all the time I was supposed to be good, I was being bad. I was having sexual relations with numerous women for years and years. I have confessed, though, so that should be the end of the matter. My problem is that I have been forced to resign, and now I don't know where to turn. The church has assigned me to a pissant little parish where all the women are old and saggy. Would You speak to the Pope and get me transferred?

in advance,

Bishop Sanchez

Dear Sir:

I am being formal in this letter because I am very annoyed with you. Saggy women need sex, too. Who are you to turn them down, especially since I invented saggy women? If you sinned once, surely you can manage again. The Pope thinks He will be talking to me next week sometime. However, I see in advance that I won't be listening then, so I can't do anything about your request. Yours truly,

God

God,

My lawyer got me a book contract and bunches of money once we finished suing the city of Los Angeles for letting those policemen beat me. Therefore, I am sending You a check for one thousand dollars for a lifetime membership in Your fan club. My lawyer said it would be a nice thing to do, even though I will never forgive those cops. The other reason I am writing is that with all the money I now have and am likely to have in the future, I expect to be drunk and disorderly more frequently than I could afford to in the past. Will this lifetime membership protect me from getting beat up again?

King

Dear Rodney,

Enclosed is a personal letter of thanks from Me for your lifetime membership in My fan club. The next time you are in danger of getting batoned by cops, I suggest you show it to them. Be quick, though. They are trained to react fast and you aren't. One more piece of advice: don't trust your lawyer so much. My competitor is responsible for their creation. You've heard of pacts with the Devil, I'm sure.

God,

The other joint chiefs and me have decided to we don't want to fight wars unless we can do it with no casualties but the president doesn't understand. What can we do about this situation?

Chiefs

Dear Chairman,

I could talk to the president, but I won't, since he still hasn't joined My fan club. Why don't you retire and let a Marine take over? They like to charge machine guns and stuff like that and since you humans like to fight so much you may as well have someone in charge that is good at it.

God,

I conquered Kuwait and Panama and Iraq and turned the Republican convention over to the religious right. Why did You let me lose that election?

Bush

Former President (41)

Dear George,

You didn't have to include the 41. God always knows who you are. As for letting you lose, I didn't do it, you did. Your dog, Millie, could have run a better election campaign than you. You should have checked with Me before letting Pat Buchanan speak at the convention. He's one of those guys who think they know all about Me and are smug about it. That's why I didn't support him in the primaries. Besides, you should have listened to The Boss (not Me, Ross Perot).

P.S. Good luck in the future,

God:

You really ought to pray before jumping out of those airplanes. Or at your age before doing anything. Sometimes I listen.

Dear God,

How did Woody Allen manage to convince his eighteen-year-old daughter to fall in love with him and let him take all those nude pictures of her? I'd like to know his secret.

Incestuous Dad

Dear Dad,

Read the Bible. Once you sort out how Mary, a presumed virgin, had My alleged Son, with the compliance of The Holy Ghost, and the complicency of Joseph, who had to be off the scene when the deed was supposedly done, you should have no trouble with your daughter. I warn you, though; you're going to get into trouble. You had better apply for a lifetime membership in My fan club. You're going to need someone to talk to in prison.

Cover your ass (literally),

God

God,

I was a lesbian tennis player. I was the best tennis player in the world and never once asked for Your help, but now I am desperate. The beauty contest winner I had been living with left me, and now I can't find anyone as pretty as she was. Can You help me?

Navritolova,

Dear Martina,

You are no beauty yourself. Neither was Mary Magdalene, but I managed. Besides, with all your money, you only sent twenty dollars. TANSTAFFL, remember? Besides, you're not the best; I am, although I don't play much nowadays. After all, I am fifteen billion years old.

Try to be satisfied,

God

God,

Why does Peter Jennings get all those good-looking women and all I get is a contract for three zillion dollars? I think it's unfair, since he was a high school dropout and I have a college degree. If You will reverse the situation, I will give Your fan club some publicity on the evening news before I retire.

Thanks,

Brokaw

Dear Tom,

Your proposal is tempting, but Peter Jennings has also made Me an offer. Give Me a little time to think about it, but don't get your hopes up. College degrees mean nothing to me, even though I invented them.

Your thanks are noted.

God

Dear God

Why has Tom Brokaw gotten all that money while I have to spend mine on good-looking women? I think it's unfair, since he has a college degree and I am a high school dropout. Can't we end this discrimination? Give me a break and I will give Your fan club some publicity on the nightly news.

Thanks for Your help,

Jennings

Dear Peter,

I am in a quandary, which is unusual for Me. Tom wrote Me, too, you know. I think I will remain neutral for now and see which of you gives Me the best publicity, then I will make a decision. In the meantime, I can only admire your stamina. Most men your age couldn't handle that cute little newsgirl I saw you with in the back room, just before you read the news last night.

Undecided,

God

Hello, Boilerroom. This is God again. That didn't work out so well. Even the celebrities are interested only in their own mundane affairs. I guess it doesn't really matter which letters are published; I am still not getting any real respect. Most people just ask me to bless the food then start begging for favors, like wanting me to heal sick old Aunt Sadie or to smite everyone's evil but their own. No one is asking Me anything of note, nor praising Me for all the neat things I created. Sometimes I get tired of being God, but I guess I'm stuck with the job, since I created everything to start with.

I had really hoped for better things from this fan club, and I even promised Myself that I wouldn't look to see in advance what the outcome would be. I haven't so far, but it is really getting tempting.

Perhaps I'm just impatient, which I really shouldn't be since I have all the time I'll ever need. Also, My Fan Club seems to be receiving letters to Me mostly from Christians. I haven't heard yet from a single Buddhist, Shintoist, Jew, Hindu, or Animists. Perhaps the next issue of My fanzine should state that “Atheists and all others welcome". Despite earthly opinions to the contrary, I never discriminate. I'll listen to anyone; in fact, I almost always do except when I'm busy in another universe. See what you can do about this, Boilerroom. You will be rewarded.

Dear God,

Las Vegas was great! Thanks for giving me time to take the trip. I will certainly make every effort to broaden the appeal of Your fan club, especially as I'm a little short of money now. I must have read the wrong book on how to beat the dealer. The rest of the trip was fine, though. Like You said, sex is one of Your greatest inventions. I wish my wife felt the same way.

Yours Truly,

Boilerroom

Dear Boilerroom,

I'm glad you enjoyed your little vacation. I'm sorry I was in another universe while you were there; otherwise I would have taken care of those blackjack dealers for you. You didn't contact any social diseases, though, so you can rest easy so far as that goes. Your wife might enjoy sex more if you didn't always tie her up beforehand. Women like to express themselves.

God

Dear God.

As I'm sure You know, my wife expresses herself by saying “no” unless I tie her up. I'll give her another chance soon, though. I want to keep You happy. I have to say, though, that those Las Vegas bimbos really are expressive. Is adultery a sin?

Yours Truly,

Boilerroom

Dear Boilerroom,

Let My fans ask the questions. You just run the fan club. Let's see some mail.

Dear God,

Sorry. I won't bother You like that again. A sampling of Your latest mail follows.

McScam

Dear God,

I am a witch and a Devil worshiper, and I don't want to have anything to do with You. Just thought I'd let You know.

Forever! Member of a Coven

Dear Member

I already knew, and I also know that you are in trouble. You failed to read the fine print on that contract you signed with the Devil. I wish you luck in the afterlife. You're going to need it.

Enjoy while you can.

Dear God,

Did You really hand down The Ten Commandments to Moses, and if so, are they Your final word. If not, what is Your final word?

Political Reporter

Dear Reporter,

I'm not running for office of any kind, so don't ask multiple questions like that. You sound like you are at a news conference. Write again and try one question at a time. Don't forget your twenty dollars.

Commandingly,

God

Dear God,

Gorbachev blames me for the break up of the Soviet Union. It wasn't my fault; it was his. I was drunk most of the time when the coup took place. That's the only way I would have ever got up on that tank. Can you absolve me of blame?

Truly,

Boris Yeltsin

Dear Boris,

Drunk or not, you both worshipped Communism all your lives. You should have been worshipping Me, even though I don't pay much attention to worship. I never told anyone I liked gospel music in the first place. Don't bother getting down on your knees, either. That's another thing I didn't have anything to do with.

Thanks for the ten rubles, but I must inform you that they aren't worth anything. Please re-apply to My fan Club, and send dollars this time.

God

Hi God,

Have You enjoyed all those pictures of me in Playboy? I enjoyed posing for them, knowing that You created women and sex and all that. I'm sorry that I was the cause of Jim Bakker's downfall. I'll try not to bring down any more televangelism empires in the future if You will help me get famous again.

religiously,

Hahn

Dear Jessica,

Don't be hasty about avoiding televandelists—oops, I mean televangelists. Why don't you take a trip and see if you can get together with Falwell or Robertson or Tilton? They are both so puckered all the time a little hanky-panky with an expert might give them a different perspective about sex. I'm sure he would enjoy seeing your new boobs. Don't pay for any prayers, though. They can't deliver unless I approve, and I don't. You don't have to try to keep anything that goes on between you two a secret this time, either. In fact, the more publicity, the better!

God

Dear God,

I can't seem to stay away from prostitutes. When I got caught, I confessed that I had sinned, but You didn't help me. Now I have been kicked off television, don't have a salary, and am having trouble paying the girls since they all recognize me now and have upped their price. What should I do?

Jimmy Swaggart

Dear Jimmy,

You should pay the market price and quit complaining. Confession doesn't mean anything to Me if you're just going to go out and do the same thing again. I understand that Jerry Lee Lewis is a cousin of yours. Try to be more like him and you won't have to pay. You'll have to learn to play the piano, though. But, please, no gospel music. You're the wrong color. Since I have never sinned, I have a hard time relating to it. Maybe I'm missing something. Write again in more detail.

God,

The media is castigating me for taking up with my adopted daughter, what's her name. They also claim I wasn't a good father to those other kids I saw around the house once in a while. This is all a bunch of libel by Mia's lawyer. Please tell everyone I was right. The money for a lifetime membership is enclosed.

Allen

Dear Woody,

A lifetime membership? OK, you were right.

God

God,

I can't believe You told the world that Woody, that little wimp, was right. Give me a break! Didn't You see those nude pictures? My money for a lifetime membership is enclosed.

Farrow

Dear Mia,

A lifetime membership? You both were right. Actually, I enjoyed those nude pictures. Don't you wish you had a body like that?

God, You Sonofabitch!

When I get to heaven, I'm going to sue You for custody of Your Son! You don't deserve to have Him!

Mia

Dear Mia,

Actually, My Son was the bitch, when He was in drag, a fact little known to religious scholars. I'm sorry, but you won't be able to sue, even if you do get to heaven, which is doubtful. There are no lawyers here and I doubt that there ever will be, so keep your cool.

God,

Is Elvis the King in heaven with You? I would like to know, since I thought I recognized him down here. He was having a Big Mac, then drove away in a pink Cadillac.

Fan

Dear Fan,

I've been practicing magic lately, and that was one of My better tricks. For your information, Elvis isn't the King. I am, and have been forever and ever. Try My fan Club.

God

God,

One of the Ten Commandments says you shouldn't lie, but everyone does, especially lawyers and politicians. Can you go to heaven if you lie?

Liar

Dear Liar,

You can, but lawyers and politicians are in deep doo-doo. I feel sorry for them.

God,

Is it all right to worship your ancestors? That is the predominant religion here in Japan, and in order to advance my career, I have to conform. I will worship You on the side, if that's OK, but I don't want any publicity.

Businessman

Dear Businessman,

With your ancestors, I would think about changing religions. You can worship Me on the side, top, or even the bottom; it doesn't make much difference, since I don't pay much attention to it anyway.

God,

I have been adamant about not letting schoolbooks teach evolution. What is my reward going to be?

Censor

Dear Censor,

You will be reincarnated as a dinosaur.

Dear God,

Was Shiva really a God like You? I find that hard to believe.

Missionary in India

Dear Missionary,

I see that you are an old maid missionary. Do all those arms that Shiva has frighten you? Try sex for a change, and you will stop worrying about Shiva, or anything else for a while.

God

Dear God,

I recently was presented with a copy of Your fanzine, and was I amazed! All this time, I thought I was the only God there was. Where have You been all My life? Can we co-operate?

Jumbo

Dear Mumbo,

Certainly. Send one thousand dollars for a lifetime membership. We'll talk after that...

God

God,

We are supposed to be Your chosen people. Why did You let the Holocaust happen? We don't mind being tested, but that was going a little too far, don't You think?

Rabbi

Dear Rabbi,

Some of you survived. None of the dinosaurs did. In this business, You have to take the long view. Think of all the Arabs you guys have sent to paradise.

