d'Artagnan, Senior Musketeer Citizen - a really short story by N.C.C. McGowan

d'Artagnan, Senior Musketeer Citizen

At the age of sixty-three, d’Artagnan was in fact a bit long in the tooth to be dueling with swords, but he felt that as the newly-named head of the King’s Musketeers, he needed to save face when a young Parisian scalawag sporting a well-worn sword (obviously purchased at one of the lesser local pawn shops) challenged him one Friday afternoon. The young challenger had made some disparaging remarks in public that the older swordsman just could not ignore. It was a matter of pride, d’Artagnan thought to himself. After a brief sojourn as a Musketeer apprentice when he was a young man and then the many years spent as an officer and then head of the Cardinal’s Guard, d’Artagnan had been involved in more than a few scrapes involving swordplay, although it had been quite some time since he had drawn his sword from its scabbard in anger.

The young swordsman had some skill, d’Artagnan had to admit. However, even at his advanced age, the King’s top Musketeer believed the youngster was no match for his own advanced skills. Suddenly, after about two minutes of swords clashing back and forth, the scalawag, in an apparent lucky thrust of the sword, scored a direct hit to d’Artagnan’s right shoulder. It was just a small cut but it drew blood nonetheless.

“Why, you diseased weasel, you!” d’Artagnan exclaimed, still fending off the challenger’s lunges. “You cut me! I do believe I needed that scratch, however, to wake me up from my dueling slumber!”

With that, d’Artagnan parried the younger swordsman’s thrust and lunged toward his opponent with the intent of cutting the challenger’s right arm and ending the duel very quickly. However, his less experienced opponent seemed to anticipate the older Musketeer’s move and parried the thrust himself, countering with another short thrust and cutting d'Artagnan on the left shoulder this time.

“Well,” d’Artagnan said, looking down at his bloody left shoulder now, “I didn’t need THAT scratch!”

d’Artagnan’s opponent, taking advantage of his older opponent’s surprise, thrust again and struck d’Artagnan a third time!

“And,” d’Artagnan screamed aloud, “I certainly didn’t need THAT ONE! Now, you will soon understand the old adage about waking a sleeping giant, my young fool!”

With those words, the moves that the King’s top Musketeer had perfected as a young swordsman returned to him and in short notice he had disarmed his younger foe. In fact, because of the obvious lack of quality workmanship in his opponent’s blade, d’Artagnan’s sword, a fine piece of custom-made craftsmanship made by one Henri Louisville of Paris, probably the most renowned makers of swords in all of France, and all of Europe for that matter, had cut his foe’s steel in two. The younger duelist was left with nothing but a four-inch stub of steel that would have trouble slicing through some of the tougher cuts of beef in some of the less reputable cafes of Paris.

“So, my young ruffian,” d’Artagnan gloated, snarling to his opponent and placing his sword at the base of the younger swordsman’s neck, “what do you have to say for yourself now? Do you take back your libelous rants of earlier today or do you want to face my wrath even further?”

The callous interloper, sensing he had no choice but to recant his earlier taunt of the head of the King’s Musketeers and believing the older swordsman would not hesitate whatsoever to attempt to separate his head from the rest of his body, decided that discretion was indeed the better part of valor when one loses a duel to a more superior swordsman

.

“Fine, sir!” the scalawag replied. “The bread pudding in England is NOT better than that made in France! I apologize