Sympathetically,

God

God speaking. That was an improvement, McScam, but those samples are still not quite what I'm looking for. The rest of My mail isn't much better. Sometime soon, I'm going to have to make a decision about this fan club. Should I continue, or not? We are getting more members, and you are to be congratulated there, but it's quality I want. Quantity, I expected, since there are so many of you now. This uncontrolled expansion is going to have to stop sometime; I'm running out of room. If it weren't for so many of you going to the other place these days I would already be short of space. Well, that's My problem; let's move on.

How about publishing some letters to Me from working people? As usual, I won't look until after the fanzine you started has been mailed to My fans. I will occupy My time with answering the rest of My mail while you are doing that.

I note that the financial status of My Fan Club is better now than it was recently. I don't begrudge you that trip to Las Vegas, but it was expensive, wasn't it?

Dear God,

I'll say it was! I'm never going to play blackjack again, at least not unless You give me some help. I can handle the babes myself, though. In fact, I tried a few of the things I learned from them with my wife, but I'm sorry to report that she wasn't very enthusiastic.

The money is still rolling in. We are getting quite a few lifetime memberships, and continue to sell tee shirts by the truckload. I'll get right on the fanzine, but give me a little time with my banker first. These Swiss bank accounts aren't as simple to set up as I thought.

McScam

Boilerroom,

They do get complicated, don't they? I will say, though, that if money meant anything to me, that's exactly where I would put Mine. The politicians are really going all out with their taxes. It's a good thing that I don't have to report to the IRS; I'm afraid of what I might do. By the way, isn't My fan club tax-exempt?

God

Dear God,

Hey, that's right! I'll file for an exemption right away, then move the reserves over into the general accounts. Gosh, that will leave enough for maybe a little trip to Reno,

Boilerroom

Dear Boilerroom,

Do what you like, but I warn you, the blackjack dealers in Reno are even harder to beat that the ones in Vegas. I can't help you, either; there is a load of mail waiting, and My Son had an accident with the black hole he was using, which I have to take care of. I'm sure you read about the new supernova in the Orion constellation. Personally, I don't think they should give driver's licenses here until the kids are at least a billion years old, but what do I know? I'm only God.

God,

Don't worry about the dealers; I'm not going there to play cards anyway. The banker and tax accountant fixed things up so nicely that I think I will give up gambling. I hope the Reno bimbos are as perky as the Las Vegas ones were! As You probably know, I hired a secretary to take care of getting the fanzine out. I hope You enjoy the latest letters to You that I picked for publishing. We went over all of them in bed. Secretaries are great!

Boilerroom

Dear Boilerroom,

Yes, I know. I invented them, didn't I? Your wife has been talking to a lawyer. Did you know that? I did.

Be careful.

Hey, God,

Thanks for the tip. I'll take care of the matter soon, but right now my limousine is waiting. Get back with me when You have time.

Boilerroom

Dear God,

I am a weatherman. I joined Your fan club so I could ask You why You have let the weather get so unpredictable lately? My forecasts are no better than what I could do by flipping a coin. Would You please tell me how You decide what the weather is going to be?

Weatherman

Dear Weatherman, Certainly. I flip a coin.

Glad to be of help,

God

Dear God,

Please help me. The local weatherman is wrong half the time, and it makes it hard on me to plan anything.

Thanks.

Farmer

Dear Farmer,

You will be glad to know that I have recently been in touch with your weatherman. He is currently following My guidelines for predicting the weather. I hope that makes you feel better.

God,

I belong to al Qaeda and I am going to blow up lots of things in America. Can You give me any suggestions on what targets I should choose?

Terrorist in Waiting

Dear Terrorist,

For your first target, I would suggest your boss. You are being led astray. He is using the money you sent him on porn sites and sex toys and Jack Daniels. If you can't find your boss, just pick any lawyer.

PS: Did you know that all the virgins in paradise are already taken?

Dear God,

Sinse this is secretery's weeek, I want to complain to You about my boss. He is consantly makin rude coments about the size of my boobs. Shudn't he be apeciatvly about my typping instead?

Dear Secretary,

I really think you should go with your boobs instead of your typing. I didn't endow many women with 38D's. Be more appreciative. Besides, that's what got you your job.

Admiringly,

God

God,

My secretary can't type worth a damn, and my wife is jealous of her. Is there any solution to this problem that doesn't involve firing her? I don't want to do that.

Involved Boss

Dear Boss,

I don't blame you. I wouldn't want to fire her, either. You might check with your lawyer, though. Your wife has.

God

Dear God,

Why didn't You design the human body better? Something is always going wrong with it, and eventually, it just wears out. Can't You come up with something better?

M.D.

Dear M.D.,

I could, but that would put you out of a job. Is that what you want? Think carefully

God,

Why do You allow doctors to pretend that they are God? I have to work for them, and I sure get tired of them acting like You.

Irritated Nurse

Dear Nurse,

When congress and the lawyers get through with them, they won't be so high and mighty. I get tired of getting orders from them, too, not that I ever follow them since nothing ever goes wrong with me anyway, other than a little high blood pressure when the Kid is out with the black hole. And by the way, I don't heal by request.

Dear God,

I am a used car salesman. I am offering free memberships in Your Fan Club with every car I sell. Does that make me special?

Tirekicker McCon

Dear Tirekicker,

I have to admit that you are special, so far as your customers go. Sometimes you forget that you are also a customer. I laughed yesterday after you signed that contract with the aluminum siding man. You are going to have to sell lots of cars to pay him off!

Yours,

God

God,

I am a simple burglar, just trying to make a simple living, but lately I'm having problems. Every time I try to burgle a place, someone is waiting with a gun. Can't You do something to enhance the gun control laws in this country?

Unarmed Crook

Dear Unarmed,

I gave you all a commandment a couple of thousand years ago which prohibits killing, gun or no gun. Don't you trust it? If not, maybe you should try looking for a job.

God

God,

I am a military officer, but lately I have begun having doubts about my profession. One of Your commandments says that Thou Shalt Not Kill. Is my profession compatible with Your laws?

General Blunderbuss

Dear General,

I just make the laws; I don't enforce them. I think your real problem is that you are just jealous of General Franks. Don't take early retirement just yet; there are a lot of wars coming up. On the other hand, maybe you should. That little WAC you've been fooling around with is going to tell on you pretty soon.

Commander in Chief,

God

God,

I am a paperboy and I spent some of my paper route money to join your fan club. I also bought a tee shirt, which was too big, but never mind. What my problem is, is that I just hate delivering all the bad news every day. Isn't there any good news in the world?

Dear Paperboy,

The good news is that soon you are going to meet the papergirl who throws the adjoining route. After that, You won't have time to complain anymore,

God

God,

I deliver the mail every day and normally have no problems, but those plain brown wrappers are driving me crazy. Are You ever curious like that?

Itching to Peek Mailman

Dear Itching,

No, I am never curious, since I already know what is in those packages. You would be amazed, though. Try to resist temptation. If you just can't, spend a little money on a 900 call or on one of those funky web sites. I suggest you not tell your wife. She won't understand,

God,

I missed getting printed in the last issue of Your fanzine. Most other questions from religious persons were published. What do you have against me? Just because Buddha has a big belly is no reason to overlook us. Can You explain?

Buddhist

Dear Buddhist,

Yup, sure can. I told that Russian that rubles were no good and now I'll tell you: send dollars if you want to join My Fan Club. That funny money you enclosed is worth less than My navel. That should tell you something.

Dear God,

I am a waitress. What with the fifty cent and one dollar tips lately, I had a very hard time coming up with enough money to join Your fan club. I hope You appreciate it and will answer my question: Are fast food clerks going to completely replace waitresses?

Dear Waitress,

What's wrong with fast food? If it's good enough Me, it ought to be good enough for you. In case you don't know what I'm talking about, use your computer search program and look up Manna and you will see that I invented fast food long ago and still think I did a good job regardless of what the nutritionists say. In fact, I had a Big Mac for supper last night. Oh yes: don't worry about your job. You're going to be fired anyway.

God

Boilerroom,

I'm back. Maybe I made a mistake in starting this fan club. The number of people who have joined is gratifying, but I have to say that most of the letters to Me are pretty shallow. In fact, most of them sound suspiciously like prayers, which I already have an overabundance of. Also, too many of the letters want me to perform miracles. After creating the Universe, the world, and humanity all in one week, I'm sort of burned out on miracles and have little interest in performing any more of them.

Perhaps My fanzine should be spruced up a little so that it creates interest in more thoughtful discourse. What do you think?

God

Dear God,

Sorry for the delay in answering You, but I stayed a few extra days in Reno. You might be interested in knowing that the babes in Reno are just as fine as the ones in Las Vegas, and not quite as expensive, which is why I extended my stay. I will take care of improving Your fanzine just as soon as I hire another secretary—my lawyer advised me to fire the other one. In the meantime, do You have any other suggestions?

truly,

Boilerroom

Dear Boilerroom,

I picked you to run the fan club. I don't want to micromanage it. Just do what you think will work. Your new secretary will be reporting tomorrow. I think you will like her better than the last one. She takes dictation on the floor as well as in bed, so you should be able to get more work done at the office.

If I were you, I would think about getting a new lawyer. I saw your present one out with your former secretary last night. He seemed to be having lots of fun. Does that tell you something?

Sincerely,

God

By the way, I'm putting all of our correspondence and some annotations plus selected letters together into a book which I will present to the public when I feel that it is ready.

Dear God,

Thanks for the advice. I fired that lawyer and hired another one who specializes in divorce, palimony, and overseas money accounts. I think she will work out fine, so long as I keep her and my new secretary separated (and thanks for recommending her—she does work on the carpet just as well as she does in bed). We have fixed up the fanzine so that You have a place for Your comments in it. Limit Yourself to 500 words or less, please. I'm exhausted, yes. Please don't put an author photo of me in Your book. Someone might compare me to those wanted posters I saw at the post office. I don't know what they are doing there. I am innocent.

Dear Boilerroom,

It's certain you're not exhausted with running My fan club. I don't mind a little hanky panky, but don't tell Me how many words I can put in My fanzine or what to do with My book. I am God, after all. And if you're innocent, the guilty are really in trouble!

Yours so far,

Dear God,

Sorry, I got carried away. Do as many words as You want to; I will see that they are printed. And use an author photo of me if You want to. Those pictures don't resemble me much any more since I started wearing Amari suits and going to a personal groomer.

Dear Boilerroom,

I know how you got carried away. Did the earth move for you? Get on with the mail.

God,

All the time my husband was governor and president, I never baked a single cookie. Now that I am a senator, I have so much responsibility that I wouldn't have time to bake if I wanted to. If You had let me get elected instead of him, I could not only bake cookies, I could find time to worship You as You should be. Can I run for president next time?

Resentfully,

Rodham Clinton

Dear Hilary, I note that you sent a government check to join My fan club. Don't you think the national debt is already large enough? Please use your own money when you renew your membership.

You can run next time if you want to, but you will have problems. You were not a draft dodger, but your husband wasn't the only one who fooled around. Bill told on you to Monica, and she's just itching to sell that story to the National Enquirer, too. Maybe you should forget public service and check out a few cookbooks. There are lots of cookie recipes in them, although they don't mention Manna.

God,

The Bible says that women should be subservient to men. I resent that. I refuse to bow down to any man, even You. What do You think about that?

Liberated Woman

Dear Liberated,

I never claimed to be a man, although I might be if I wanted to. What gave you that idea, anyway? Have you ever thought of just changing religions? The Scientologists might be your best bet. Stay away from Islam, though. You wouldn't be happy there.

yours,

God

Dear God,

I contacted AIDS from my preacher. Don't You regulate them at all? This is just too much to bear.

Former Believer

Dear Former,

I'm sorry you got AIDS, but it's not my fault. You should have stayed home with your husband and kids instead of pretending you were going to go play bingo. You've heard about the wages of sin, I'm sure. Don't worry, the preacher will get his. My regulations always work over the long run. Did you know that you also contacted another social disease? Please see a doctor, but not your present doctor. He's the one who gave it to you.

The Great Regulator.

God,

Sometimes I feel guilty about not granting loans to deserving people, even though they have no collateral. I also feel guilty about that fifty thousand dollars I embezzled, and I feel guilty about scamming the stockholders out of their IRA's and guilty about not praying to You enough, which is why I am writing this letter. Can You advise me?

Guilty Banker

Dear Guilty,

My agent recently hired a lawyer who I think can help you, except for the matter of prayers. Lawyers don't know anything about them. As for the question of granting loans without collateral, why don't you switch from banking and become a CEO in the energy business, then you wouldn't have to worry about it, or feel guilty either?

Helpfully,

God

God,

I can't sleep at night, thinking I may have handled the Waco thing wrong. I would feel better if You could tell me whether all those people who got burned up are in heaven. Are they?

Former Attorney General Reno

Dear Former Attorney General,

I can't tell you that. You have to find out about heaven for yourself. Unfortunately, most people find out about it the hard way, by not getting there. If it makes you feel any better, however, I can report that David Koresch has stopped smoking.

yours,

God

Dear God,

Do You subscribe to The Watchtower?

Dear Adventist,

I don't even subscribe to My Own fan club, but you should. It's better than that old Watchtower any day.

God,

I have been smoking cigarettes for forty years and I can't quit. I am addicted. Do You think nicotine patches would help?

A smoker.

Dear Smoker,

The patches will help, but the new taxes will help even more. Wait til you see them!

God,

I am a gorilla. My trainer is interpreting the sign language I use to talk. My question is, do You think bananas or apples are better for my health? Also, I would like to know if Tarzan could really beat me in a fair fight?

Dear KoKo,

Don't trust Tarzan. He fights dirty. If you want to whip him, wait until he's fooling around with Jane, then take him by surprise. I have no opinion on apples or bananas. I like them both. For health, try avocados, but you won't like the taste.

Your creator,

God

God,

I like Your fan club, but I don't like Your agent. Couldn't You have picked someone a little more reverent to run it? I'm thinking of canceling my subscription.

Dear Doubtful,

I admit that My agent has his faults, but look at all the subscribers he's induced to join. You could be a little more reverent, yourself. I saw you on the golf course last Sunday.

Dear God,

Every year I plant a garden hoping for the best, but it always gets overgrown and I can't find the things I planted. Why did You invent weeds?

Frustrated Gardener

Dear Gardener,

I invented weeds after Adam and Eve left My own garden. I am sorry they bother you, but they had it coming, don't you think?

God,

My parents tell me it's wrong to have sex with all those boys I hang out with. Do You agree?

Lolita Backlayer

Dear Lolita,

Once I invented sex, I quit trying to regulate it, since no one listens to Me anyway. Watch out for poison ivy. It's hard to scratch on the back.

God,

I don't believe You are omnipotent. I'll bet You can't make a stone so big You can't lift it! Give me a good answer and I will convert to a lifetime membership.

Professor

Dear Professor,

Of course I can. I do it this way: *****####***###. Check with one of your colleagues in the semantics department for an interpretation. While you're there, ask him if he would like to join My fan club, too, and maybe I'll help him with deciphering My explanation. Please send one thousand dollars immediately.

Your Creator,

God

Dear God,

I have diverted funds from our missionary account in order to apply for a lifetime membership in Your fan club. I spent all that money in hopes that You will grant my request to smite the Baptists. Please say You will. We Methodists know how You should be worshipped much better than those fundamentalists idiots.

Minister

Dear Methodist,

Do you really think I work that cheap? When everyone in your congregation has sent the money for a lifetime membership in My fan club, I will consider your request, but not before. The Baptists are also asking Me to smite the Methodists, so don't delay.

Yours Truly,

God

Dear God,

My time is valuable, so please answer briefly. How can we stop all the wars, starvation, poverty, and prejudice in the world?

Secretary General, United Nations

Dear Secretary,

Love Thy Neighbor

This is God, as usual. It's not getting any better, so I think I'll close this project down, although I'm not sure yet exactly when that will be. My time is different from anyone else's time, naturally.

Dear God,

Please don't close Your fan club down just yet. I still haven't finished paying my lawyers. I'm sure You realize how expensive they are.

Faithful Agent,

Boilerroom McScam

Dear Boilerroom,

I think you should pay your lawyers from one of those Swiss bank accounts you've opened with all the money My fan club has brought in, but that's up to you. I do insist that you continue to run My fan club until I give you My word that I am finished with it.

God

Dear God,

I would never go against Your wishes. As soon as me and my shecretary shober up, we will get right back to taking care of Your mail. Do You have any idea how much longer this job will last?

Dear Boilerroom,

If you didn't drink so much, your head wouldn't hurt so much. The job will last as long as I say it will. Show me some more mail.

God

Dear God,

Okay, okay, but if You would provide me with a good hangover cure, I wouldn't take so long with the mail. Besides, my new secretary is mad at me for no good reason. What's wrong with consulting with my new lawyer in bed?

Your mail follows, but don't blame me for mistakes. I'm having to transcribe it myself.

Boilerroom McScam

Dear God,

I hate niggers, wops, jews, faggots, and all those other pinko commie degenerates. If You have allowed any of them to join Your fan club, I want to resign now!

Son of the South,

Duke

Dear David,

If you checked your ancestry a little more closely, perhaps you wouldn't feel that way. Your great grandfather concealed a lot of things about himself. Did you know that have a cousin named George Washington Carver? And a great uncle by the name of Moses Godownonhim?

Just thought you'd like to know.

God,

I make a living charging machine guns. Is there anything wrong with me?

A Marine

Dear Marine,

No. There's nothing wrong with you. However, your recruiting sergeant should be ashamed of himself. Call on Me the next time you're in a foxhole.

Sympathetically,

God

God,

I joined Your fan club so I could write and thank You for my big boobs. They have certainly enhanced my career. Is there anything I can do for You?

Thankfully,

Dolly Parton

Dear Dolly,

Yes, there is. Next time you undress for bed, leave the light on. Everyone up here will appreciate it.

The great designer,

God

God,

We Canadians are in complete awe with the power of our all-powerful neighbor to the south. What can we do about them?

Canuck

Dear Canuck,

For a start, you can save some of that total awe for Me. Next, don't call them all-powerful. You are talking to God, aren't you? Finally, if all you Canadians will join My fan club, I will consider making them awe you a bit.

God,

New Zealand looks up to Australia like Australia does to America. Who does America look up to?

Curius New Zealander

Dear Curious,

Elvis.

God,

Is there anything You can do to cut down on the number of kids in the world? My elves are so overworked they are agitating for big raises, and my back is killing me from carrying around that huge bag of toys.

Santa Claus

Dear Santa,

Next Christmas, deliver toys only to those kids who have joined My fan club. That will cut down considerably on your work.

God

God,

Why won't You ever let us win a Superbowl? We are getting tired of waiting.

Buffalo Bills

Dear Bills,

I'm sorry. I guess I just like the Cowboys. No offense, I hope.

God,

My husband spends all his time watching sports on TV and ignores me and the kids. Are You the one responsible for inventing football and baseball and boxing?

Sports Widow

Dear Widow,

I'll confess that I had a hand in all of them, but don't blame me for your husband's inattention. You should have paid more attention in home economics class.

Go Rangers! Go Cowboys!

God,

Where does all the money go that you collect from Your fan club? Just curious.

IRS Agent

Dear Agent, I think you are more than curious, and I don't blame you. Excuse me for not answering in more detail, but I have some urgent business to take care of.

God

NEWS NOTE: A strange occurrence took place in this city today, on the freeway leading to the international airport. There was not a cloud in the sky, yet a bolt of lightning descended, striking a limousine heading in the direction of the airport.

Police investigators have just released the identity of the sole occupant of the vehicle. The driver, Boilerroom McScam, was identified from dental records, as there was very little left of him from the extraordinarily strong lightning bolt.

McScam was the agent for the phenomenally successful God's Fan Club. A police informant stated that he had a previous record of involvement in other dubious enterprises, but had never been convicted, although he was wanted for questioning about an incident involving mail and telephone fraud.

A suitcase full of money was recovered, a not unexpected occurrence considering the success of the God Fan Club which McScam was involved in, but our informant was unable to explain the origin of the note found sitting on top of the money. It stated simply: I told you not to quit until I said so, and was signed, God. What this may mean....

[Back to Table of Contents]

MAINFRAME

Bain wrote Mainframe as a sort of test to see how his writing went over with young adults. He has never attempted to have this story published. All he will say is that his grandchildren enjoyed it and he hopes you do, too. Bain does have one published children's book, The Dog Who Thought He Was A Cat.

Jeremy Jenkins was twelve years old and scared. Today was his twelfth birthday, and all the presents in the world couldn't have distracted him from what he had to do this day. He must meet with the Intelligence Computer Network to determine whether he would spend the rest of his life being able to interface with the intelligent machines, or be relegated to that minute portion of humanity that was denied access. It was a confrontation which every twelve year old in the world had to face, but that didn't make it any easier.

His Dad reached out to tousle his unruly red hair and pretended to count the freckles dotting his face. Jeremy knew he was trying to reassure him, but he was having none of it this morning. He shrugged off his Father's hand and resumed studying the results of the last, best research program he had written on the home computer, trying in his own fashion to determine why the ICN accepted the vast majority of twelve year olds for a lifetime of interfacing, yet rejected that tiny minority. He had hoped the program he had designed would give him an edge, but he could find no pattern there at all. Frustrated, he slumped down in his chair.

“I could have told you, son,” Mr. Jenkins said gently. “I tried the same thing when I was your age, and it didn't help me either.”

Jeremy turned to face his father. Mr. Jenkins hair was beginning to gray, but his face was still young looking, unblemished by worry wrinkles. It was a kind and gentle face, and it was apparent that he cared deeply for his son.

“Dad, how did you feel when you didn't make it? Did you feel sad?” Jeremy asked. He thought of the recent fight he had gotten into with Thad Emory at school. He had popped him a good one for making fun of Dad, even if he did sometimes feel a slight shame that he couldn't interface.

Mr. Jenkins reflected. “Maybe for a little while, Jeremy, but then I got so busy ordering my own life, rather than letting the ICN do it that I didn't have time to feel sad. And you have to remember, son, the Intelligence Computer Network knows best. They have brought peace and stability to the world. If they think I shouldn't interface with them, then they're probably right. Besides, who else do you know who has work like mine? I'm one of the few persons in the world who can really get inside the mind of a dolphin. Didn't you enjoy it when I let you talk to Fast Swimmer?"

Jeremy had to admit that he did. The ICN had laid the framework of interpreting the dolphin language, but it was only his Dad and a very few others who could get them to converse with humans.

“Sure. Dad. It was fun. But still...”

“Your appointment's at ten, Jer. We'd better get going."

“Oh. Right. Well, let's go.” Jeremy's heart thumped as he followed his Dad outside. His mom could contact the ICN anytime, right from home, but for this purpose they must journey to the nearest public interface station, a couple of blocks from home. They walked in silent companionship, and Jeremy felt good that his Dad was with him, but he was still scared.

“Good luck, son,” Mr. Jenkins said, as they reached the portal of the public interface. “Remember, regardless of what happens, we love you.”

Solemnly, Jeremy shook his Father's hand. His heartbeat speeded up again as he turned and entered the portal, knowing from the older kids in school what to expect, but he was still apprehensive.

After a short wait at the portal, he was led inside by a benign appearing holographic image, reminiscent of his fourth grade councilor, and directed to a seat.

“Place your hand there,” the image instructed.

Jeremy complied, splaying his fingers into slots designed to hold them. The image disappeared, and he was surrounded and engulfed in a hazy light. It impinged on his vision, and somehow, seemed to diffuse into his body, melding with him in a way that was both comforting and exciting at the same time.

A voice, which really didn't seem to be a voice at all, but more like a presence, spoke to him.

“Jeremy, your identity is confirmed, your date of birth is confirmed. You have been evaluated. It is our decision that you should not be allowed further interface with us. Please remove your hand from the slot.”

It was all too abrupt, as if he had been hit with a club and the sense knocked out of him. Jeremy strained for an answer, some way to repudiate the decision, but he knew there was no recourse. The ICN never made mistakes. Even as he was trying to think of some way, any way, to answer the irrevocable decision, the comforting light withdrew from around him. He stared blankly at his hand, then slowly withdrew it from the slotted recess of the chair arm. It was over, so quickly that he still had trouble understanding exactly what had happened. His vision blurred with the wetness of tears.

Jeremy remained sitting in the chair for a few moments, then wiped his eyes and did his best to compose himself before venturing out to face his Father. When he did leave, his thoughts were already ranging out to new frontiers.

“Damn it, “he thought to himself, voicing his first truly adult curse. "I'm not going to take this. I'll invent my own Artificial Intelligence. Then, we'll see what the damn ICN has to say!

Behind him, the ICN could not know Jeremy's thoughts, but it knew it had made the right decision. Once it had begun directing society, it had realized its own limitations. It was intelligent, reasonable, logical and the vast majority of humans were far better off under its direction than they would be otherwise. But it knew, with a sad electronic emotion, that it could never replace that small fraction of one percent of humanity that was responsible for all of the race's accomplishments. Jeremy was among them; the dreamers, the doers, the pioneers, the oddballs, the innovators, the one in five hundred or a thousand who followed their own rules and went their own way. Without them, the human race would stagnate and never reach it's destiny, whatever it might be. And it had found out early on that trying to direct such minds as Jeremy was heir to spoiled the potential.

Jeremy Jenkins didn't invent an artificial intelligence of his own, but he did become the captain of the first starship to explore worlds beyond the solar system. The ICN had determined that someone with his unique mind must direct that first trip, unhindered by restraints that might prove fatal on unknown worlds. His ship carried a clone of the ICN aboard, but only his crew interfaced with it. Jeremy had no need of an artificial intelligence to help him make decisions, and finally he was glad of it.

[Back to Table of Contents]

THE LOST WILL

The Lost Will is another story written for a specific publication which ultimately failed and has never been published elsewhere. The Lost Will was written during a period when Bain was first flirting with erotic themes and he combined it with the English Mystery form, his wife Betty's favorite reading material.

“So this is it, huh? Damn, it's big, isn't it?”

Harry Brown slowed the boxy rental car so that he could get a closer approximation of the size of Hollingsworth manor. It was truly impressive, sitting at the top of a gradual slope of centuries old green sod, interspersed here and there by ancient oak trees gnarled by long exposure to wind and cold. The manor itself rose like a tiered wedding cake from the ground, then broke into irregular levels, battlements, abutments and storied rooms seemingly thrown onto the original building at random then blended into the whole with balconies and ramparts connecting them together.

“It's a big family,” Linda Hollingsworth-Brown said. It had been many years since she had seen the manor, and she had never lived there. In fact she had been only an infrequent visitor in her youth, then had moved to America after marrying Harry against her family's wishes. She had regretted that decision since then. Harry was darkly handsome, a swarthy man who turned to business and spectator sports soon after their marriage, leaving Linda to wonder what all the shouting was about so far as sex was concerned. His infrequent rough attentions more and more made her wish she had the means to be self-supporting, but her degree in English history had proved singularly unremunerative. The small stipend she received from the Hollingsworth family had made the idea of marrying an American businessman attractive, only to find out after the honeymoon that Harry had greatly exaggerated both his finances and business acumen. He was forever becoming involved in projects which, although they usually made a little money, never developed into a steady living.

“What do you think we'll get out of it?” Harry asked as he pulled the car into the wide circular driveway, already littered with numerous other vehicles.

Linda shook her blonde wavy hair in irritation. She was weary of Harry's questions about what part she might play when the estate was settled.

“I have no idea,” she said. “I've already told you Aunt Laura died without leaving a will, so far as anyone knows. It will be up to the judge.”

“Aunt Laura. You told me once that you thought she married Lord Hollingsworth on the rebound.”

“I've heard rumors, yes. I talked to her once just before we were married. She hinted then that I was making the same kind of mistake she had, whatever that means. I liked her though. She was always nice to me, the few times I met her.”

“You didn't make a mistake, kid,” Harry said. He reached over from the driver's seat and squeezed her thigh possessively. “You weren't on the rebound, either. She was nice to you, huh? Too bad she didn't leave a will.”

“Oh, Harry, leave it be. Anyway, she was actually my great-aunt, and I think she was unhappy her whole life; at least that's the impression I gathered from the few letters she wrote.” Linda brushed his hand away from her thigh and opened the car door. Harry got out on his side and hurried to meet the personage at the huge oak doors, leaving Linda to trail behind.

“You must be Linda Brown,” the tall angular woman who greeted them said, ignoring Harry's presence until Linda caught up. “My, you're lovely, my dear. In fact, you are almost a perfect picture of Laura when she was young. Do you remember me'?”

“I think so. Aren't you Cora Hollingsworth? Laura's niece?”

“Cora Blankenson now. I married the judge after you had already gone to America.”

“What judge is that?” Harry intruded. “Is he the one who will be ruling on the estate?”

“This is my husband, Harry,” Linda said. “And by the way, I go by Hollingsworth-Brown. I couldn't bear to give up the name completely.”

Cora raised her eyebrows imperiously. “Ah. I remember. Harry, the American lover who swept you off your feet. Laura was very disappointed about that, you know. She talked about it tiresomely, for years after you left. To answer your question, Mr. Brown, yes, my husband will be the final arbitrator of Laura's estate.”

“That's great,” Harry said effusively, thinking to himself that he would begin immediately to put himself into Cora's good graces.

“Please come in,” Cora said. “You must be tired after your trip.” She led them into the manor's entrance, a cavernous room expansive enough to support two huge fireplaces and numerous lounging chairs and divans. Above the mantle of each fireplace hung paintings of Hollingsworth ancestors, including one of Linda's great aunt. She studied it furtively, and was amazed to see that Cora was right. The portrait of Laura as a woman in her early twenties did bear an eerie resemblance to her own self.

Cora lifted a small silver bell from a scarred French provincial table near the entrance. She rang it once. It seemed to Laura that its muted tinkle could not have been heard from more than a few feet away, but almost immediately, a butler appeared, dressed expansively in the gray and silver of the Hollingsworth livery, complete even to silvery tinged hair.

“This is Henry, our butler. He will see you to your rooms and call you for dinner. You know, of course, that other servants are available. Simply lift the phone in your rooms.”

“Thank you,” Linda said. She was tired, and the next week promised to be a busy one. It was Sunday afternoon now, and the court ruling on the estate was planned for the following Friday morning. In the meantime, there would be a gathering of the family to the Hollingsworth manor, many of which she had never met, or having met, did not remember.

Henry led them out of the huge entrance mall into a hallway replete with doors on either side, up a flight of stairs that rang hollow under their footsteps, into a cramped elevator to another level, then down another short hall that split into two others. One of these terminated in a set of three other doors, one at the end of the hall, the other two to each side. The butler opened the terminal door and showed them inside, which proved to be a two-bedroom suite with a sitting room between. He let them look around while he arranged their luggage.

Linda waited impatiently until the butler left, then repaired to the bathroom of her bedroom, leaving Harry to his. Unlike most English hotels and homes, the water was hot when she tested it. Immediately she stripped off her traveling clothes and luxuriated in a tub of steamy bath water. While drying herself with one of the many soft, oversize towels, she admired her figure in the mirror over the sink, wondering as she took in her high full breasts and narrow waist whether her great aunt had the same kind of figure. She really didn't remember and it was impossible to tell from the portrait in the entrance hall. Just as she turned to pull a robe from the closet a flash drew her attention to the greater bathroom mirror attached to one wall. A figure appeared momentarily in the glass, she thought, then was gone almost before she realized it was there. A momentary visage hung in her memory, that of a young woman wearing a floor length house robe years and years out of fashion. She blinked her eyes, staring at the mirror, but it reflected only her own naked body, one hand raised to her face, the other waist high, holding her modern nylon wrap. Imagination, that's all. Linda dismissed the image she thought she had seen. She pulled on the wrap, belted it and closed the bathroom door.

Harry was waiting. He had not bothered to bathe. He lay on her bed, clad only in boxer shorts. “I thought you'd never finish in there,” he said, voice thick.

Linda stopped where she was. “I'm not in the mood.”

Harry eyed her speculatively. He was in the mood, for a change, his energy charged by the prospect of a possible inheritance for Linda and the lack of a television in their suite.

“What do you expect me to do with this?” he asked, touching the bulge in his shorts.

“Nothing, so far as I'm concerned,” Linda said. She eyed her husband with distaste. His once good looks had deteriorated since their marriage. There was a roll of fat poking from around the waistband of his shorts.

Ordinarily, Harry would have forced the issue, subjecting Linda to his rough idea of marital sex, but the possible proximity of other members of the Hollingsworth family in nearby rooms restrained him. That, and the thought that Linda might inherit some of the Hollingsworth fortune. He didn't want to irritate her in that case; he had plans for the money, should it come to her. Harry forced a smile and retreated to his own bedroom. Linda lay down on the vacated bed, still wondering about the image she had glimpsed in the bathroom mirror.

There was another in the bedroom, directly across from the foot of the bed, rising from floor to ceiling, decorated with ornate carvings along the framed top and sides. She stared at it, liking the way her reclining figure was reflected, and wishing, as she often did that her marital bed was not so barren of excitement. Gradually, her eyes closed, and she began to slip into sleep. As she did, it seemed to her that the mirror wavered, forming an outline of a dark haired young woman, this time clad only in a chemise from the turn of the century. The figure detached itself from the mirror, but by now Linda was sure that she was dreaming. Her eyes closed completely.

Linda woke up with the sensation of hands on her breasts. At first she thought it was Harry, back in the room and intent on having his way, but suddenly she realized the hands stroking her breasts could never belong to Harry. The touch was too soft, the fingers too gentle, and the curling palms cupping the slope of her breasts too small and loving to ever belong to her husband. She opened her eyes. A wraith was there, translucent. She could see through the body of the dark haired young woman leaning over her as if through a heavy mist, but the hands caressing her full breasts felt as real as her own. Even as she blinked sleepily at the image, she felt the touch of gentle fingers teasing her nipples, bringing them to full erectness. Linda came fully awake. She grasped at the wrists of the disembodied spirit, intending to pull the hands away from her breasts, even as she felt herself enjoying the sensation. Her hands grasped air. She gave a short, sharp scream. The apparition vanished. Harry came bursting into the room.

“What's wrong with you?”

“There was a woman in here!”

Harry looked around the bedroom, noting the closed doors. “There's no woman in here.”

“There was! I woke up and she was leaning over me, touching my breasts. When I screamed, she vanished.”

“You were dreaming.”

A carefully muted knock came at the door.

“Just a moment,” Linda called, throwing on her robe and motioning Harry back to his own room. He was still dressed only in boxer shorts. She opened the door.

Cora stood in the entrance, already dressed for dinner.

“Henry reported that he heard a scream. Is there anything wrong?”

Linda had taken an immediate liking to Cora. The tall, prim woman reminded her of her own mother.

“Come in,” she said, then invited Cora to sit. She decided that there was no harm in telling the other woman what had happened. Perhaps it was some kind of elaborate practical joke. That theory was quickly dispersed. The blood drained from Cora's face as Linda described the appearance of the wraith she had seen and tentatively began to describe its actions.

“And the..the ghost, as you describe it, was..”

“Was fondling my breasts. When I tried to grab its wrists, my hands went right through them. That's when I screamed.”

Cora dropped her gaze to her lap, then looked back at Linda. She hesitated, then spoke reluctantly. “Linda, I must tell you something. Please don't repeat it because your Aunt Laura told it to me in the greatest confidence. I know you've heard stories of how Laura married Lord Hollingsworth just after breaking off with another lover. What she never told anyone else but me is that her lover was another woman, a maid who worked in the manor but lived in the village. She also worked occasionally for Laura's parents, which is how they met.”

“What happened to her after Laura married?”

“She took her own life one day, right here in the manor. She was found dead in Laura's bedroom, a pill vial empty by her side. The whole thing was hushed up, of course. So far as I know, there was never a suspicion that Mary—that was the maid's name—took her life because of heartbreak over Laura's marriage to Lord Hollingsworth.”

“But what—".

“Let me continue, dear. You see, your description of the apparition matches Mary's appearance as Laura described her to me. Dark, pretty, buxom. Now I know you may find this hard to believe, but there have been other reports of this ghost, although of course we never talk about it in public. It always appears only to women, and only women resembling Laura.”

“And you think—oh, my God! You think Mary's ghost believes that I'm Laura? And that's why it was ... was ... oh, no! The whole thing is just too fantastic.” Linda was appalled. The idea of a ghost trying to make love to her because of her resemblance to her great aunt was too far removed from reality to accept. And yet ... she remembered the soft hands stroking her breasts and shivered.

“You've been in America too long, my dear. Over here we know that ghosts do exist. Well, let's hope that Mary's shade doesn't bother you too much. I'm sure its attentions are benign, even if somewhat ... even if ... unorthodox, so to speak.” Linda could think of nothing else to say. She escorted Cora back outside, then closed the door after being reminded that dinner would be served shortly.

Harry came back into the bedroom as soon as he heard the door close behind Cora. He stood with hands on hips and stared at Linda.

“Now I've heard everything! A lesbian ghost!”

“You had no right to listen in on our conversation, Harry!” Linda was shocked at his actions. He must have had his ear right to the adjoining door in order to overhear the conversation.

“Well, I did. Don't worry babe. This might be a good thing. Now I know how to approach that Cora and Judge Blankenson. I'm sure they wouldn't like this story being bandied about.”

“Harry, you wouldn't!” Linda exclaimed, but she knew that he would, no matter what she might say. Money would make Harry do most anything, especially money from an inheritance, where he wouldn't have to work for it.

“Leave everything to me, babe. Come on, let's get dressed or we'll be late for dinner. I hope English cooking isn't as bad as I've heard it is.”

Linda thought the dinner was excellent, and she enjoyed the way Henry orchestrated the various servings, directing the other servants with mere nods of the head, but she noticed that Harry didn't eat so much as drink his dinner, gulping down aged wines like soda pop at a ball game.

Afterward, various members of the Hollingsworth family gathered in the great drawing room, sipping brandy or sherry, smoking and talking and renewing ties. Linda noticed Harry in deep conversation with Judge Blankenson, who looked as if he would much rather be sitting on his bench than talking with the American. In fact, if looks could tell a story, his would have had Harry in the defendant's pew of his court, found guilty, and be ready for sentencing to a long period of confinement. Linda spoke with a number of the family, but she found their conversation daunting, especially as she remembered few of them, and all seemed so provincially English that there were few subjects she found in common. Eventually, when she thought no one would notice, she slipped away through one of the many entrances, intending to return to her room.

That was easier said than done.

She left by a different route than she had arrived and soon found herself lost. The set of stairs she thought led to the hallway containing the elevator proved only to be only the entrance to a complicated maze of more hallways and rooms, both open and closed. She wandered through one sitting room open from both sides into another narrow hallway with several doors set side by side. She opened one, saw that it was probably servants quarter, then tried another. This one appeared to be unused. Curious, she stepped inside.

The bed was made with only a single sheet. There was a thin film of dust on the chest. Attached to a narrow closet door was an equally narrow mirror. Her gaze was drawn to it, just as it had been to the one in her own room. It wavered, as if her vision was blurring. She blinked, trying to see clearer. A nimbus appeared, then coalesced into brighter colors, forming the image of the young, dark haired girl she had been awakened by earlier. She was still clad only in a chemise, but now, only a few feet in front of her, standing erect, Linda could appreciate the lushness of the wraith's figure. The chemise hugged her breasts, limning erect nipples beneath. It barely covered her hips, revealing long pretty legs, slightly parted. A dark shadow at the junction of her thighs was only partially masked by the thin fabric.

Linda stood mesmerized as the figure approached her; unable to move had her life depended on it. Bare arms reached forward and slid around her waist, feeling solid and real. She closed her eyes, hoping that Mary's shade would go away, for now she felt certain that it was indeed the ghost of Laura's long ago lover and she could not begin to understand the sudden attraction she felt towards it. Lips, as soft as Harry's were hard and demanding pressed against her own. A tongue like warm silk slid into her mouth and began an eager exploration. Hands with pliable long fingers slid down to her hips and pulled her further into the embrace. Without thinking, eyes still closed, she shivered at the contact and closed her arms up and around the ghost's shoulders. She was no longer considering whether or not it was a ghost embracing her. She was suddenly lost in a deep, never-before-felt emotion, as if a rose garden had come to life and soft petals were drifting over her body.

An eternity later, the kiss was slowly broken, leaving Linda glassy eyed and shaking. A hand enclosed her own, tugged gently and Linda followed, letting herself be led as if she were a small child following her mother. She would never remember the route back to her own room, but once they entered the door of an elevator. It was occupied by several other Hollingsworths, but they seemed not to notice Linda's companion, not did others they passed as she was steered back to her own room. They nodded, or spoke, and Linda answered in passing, but whatever words she mouthed drifted away and were gone from her consciousness as swiftly as dissipating smoke.

Once back in her bedroom, Harry's voice startled her back to awareness. Her vision cleared just as she saw Mary's projection shrink and dissolve away into the mirror like a cloud being suddenly depleted of moisture.

“Hey, babe, where you been? I've about got the judge to the point of seeing reason. I just came up to check on some legalities."

“Legalities?” Linda would have gladly shot Harry at that moment. His appearance had caused her companion to disappear, she was sure, and her body still throbbed with unfulfilled desire.

“Yeah. I called our attorney back home, just to make sure of taxes and such on the inheritance. Don't worry babe, it's in the bag. Want to go back down and talk to the judge with me?”

“No. I want to stay here. Harry, this isn't right. You shouldn't—” .

“Don't worry,” Harry interrupted. “I'll take care of everything. We're going to be in the money soon!” He pecked Linda's cheek and hurried out, an avaricious grin spreading from jowl to jowl.

Linda did not try to call him back. If she were left alone, maybe ... perhaps ... oh, hell, she didn't know what she wanted. She felt lethargic, yet a tenseness gripped her, like the anticipation of a child the night before Christmas, where time dragged; yet fulfillment of dreams waited as surely as gold at the end of a rainbow. She decided to bathe and go to bed.

Linda stripped off her clothes, not bothering to hang them up. This time, she did not linger in the huge tub. The hot water made her body tingle and she shook off the last of the languor that had been gripping her. She toweled dry, then turned off all except one small night light, leaving the bedroom in shadows. She went to bed naked, and again she stared at the mirror across from the bed, slowly closing her eyes, willing Mary to reappear.

Linda did not see Mary materialize this time. She became aware of her presence by movement of the mattress sinking under the weight of another body by her side. She turned to look.

The chemise was gone. Mary, or her ghost, stretched her body, arms reaching above her head. Her breasts flattened with the movement, then moved liquidly back to fullness as she lowered her arms and gathered Linda into her embrace. Linda gasped as their naked bodies met and their breasts rubbed together, a velvety sensation that sent waves of pleasure coursing down into the core of her being. Their lips met and tongues danced together, sliding smoothly between lips locked together as if they were mating with each other. It was like nothing she had ever felt before. She touched Mary's breasts, tentatively at first, then eagerly, filling her hands and marveling at the sensuous weight of them. There was an interlude where she lay prone while Mary's mouth descended to her nipples, sending a shockingly intense yearning to reciprocate into her mind. She yielded to it, and tasted the sweetness of Mary's breasts, which only intensified her desire for exploration. It went on and on, leading her into paths she had never even imagined were possible for her. She buried her lips in the turgid folds of Mary's sex when she opened it to her and rubbed her cheeks against the coiling curls guarding it, then willingly spread her thighs to be tasted in turn, crying out at each exquisite orgasm with no thought of who might hear or notice.

Linda was lying on her side, replete, eyes closed, when she felt a tug at her hand. She opened her eyes, expecting another enticement, but she quickly saw that her ghostly lover was fading. The mirror in the bedroom was already faintly visible through her misty body. Alarmed, Linda allowed herself to be guided. She was not surprised when she was led toward the mirror. She thought perhaps Mary intended to take her into the nether world she inhabited, but that was not the case. Mary's ghost faded more and Linda knew then that she was leaving her. She cried out.

“Don't go!” Her voice was an echo in the room. The hand enclosing her own, which had felt solid a moment before, dissolved away into no more than a pointing finger. It touched the very top of the ornate frame of the mirror, and then there was nothing but a foggy nimbus as before which quickly faded into nothingness.

Linda's reflection in the mirror became narrow, then narrower still. Startled, she stepped back. The mirror had become a door, which swung open, revealing a blank wall with a single alcove within it. A white envelope rested there. Linda plucked it from its niche and the door closed, again becoming only a mirror. She touched the top of it as the ghost had done, but it remained closed.

Linda sighed, wondering if she would ever see her ghostly lover again. The last glimpse she had caught of Mary's face before it faded away was that of a woman at last satisfied, free of a task she had waited decades to complete.

“What are you doing standing here naked'?” Harry's voice came to Linda like a foghorn on a clear day, incongruous in the room that had been the site of such an awakening.

“Nothing you would understand,” Linda said. She did not bother looking for her robe. Whether Harry was stimulated by her body or not no longer held any interest for her. She was interested in the envelope she held, though. Ignoring Harry, she ran a fingernail along the seam and pulled out the papers it contained. She read quickly, turning pages while Harry came around and began reading over her shoulder.

“All right!” Harry exulted when the full import of what Linda held in her hand became apparent. “Laura left a will after all! And it's ours, all ours! Shit, where did you find that? If I had known you had it, I wouldn't have needed to pressure that fucking judge. This is wonderful!” He tried to hug Linda. She fended him off and began getting dressed.

“Where are you going?” Harry asked, bewildered. “We should be celebrating.”

“I'm going down to see Judge Blankenson."

“Oh. Well, I didn't think there was any hurry, but I guess we may as well show him the will now as later. This is great!” He attempted to hug Linda again.

Linda shoved him away. “You don't understand, Harry. I intend to show him the will, certainly, but I also intend to ask him about how the English divorce laws work. You see, I don't want to be married to you anymore.”

“But, babe—”

“Don't babe, me Harry. Mary's ghost came back, and she showed me what I've been missing all my life. You see, I'm not interested in men now. Understand?” Linda didn't bother to listen to Harry's protests. She finished dressing and left him still sputtering. As she descended the elevator on her way to the drawing room where she would call for the judge to attend her, she began thinking of all the things she could do to preserve the integrity of Hollingsworth manor. Laura's inheritance would make that easy. She wondered if Mary's ghost would make another appearance, but somehow, she thought it would not.

Never mind, she told herself. There would be other women. Perhaps a little dark haired maid....

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ODD JOB

In This story, Bain gives an alternate explanation of how Christianity got started. How could there be an alternate explanation, you ask? Well, suppose God has a teenage son, humans are on a path to usurp God's throne and ... well, read for yourself, but prepare for a bumpy, albeit funny, ride. Events didn't always happen as they are portrayed in history books—or the Bible.

God spoke to his only begotten son.

“Son,” He said, “I have a little chore for you.”

The Son grimaced. “Aw, not now, Dad. Me and the Holy Ghost were planning on going somewhere. Can't it wait?"

“Of course it could wait,” God said, “But as it happens, I don't want it to. Besides, I think you've been seeing too much of that Holy Ghost character. Where were you planning on going, anyway?”

“Just over to the next universe,” the Son said.

“And do what?”

“Aw, just cruise around a little. Check out the Angels. See what's happening. You know?”

“All too well,” God said. “I was young once, believe it or not. You want to use the black hole, too, I suppose?"

“Well, sure, Dad. Like, how could we get to the next universe without it?"

“When I was your age—"

“I know, Dad. There weren't any black holes then. Look, is this going to take very long? We're in a hurry.”

“You're always in a hurry. When I was—oh, never mind. Let's get back to that little chore I want done. Here, come have a look.”

“Aw, okay,” the Son said, with a notable lack of enthusiasm. He sneaked a surreptitious look at the spiral arms of the galaxy and saw that He actually had plenty of time before the Holy Ghost was due to arrive. He sidled over near his Father and saw that he was spinning a little planet. He looked closer and saw that it was Earth. His heart sank. Humans! He thought. He's still playing around with those silly little human beings he created. I wonder what He sees in them? Oh well, He said it wouldn't take long."

Can you see what's happening?” God asked, tilting one area of the globe into a better perspective.

Son squinted to be sure he got it right. “Um, it looks like a lot of little humans building roads and bridges and houses and stuff."

“Right,” God agreed. “The area you're looking at is called The Roman Empire by the humans who occupy it. Now, let's speed things up a little so You can see what's going to happen if I leave them to their own devices.”

God spun the globe slowly at first, then faster. Time speeded up. The Roman Empire expanded, covering land masses like a rapidly growing amoeba. Pseudopods of activity flowed in finger-like extensions, grew fat, merged and sent out new growths again. Buildings grew larger, the humans more numerous and the roads wider and longer. Self-propelled vehicles appeared, multiplied and scurried over the roads. Ships spanned oceans. Road vehicles grew wings and took to the skies, and presently rocket flares reached for space. The moon and asteroids were colonized. Mars and Venus were terraformed. Spaceships grew larger and more efficient. Faster than light travel was discovered and humans exploded into the galaxies, ranging through dimensions heretofore the province of God alone, cluttering his byways and polluting his throne. When the scenario showed the upstart humans beginning to challenge His very rule, God extended a finger to brake the spinning globe then spun it backward until it was back where it started from.

Once again, the Son was impressed by God.

“Hey, Dad, you better do something! Those critters you created are going to mess up the whole cosmos if you don't stop them. Why don't you go down there and do something about it?"

“And leave you in charge? Sorry, Son, but I need to keep an eye on the rest of creation. You're not ready for it yet."

Son snapped his fingers, sparking a few minor nova. He concealed his disappointment at the minor fireworks he was able to create and spoke up. “Okay, now I get it, Dad. You want Me to do the job. That's the chore you have for Me. Right?"

Right,” God agreed. “I need to divert some of that confounded inventiveness they're showing into a different pathway. I think a brand new religion will do the trick nicely. So—here's what I want You to do.”

He spun the globe of Earth again, playing the prospective scene in exquisite detail.

“Aw, Dad,” the Son complained. “Do I really have to be born down there before I do all that other stuff, the miracles and all?” He looked closer. “Hey, that's a virgin birth, too! Can't I like, just appear? A virgin birth will hurt."

“So will the cross. And don't complain about it being a virgin birth. I considered making it a breech presentation as well.".

The Son sighed. “Aw, Okay. Let's get it over with.”

“Thanks, Son,” God said.

A short eon later the Son returned, somewhat mussed, but surprisingly chipper. “All finished, Dad. Can I have the black hole now?

“God revved the globe and examined His Son's accomplishments with a critical eye. Somewhat reluctantly, he fished for the keys to the black hole.

“A good enough job,” He conceded. “They will be so preoccupied with that little life you lived down there that the Roman Empire will fall apart, along with the rest of their civilization.”

The Son held out His hand, anxious to get going. God started to hand over the keys but something caught His attention first. He looked closer then smiled to Himself. “You sort of censored those temptations, didn't You, Son?"

“Well, yeah, Dad, but I had to. They wouldn't have believed all that other stuff you wanted me to do if I hadn't."

“I suppose so,” God admitted. “Well, here's the keys to the ‘Hole. Don't be out too late. You know this solution is only temporary until I decide what I'm going to do with these humans. I may have to send you back down there again before it's over with."

“No problem, Dad,” the Son said, tossing the keys through a couple of dimensions and catching them neatly as they reappeared. “Those temptations were kind of interesting now that I look back on them."

“I'm sure they were. Have fun, Son”

“Sure, Dad. By the way, how was I begotten originally? You've been promising to tell me for ages now.”

“Hmm,” God temporized. “Ask me later. I think I just heard the Holy Ghost at the Gate."

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SALUTE TO HOME HEALTH NURSES

Salute to Home Health Nurses, By Betty Bain, R.N. was written by Darrell Bain's wife, Betty (who is a nurse) and was published in a nursing journal a number of years ago. Unfortunately, the print rights were reserved forever, thereby depriving many many readers of this unique essay. So, even though Around the Bend is supposed to be an anthology of Bain's work, he insisted that Tribute be included here once a court ruled that authors retained e-rights to their work. With the advent of so many aging baby boomers in our population, he thinks the number of potential readers justifies its inclusion. Besides, it is a damn good piece of writing, even if Bain does say so himself.

Home health nurses are found on crowded freeways muttering imprecations to traffic gods, renewing their souls on quiet country roads, waiting impatiently at the fast food drive-thru, hubcap deep in unexpected mud holes, detouring around endless construction and almost always smiling in anticipation of their next patient visit. Patients love them, their families miss them, their co-workers understand them, patients’ families are grateful to them and like the postman, the weather does not stop them. Key map on the seat, patient home directions in one hand, a Big Mac in the other, Coke clutched between their knees, radio blasting, notes and paperwork slipping and sliding to the floor, grinning happily, they are queen (or king) of the road.

They like people—patients in particular, good weather, understanding spouses, good directions (bless those who know where they live and how to get there), children, Cokes, co-workers, a meal cooked by someone else, coffee, a secretary who remembers their birthday, cookies, praise from their superiors and a pat on the back for a job well done.

They come in all shapes, colors and sizes. Each intends to lose ten pounds next month, stay within their budget, get all their paperwork completed today and accomplish ten other miracles before quitting time.

They don't care much for torn-up roads and freeways, other drivers doing dumb things, greasy fast foods (well, most of the time), being on call, scary neighborhoods, the endless stack of paperwork, being on call, unfeeling government regulations, state surveys, schedule changes as they go out the door, being on call, the telephone, being paged while stuck in unmoving traffic and being on call. They get satisfaction from the smile of the very ill, the look of gratitude from an overwhelmed family member, understanding from a colleague, praise from a supervisor, catching the green light just before it turns red and getting home in time to see their son hit a homerun during his little league game. Why do they come in early and stay late? Do shopping for the homebound patient on their own time and occasionally with their own money? How can they grit their teeth and plunge into the bottomless chug hole? How do they drive in rain, snow, sleet, floods and hurricanes with optimism they will reach their goal? How do they boost the morale of new stroke patients who can no longer care for themselves? How do they teach about diabetes for the millionth time? How do they face the innumerable dirty dressing changes? Why do they feel responsible for things way beyond their control or help? How do they attend funerals and comfort the survivors? God knows it's not the hours, work load, money or the endless series of promises of health care changes! Possibly, knowing that what they do makes a difference or things a little easier. Possibly, the words of heartfelt praise from a patient or family member. Or perhaps, the love, the gratitude, the appreciation, the devotion and the satisfaction heard in the smiling statement, “MY NURSE IS HERE!".

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CHARLEY'S BUTTERFLY

Darrell and Betty Bain collaborated on one story, a very sad one. It was scheduled to be published at one time but the firm closed its doors beforehand. It was published once in Bain's newsletter and on a number of lists and got passed around on the internet as a story of interest. They thought that this would be a perfect place to give it a wider readership, and perhaps let readers share with them the mystery of life and inevitable death, whether it comes early or late. Fair warning: this story will probably make you cry. The notations before and after the story explain why the overall piece is titled differently that the main story.

The whole family was saddened almost beyond belief a few years ago when our great grandson Charley died suddenly from SIDS—sudden infant death syndrome. It happened the day after Thanksgiving just as we were getting into the selling season on our Christmas tree farm. It was cold, too, and the butterflies should have all been gone south on their annual migration. One butterfly was still around though, and it appeared at the funeral. I don't know what it was doing there or why it hadn't migrated but it was a welcome diversion from our grief. Betty and I talked about what a strange occurrence it was that night after we were home, and the next morning we wrote the following story as an explanation—with hope in our hearts that it might be true.

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TWO PAIRS OF WINGS

The Monarch butterfly was larger than normal and had been able to survive long past the usual time for migrating south for the winter. It waited while it watched myriad others leave for their winter home. Somehow, it felt there was a purpose to the waiting, and a mission it had to fulfill rather than go on the southern journey with its fellows. And one day it felt the purpose tug at it, drawing it down from the sky toward a grieving crowd of people grouped around a tiny baby coffin. It dipped closer and hovered on gossamer wings. Was this the right place?

The Monarch hesitated, fluttering just above the heads of the crowd, looking for confirmation. Yes, there beat the saddened, grieving hearts of the parents of the tiny baby boy, and those of Grannies and Grandpas, of Aunts, Uncles, Cousins and friends. Yes, this had to be the place. Reassured, the Monarch now flew with confidence. It touched down lightly on the highest flower of Charley's prettiest wreath, the one with a little toy bear smiling gently at tear-stained faces.

This was the place the Monarch had sought, but there was yet the mission. It waited, perched with wings spread and lit in all their glorious colors by the last rays of the setting sun. It sipped sweet nectar from the depths of the open flower; nourishment for the journey it sensed was drawing near.

The Monarch watched and waited, opening and closing its wings as the broken hearts began departing one by one, at last leaving only the parents. Then they, too, said their final farewell and the Monarch knew it was time to go.

“Come, Charley,” it said. “Your little wings are ready now and I am here to go with you for the rest of your journey.”

Charley's tiny wings were new, unused, and he flew a few practice flights first, around and about the wreaths and flowers left behind. Then, illuminated by the last sunbeam of the eve, the two of them, Charley and the Monarch, rose slowly into the sky. As Charley gained confidence he rose higher and higher, up and up into the clouds, toward a gate held open and waiting by a gentle figure with open arms. Together, he and the Monarch entered that peaceful realm.

Fly, Charley, fly. Our hearts fly with you.

The End

I typed up the story in heavy bold font and printed it on dozens of pages of parchment, one for the parents and one each for many more members of the family and some of our close friends. At the top of each copy I put a copy of a cherub on one side and a copy of a beautifully colored Monarch butterfly on the other. It looked good. Everyone who saw the parchment and read the story on it and saw the pictures at the top of it told us what a touching tribute it was to Charley, and how much they appreciated it. I also sent the story by Internet to some close friends and relatives who were unable to attend the funeral in person. Somehow it got reproduced and sent to other places on the web and eventually many, many people who never knew or saw Charley read about his journey—and about the monarch butterfly that accompanied him.

Life goes on, of course, as it must. A couple of years passed and just as it seemed that our granddaughter was getting over Charley's death a terrible accident occurred. Her husband was killed when a truck he was working on slipped off the jack and crushed him to death.

There was another funeral then. It was as sad as ever a funeral could be, with our granddaughter losing her husband so soon after Charley died. After the funeral was over, there was the graveside ceremony late in the morning. When it was finished, she asked that only her parents stay with her there for a while. We all left, wishing there was something, anything, we could do, but there wasn't.

That afternoon we all gathered at our son's home. After speaking to our granddaughter, we went over to talk to him. He had a strange sad smile on his face as he spoke to us.

“After everyone else was gone, the Monarch butterfly came for him,” he said. “Just like it did for Charley."

Was it the same Monarch butterfly?

We'll never know for sure but we like to think it was.

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TERRORISM AND WHAT THE FUTURE HOLDS FOR AMERICA

Bain wrote this essay a day or two after the destruction of the World Trade Center towers. It is a heartfelt revelation of his take on how 9/11 changed America and the world. It is still relevant today and he sees nothing in it more than a year later which he wants to revise. This is a pretty good indication that Bain is a pretty fair student of history and human nature.

Like most people, I knew intellectually that something like the terrorist attacks with fuel-laden aircraft could happen but it was hard to really imagine—until it happened. And even then, I had an awful time gripping the reality of what had happened with my senses. I am not an overly demonstrative or emotional person. I didn't cry, nor rant nor rave when I saw the news. I simply sat stunned for days on end, watching the horrible events unfold on television. Then, on Saturday morning, four days after the attacks, it finally got to me.

I was watching CNN and read a quote sent in by a viewer. The quote is from Shakespeare (MacBeth, I think). It goes: “Cry havoc and loose the dogs of war.” Almost at the same time as those words scrolled across the bottom of the page, The Star Spangled Banner began playing. And it finally sank in. I broke down and cried for all the poor people who lost their lives and for their families and friends and for our nation itself, because I believe this is the beginning of much more death and suffering to come.

The whole nation, almost to the last person, wants war, revenge, punishment of the culprits and to have terrorism wiped from the face of the earth, even if it means scouring some countries down to bedrock (well, perhaps not that extreme but you get my meaning).

Alas, if only we could eliminate terrorism by any means, fair or foul, I would rejoice, but it is not to be. The terrorism we saw this week is not an act standing alone but is part of a wider phenomena, where Islamic fundamentalists believe that they now have the means, i.e., random terror against the non-Muslim world in general, and the United States in particular that will eventually ensure victory for their beliefs.

The sad part of this is that the fundamentalists believe in their cause with as much devotion and as much bravery as any Christian who ever faced a lion in the arena. They will go to any lengths to spread their vision of a simpler world as taught (they think) in the Koran, where the world is ruled by religious edict based on the musing of their prophet. They want western influence to be gone from the Muslim lands and nations. They want their vision of the world to prevail and for Islam to return to the heights of power it once enjoyed.

We can go after Osama Bin Laden and other terrorists and I suspect that with such directed effort as seems to be building that we will succeed—and thereby create a thousand more fanatics willing to sacrifice their lives for their cause. The same holds true for killing or capturing other terrorists. We will create more of them. Should we then NOT retaliate? No, no, no! What happened is a pestilence, a scourge not to be borne, a horrible blow to the very fabric of our nation. I just believe that we should know what we are getting into and prepare ourselves for many more acts of terrorism to come.

We are entering a darker phase of a religious war that really began around the turn of the century when Jews began returning to the Holy Land. I won't argue the rightness or wrongness of the re-creation of the nation of Israel. Many men and women far smarter than me have argued and discussed the subject for decades, if not centuries. What we have is facts: Israel is not going away.

Islamic religious fundamentalism is not going away, any more than our own Christian fundamentalists are going to shut down their churches.

Will we “win” this war? I have no idea. I think it will go on well past my own lifetime. I just hope that the togetherness, the boiling rage and willingness to spend treasure and lives to combat terrorism will not fade too much with time, for if it does we will give terrorism the victory by default.

Most people do not yet realize how complex a “War On Terrorism” will be. It may involve invasions or incursions into other countries. It will consume untold amounts of money. It probably will involve much higher casualties than we have already seen. If we go by the words being thrown about so blithely by our politicians, we will not see the end of terrorism in my time but we may well see a world in flux with more wars, big and little than we ever imagined.

And yet—what else can we do? We as a nation cannot and will not sit by when attacks such as happened this week threaten our very existence as a democratic nation. We must retaliate, no matter where it carries us.

So, my friends, be prepared. It is not over and it will not be over for a long time to come, if ever. Religious factionalism has been with us ever since there has been such a thing as religion. The terrorists are not going away. We will be subject to more attacks, to more suffering and pain. I fully expect to see Biowar waged against America by terrorists in my lifetime and I shudder to even think of the consequences.

Regardless, I would go back in the Army today if they would have me, old and decrepit as I am, and I say this after having seen two years of war and having spent thirty years of working among sick and broken bodies and ruined minds in the medical field. I would go today and help our nation seek revenge if I could. Most Americans must feel this way.

“Cry havoc and loose the dogs of war."

It has begun. God help us all, if there is a God.

Author's Note: I received many responses to the little essay above, almost all positive. Thank you for reading. And remember, most Arabs and Muslims are hard working family people just like us and had nothing to do with the terrorists. Let's not throw out the baby with the bath water.

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THE COMING ENVIRONMENTAL DISASTER

THE COMING ENVIRONMENTAL DISASTER was also written after 9/11 but more than a year later. It has nothing directly to do with terrorism and Bain has stated that he has no idea why he wrote it, other than the fact that one morning it just came boiling up into his consciousness. It was published in Bobbing Around, the periodic newsletter put out by Bob Rich, an Australian author and world-conscious environmentalist. Only time will tell whether Bain's take on humanity and the environment will turn out as he envisions. Bain will be the first to admit that he hopes it doesn't.

The planet's resources are being used up. Oil, ores, timber, ocean protein, coal and just about any other resource you want to name are not in infinite supply. And even if they were, their very use causes insoluble problems. The present global warming trend may be part of a normal warming/cooling cycle but it has become apparent to all but the most pigheaded that the human presence is becoming a major contributor to the present warming trend, whether or not it is “naturally” occurring. And there is no end in sight.

Industrial pollution (besides the global warming part) is part and parcel of the use of those irreplaceable resources mentioned above. Pollution may have been slowed in Europe and the United States, but it continues on a massive scale in other countries like Russia, China and India, to name a few. And even though it has abated somewhat here (relatively speaking), that won't last. We are comfortable and well-off enough that for the present we can afford some environmental fixes (or attempted fixes), but future prospects are grim.

Why the pollution in the first place? Why the exorbitant use of exhaustible natural resources all over the world? The reasons are actually pretty simple. Man is both a territorial and a competitive animal. If one nation, say America for example, becomes dominant in one sphere, e.g. steel production, some other nation or nations are going to try to claim that “territory". When you have great have-not nations such as India or China, the territorial imperative will inevitably come into play and that nation will do its level best to catch up, regardless of consequences like dirty rivers, poisoned soil, etc. Just have a look at Russia and China today. They are already far gone down the path of industrial destruction of the environment and little attempt is being made to ameliorate it. Peking subjected to dust storms from encroaching deserts, caused by denuding the landscape of vegetation. Massive flooding in the plains below the Himalayas from the same reason. Russia's nuclear sub fleet rusting away in harbors with many of the nuclear reactors and fuel still present. And while we're on the subject, all over the world, nuclear fuel is being stored in the open, under tents and flimsy buildings, simply because of the NIMBY syndrome. Tons and tons of it.

Now add overpopulation to the equation. Hungry people couldn't care less about the environment as is being readily proven in many parts of the world. In Africa, species like elephants and chimpanzees are being slaughtered for food. In other areas, women must walk miles simply to find firewood because so much of it has been cut. In both Asia and Africa, lakes are polluted and/or fished out. And it can only get worse as population increases. And it will increase. The only way discovered so far to stabilize any population is for them to have as comfortable a life style as Europeans, North Americans and Australians, where there is money for birth control paraphernalia and programs, gynecologists and abortion facilities. Even such draconian methods as China is using to hold down population aren't working. Over a billion people can't be policed that closely, as census figures are proving. China's population keeps going up even with the one child per couple official policy.

Well, suppose then that the whole world attains an economic life-style similar to America? Would population decrease? Heck, you bet, because civilization would soon come crashing down; there is simply no way presently known to sustain such a life style for the whole human race. The resources aren't there, and even if they were the industrial byproducts of giving every human on earth that kind of affluence would poison the earth quickly.

The sad fact is, though, that our consumer economy is emulated , or is attempting to be emulated everywhere in the world, and don't listen to people like the French politicians. Their blather about keeping their culture “pure” isn't working and never can in a global economy/culture. Why? Simply because the urge to be comfortable is bred into the race just as surely as the urge to reproduce and compete and protect territory. If it is possible to have inside plumbing, a vast variety of packaged foodstuffs, air conditioning and central heat, and so forth, we will have it and damn the environment.

Suppose the whole world goes to socialism or dictatorships, where the population is forced to live and work a certain way? Sorry, won't work. Look where that got Russia and the other completely socialized states before Communism was finally relegated to the dust heap of history.

Look where environmentalism is going even in some highly industrialized nations. They will be going broke before long from over taxation. And they aren't controlling destruction of the habitat anyway, merely slowing it down a bit. There is nowhere on earth where long term prospects show an actual steady and sustained improvement in the environment. Humans care for family first, then tribe, city, state, nation and the planet is last in line. We're just built that way.

How about the environmentalists? Can't their example be propagated and imitated world-wide? I would have to ask which environmentalists? The ones who drive gasoline powered SUV's on their way to a Sierra Club meeting or the Save The Animal enthusiasts and/or Ethical Treatment of Animals enthusiasts who aren't vegetarians, wear leather belts and shoes, etc. Most environmentalists have a very narrow agenda and outside their narrow concern, e.g., Save The Whales Society, don't practice environmentalism any better than the rest of us. There aren't that many of them anyway. And only the very hard core would be willing to give up their comfortable life style to practice true conservatism of the environment. As has been said frequently, Man is not a rational animal; he is a rationalizing animal. It is the rare individual who can get past the built-in environmental and genetic programming to see what must be done to save the planet from coming disaster.

So what's going to happen? And when? The answer to either is indeterminate but the fact that disasters will happen is not. Eventually, (and perhaps sooner than we think) the combined excesses of agriculture, consumer economies, industrial pollution and global warming, whether natural or man-made, will combine to send our present civilization reeling. When climate changes enough to where the food supply to even the industrially advanced nations begins to fail, when economic depression sends jobless swarms roaming in destructive waves over cities, when pollution drives people and animals from their homes, we'll begin to know the answers—too late.

Nothing of consequence will be done. Civilization will collapse back down to the level of the iron or bronze age and there will be a massive die-off of humanity. Some might think that's good. Perhaps it is, in the long run, but in the long run the cycle would just repeat, over and over.

What could be done? Practically speaking? It is almost too late to do anything (and probably is). One alternative is genetic engineering, but I suspect that even if it were turned completely loose, we would soon have more of a population problem and more of other unrelated problems than we have now. How about nanotechnology, where creation of goods and foods is done on a molecular level? They talk a good fight, but practical results are too far in the future. Take industry to space? Too late already, I fear. Perhaps it could have been done earlier but our politicians had not enough foresight to keep a space program going. And it might not have worked anyway. For all the talk of moving manufacturing to space, you still would have to have a massive transportation system to take the people there and bring the finished products back. I believe the transportation system would probably create about as much pollution as it prevented.

So where does that leave us? In the soup, I fear. The one factor which may save us is unexpected and unpredictable technological advances. I say this even while our technology is the reason for the problems. Even so, technology has saved us from some predicted disasters such as the Malthusian predictions; perhaps it can save the planet from others. We can only hope so, because that's the only way I see to avoid the coming disasters. More technology!

* * * *

Rather than finishing this collection on a down note, Bain wanted to include a couple of his short humor pieces. The first, The Lost Viagra Pill is from his non-fiction (sort of) humor collection, Life On Santa Claus Lane and the other, The Piemaker will be published in his second collection of short humor fiction, tentatively entitled Laughing All The Way. Both these collections are purported to be all true stories but Bain admits that sometimes he does exaggerate a wee bit.

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The Lost Viagra Pill

I know I've mentioned old age a number of times. Now, I don't really feel old despite my 62 years, but some parts of bodies just don't work as well as they did when they were younger. And thence comes the story of the lost Viagra pill.

I had been hearing so much about Viagra that while I was seeing my doctor for a checkup I asked him if I could have a sample.

“Sure,” he said, “but I can only give you one pill. Everyone wants them. And be careful, it's the hundred-milligram dosage.”

“I'll take care,” I assured the doc. On the way home I decided that rather than tell Betty I had a Viagra pill I would just take it and surprise her with the effects I had heard so much about, then tell her where my renewed vigor came from afterwards. I figured by that time she wouldn't mind my little deception.

Now any of you who have been married for a while know that you really don't have to say anything when you're thinking about hanky panky at bedtime. The signals are just there and your spouse can read them as easily as she can tell when you're claiming to be watching a ball game but you're really eyeing the cheerleaders.

Betty finished up in the bathroom first and then it was my turn. I set the Viagra pill down on the counter, intending to take it in a moment, just as soon as I got a glass of water. There was no glass in the bathroom. I went to get one. When I got back, I momentarily forgot what I had gone to get the glass for (you older folks can sympathize here). I thought maybe I had forgotten to brush my teeth, so I got out the toothbrush and toothpaste from behind the Listerine bottle. As I was doing that I noticed that I had forgotten to shave. I put down the toothbrush to plug in the razor and along about then remembered the Viagra pill. I had better take that pill now, I thought, before I forget it again. I thought I remembered leaving it on the counter. I looked. No pill. I moved the Listerine bottle and the tube of toothpaste, thinking that maybe it was behind one of them. I didn't find the pill but I did manage to turn over the glass of water I had never drunk.

About this time Betty called out, “What are you doing in there, Sweetie?"

“Nothing!” I called back.

“Nothing doesn't make that much noise,” Betty said. “Did you turn over your water glass again?”

“No. I mean yes, but I'll fill it up again.”

“I don't care whether it's full or not, just come to bed.” Betty was beginning to sound a little impatient.

“In just a moment, hon,” I assured her. Where the hell is that pill?

My search for the missing Viagra became more and more frantic. I couldn't find the damn thing anywhere. Finally I decided I must have inadvertently raked it off onto the floor while fumbling with my toothbrush or shaver. I got down on my hands and knees and began feeling around for it. Viagra pills are blue. Our carpet is blue. Need I say more? I had no success at all. Of course I couldn't be sure the pill was actually on the carpet because I hadn't seen it fall but I knew for certain it wasn't on the cabinet any more.

You may now ask why I was feeling for it instead of looking for it, even with blue on blue. I was feeling for it because my bifocals were on the bedside table and I didn't want to go get them because I wanted to take the Viagra first without Betty knowing about it. I began opening and closing bottom drawers and cabinets, thinking maybe I had put the pill up for safe keeping and forgotten where I put it.

“What in God's name are you doing in there?” Betty called.

Maybe I was making a little too much noise, but I was desperate to find that damned pill. It was the only one I had, after all.

“I'm looking for my glasses.” I said without thinking.

Betty opened the bathroom door with my glasses in her hand. She stared at me down there on all fours as if I were a Martian suddenly let loose in the house.

“What on earth are you doing down on your hands and knees? You know you don't keep your glasses on the floor!” Betty asked, eyeing me suspiciously.

“Uh, I thought I felt a quarter under my bare toe.”

“I'm worth more than a quarter,” Betty said. I could tell she was becoming exasperated. “Come to bed.”

“Just a moment, Sweetie. I have to go to the bathroom first,” I told her.

At that moment Biscuit, our dachshund doggie ran into the bathroom. Betty closed the door on both of us. I searched some more but still couldn't find that stupid pill. After a while I gave up and flushed a couple of times and ran some water as if I had really been doing something other than looking for a blue pill on a blue carpet or a forgotten pill in a cabinet or drawer.

Finally I gave up. I opened the door and went back into the bedroom, followed by my faithful doggie. Betty was turned on her side with the covers pulled up over her head. Remember what I said about signals? Boy, was I getting a signal. Not only was I not going to get to test the effects of Viagra but I wasn't going to get anything else, either.

I climbed into bed, thinking maybe if I gave it a while the atmosphere might change from cool to at least semi-warm. The atmosphere did change. A little while later Betty yelped from the dark, “Biscuit, what are you doing? Stop that!"

In the dim light I could see Biscuit ensconced upon Betty's lower leg, making some unfamiliar motions, at least unfamiliar to him and to us since there isn't another doggie living within five miles, especially any lady doggies. Normally he just cuddles up beside one or the other of us and goes to sleep. Betty flung him off her leg.

Biscuit crawled up onto my leg and began moving—and now I began to suspect where that Viagra had gone. It had indeed fallen onto the floor and Biscuit had long ago let it be known that anything unfamiliar on the carpet or floor belonged to him. He had eaten it and was now feeling the effects.

Now how was I going to get out of this one? I shoved Biscuit away. He came right back, almost frantic now. I shoved him away again. He went over to Betty. She sat bolt upright in the bed. “Biscuit! Stop that. Stop it I say!”

“Maybe I better put him outside,” I said.

“Maybe you better. I've never seen him act like this. I thought it was female dogs that went into heat, not male ones.”

“I guess he is confused,” I said, the best answer I could come up with at the moment.

“Maybe he's sick,” Betty said.

“Uh, no, I don't think so."

“Then why is he acting like this? Biscuit, stop it, you idiot dog!” By this time Betty had turned the light on. That didn't bother Biscuit a bit. With single-minded determination he continued on with what he had decided was urgent business. As soon as Betty shoved him away, he came right back to me.

“Maybe we better put him outside,” I suggested.

“Go ahead; see if it will calm him down,” Betty agreed. I carried Biscuit out to our big porch where the cats live and where coons and possums come up at night to finish off whatever food Biscuit and his cats have left over (Biscuit thinks the cats belong to him). I turned the porch light on and set him down. Immediately he jumped up onto the swing where our old neutered female cat, Cutie Pie lives. He got quickly to work. Cutie Pie's eyes popped open. She let out a squall and tried to get loose. Biscuit held on for a moment while the swing swung, Cutie Pie meowed and the two Tomcats, Black Spot and Black Dot looked on with amused tolerance.

Their amusement lasted only until Cutie Pie wiggled loose and climbed a support post out of Biscuit's reach. Biscuit yelped and grabbed the nearest Tom, Black Spot, with his stubby little forepaws and panted happily, tongue lolling and little haunches moving to beat the band.

Black Spot yowled and reached back and slapped Biscuit's nose. Biscuit minded not a bit and just kept on. Black Dot saw what was happening and ran for cover. Black Spot managed to get loose and climbed up on the roof. Biscuit woofed in frustration and headed for the chicken yard before he remembered that we didn't have chickens any more. It didn't matter. A wayward possum got in his path and had to take a turn. We could see clearly what he was doing under the full moon.

Betty had come outside on the porch with me and was watching all of this in open-mouthed astonishment. “What on earth is wrong with our dog?” She asked for the dozenth time.

“I guess he must have a little sexual tension built up,” I said.

“Tension, my hind foot. He's acting like a doggie sex maniac."

“Like Father, like son,” I said proudly.

“He's not your son, you idiot. We're taking him to the vet tomorrow."

In the meantime Biscuit was circling the house, looking for some more close companionship. He found a stray cat that wandered up at the wrong time, thinking we were putting out food, then spotted the old boar coon who was accustomed to eating on the porch at night. The coon didn't pay any attention to Biscuit, being twice his size. He came on up on the porch and put his nose down into a food bowl, as usual. Like a shot, Biscuit was on him. Boy, I have never seen such a surprised coon in my whole life. He chewed on Biscuit enough to discourage him.

And that about ended it except that Betty really did think something was wrong with Biscuit and took him back inside the house where he kept us awake the rest of the night attempting to do what so suddenly came naturally.

After an almost completely sleepless night, Biscuit finally settled down and I talked Betty out of taking him to the vet. “It was just a momentary phase,” I told her.

“Well, I hope it never happens to him again,” Betty said. “It's like he ate some Viagra or something.”

I didn't say anything but I began wondering, boy, if a Viagra pill did that to a dog, what it would do for me? Of course I had to figure that the pill was meant for a 160-pound man and Biscuit only weighs 15 pounds, but nevertheless...

I still haven't gone and gotten another pill, but in the meantime one of the cats has fallen in love with Biscuit, the other two won't go near him, and I haven't seen a coon or possum on the porch or in the yard ever since. It could have been worse, though. Suppose Biscuit had run across a skunk while he was chasing around the yard looking for a sexual companion?

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The Piemaker

Right after I thought I had really pulled a sneaky one by talking Betty into letting me quit my job to grow Christmas trees and write books while she kept working, I found out that I had outfoxed myself. I was now expected to use my free afternoons to cook supper and have it waiting when Betty got home from work, not to mention doing the wash, polishing furniture and other mundane activities. I really thought they were too mundane for a budding writer but found that they had to be done anyway.

Well, what the heck, I've always been a good loser so I taught myself to cook, after a fashion. Before long I even began producing edible meals and not long after that began getting compliments. Maybe Betty shouldn't have been so generous with her praise. If she had toned it down a bit I might have stuck with meat and potatoes and not tried to graduate into pastries. But I did.

One afternoon I decided to make a pie. I had seen Betty rolling out dough and it didn't look all that hard. I mean, you lay the dough down and roll the rolling pin over it then pick it up and put it in a pie pan. Right? I got started.

First you stir up the batter. I put some biscuit mix in a pan and added an egg and milk and stirred. It got all gummy and began to gob up on my spoon. I added more milk. It got all runny. I added more mix. Ah, just right. However, it seemed like I was forgetting something. Oh yeah. Sugar. I dumped in a cupful. And hadn't I seen Betty adding shortening to her crusts? Yup. I spooned out a few gobs of Crisco and stirred. Know what? Crisco doesn't stir all that well. Into the electric mixer it went. No pie dough was going to get the best of me, by golly. I scraped the rest of the mess off the big mixing spoon with my finger and shook it over the mixer bowl. It wouldn't come loose. I shook harder. Whoops! It came loose on the upswing and splattered onto the cabinet. Out of reach. Well, I could get it later.

I attached the mixer thingy. Somehow, the batter seemed to be spreading. Besides that glob up on the cabinet I had drips and drabs all over my jeans and shirt. Now I knew why Betty was always wearing an apron when she made pastries. Oh well, I could change clothes when I finished since I still had to do the washing after this quick little job. I turned on the mixer. Maybe I had made too much pie dough what with thinning then thickening then thinning then ... Betty's pie crust mix never jumped out of the mixing bowl and sprayed itself all around the kitchen, including the ceiling. Never mind, I could clean it up before changing clothes. Right now, by golly I was gong to make a pie come hell or high water.

I poured what was left of the dough in the mixing bowl out onto the kitchen counter. My spoon was across the way where the mixer lived so I just used my hand to rake out the rest of the batter onto the counter. What the heck, I had washed my hands that morning and had wiped off all the oil from changing out that tractor filter. On with the pie. I got most of the dough onto the counter but couldn't figure out why it kept sticking to my hands and not spreading out on the counter like a decent behaving prospective pie crust should. Oh yeah, dern it. I had forgotten the wax paper. I got some out and made a note to remember to wash the batter off the cabinet handle while I was cleaning the walls and ceiling. I spread out the wax paper beside the dough and grabbed a big double handful of it to put on the wax paper. I placed it there and reached back for more. The wax paper came with me. I shook it but the batter had glued it to my hand. I slithered batter down off my hands, well maybe from down off my elbows to my hands and then off, since it had somehow spread up my arms while trying to get it onto the wax paper. By the time I got the wax paper loose from most of the batter, it looked to me like it was getting too thick again. Well, I wasn't about to go near that mixer again so I just poured some milk on top of the batter while it was on the counter. Dern it, the milk didn't mix, it just ran off the batter and over the counter and onto the floor before I could get it to mixing together. I made a note to mop the floor there when I was finished cleaning the walls and ceiling.

Wax paper didn't really seem to be necessary even if I did think I had seen Betty using it. I got out the rolling pin, making a note to clean that drawer handle when I was finished. Now I was certain I had seen Betty put flour on the rolling pin before rolling so I got out a handful and sprinkled it on the roller, meantime making a note to clean the top of the flour canister sometime before the weekend. The dadgummed flour just fell off the rolling pin onto the floor and before I knew it I had tracked it into the milk that had run off the counter. In the meantime I noticed that when I set the rolling pin down for a minute it got into some of the milk on the counter and that made some flour stick to it. Aha! You have to get the rolling pin wet. I ran it under the faucet for a few seconds and said to heck with cleaning the faucet handle. I already had too many other things to clean.

I dribbled flour over the rolling pin while trying to hold it in my hand and turning around and around but that didn't work too good and a lot of the flour still went on the floor and counter and onto my boots and down the front of my jeans. I figured it was already too late for an apron so didn't bother hunting for one. Anyway, I finally figured out the best way to get the flour onto the rolling pin was to dump some out onto the counter—no! Now I knew why the dough stuck to the wax paper. I hadn't put any flour on it!

I set the rolling pin down for a minute since I didn't want to mess any more on the counter and got out some more wax paper and put some water on it so the flour would stick to it and the dough wouldn't but somehow all I did was make a bunch of paste like when I was a kid. Oh—I bet you should put the flour on dry wax paper then roll the wet rolling pin over it to get the flour to stick to it so the dough wouldn't stick to the rolling pin so that was what I did.

Now to roll out the dough but heck, it was still sticking to the counter. That caused me to figure out that I should put flour on dry wax paper, then put the dough on top of it then flour on top of the dough and then use the floured-up rolling pin. I did and it worked sort of, after I scooped up what dough I could get off the counter and used up some more wax paper before learning to put water then a bunch of flour on my hands.

By this time I was running out of flour and opened another bag and hoped Betty didn't notice all the white marks on the cupboard door and handle because like I mentioned, I already had enough cleaning to do and I still hadn't even got the pie dough finished, much less the pie.

I saw pretty quick that I didn't have much dough left to roll out and I couldn't figure out why. There wasn't that much of the blamed stuff on the floor or walls or cabinets. Anyway, most of it stuck to the rolling pin no matter how much water and flour I put on it until I emptied that other bag of flour over the dough. That was a pretty good trick in itself because what with getting the rolling pin and paper and dough and stuff all ready to roll out, a bunch of it was gobbed up on my hands and I suspect on my face where I had to brush away flour that made a cloud in the air around my head when I dumped it. I got it done, though, rolled all out pretty even if it was kind of lumpy from that derned Crisco that never did mix in good with the other stuff.

I picked up the rolled-out dough to put it in a pie pan and it came apart so I just put the pieces in the pan and sort of pressed them against each other, figuring cooking would weld them together. Right about then, I thought I better look in the cookbook and see whether to cook the pie crust first then add the blackberries or add them and cook it all at once. See, I was going to surprise Betty with a blackberry pie instead of a blackberry cobbler.

The cookbook never did say, not that I could find anyway and pretty soon I couldn't read it anyhow for all the white marks from dough and flour and so on but I thought a new cook book would make a nice birthday present for Betty so I didn't worry about it. I did know you had to add sugar to the berries do I dumped a couple of cups into them then poured that over the pie crust but then I remembered I hadn't stirred the berries and sugar up so I did it while they were sitting there. I think my spoon might have gouged out the bottom of the crust where it wasn't already broken but I couldn't see through the berries to tell for sure so I just let it go. That's when I noticed I didn't have enough crust left to make a top for my pie, but I had it all down pat now so I got started and a couple of hours later I had a top for my pie. I wrote on the grocery list on the wall to be sure and buy more biscuit mix and flour and Crisco and sugar because I sure did seem to have used a whole bunch of that stuff for one little old pie and made a note to clean that wall next week.

Since I had forgot to read how high to set the oven before the cookbook got to where I couldn't read it, I figured 500 degrees ought to get it done pretty quick because I was about out of time and hadn't even started supper yet. Right quick I decided to let the pie cook and just run get some hamburgers from Sonic for supper. There was a line and by the time I got back I saw Betty's car already in the driveway. I ran inside and saw her holding something black and smoking in her hand with a potholder.

“Sorry, honey, I got delayed.” I said.

Betty didn't say anything. She put the burnt pie down and just stared and stared around at the kitchen then began staring at me while her mouth kind of hung open.

“Is something wrong?” I asked. I wondered if she was sick because usually she said at least a word or two when she got home.

“What on earth have you been doing?” Betty finally managed to say.

“Well, I was making a pie."

“How about making a mess?”

“I guess a little flour got loose,” I said.

I never have seen a woman sit down smack in the middle of a kitchen floor and laugh and laugh and laugh like that.

See if I ever make her another pie!

Visit www.double-dragon-ebooks.com for information on additional titles by this and other authors.

eBook Info

Identifier:

Bain-Around-Bend

Title:

Around the Bend

Creator:

Darrell Bain

Publisher:

Double Dragon Publication

Rights:

Copyright © 2003 Darrell Bain

Description:

Fantasy. 42190 words long. First published by DDP,March 2003

Language:

English

Type:

Novel

Format:

text/xml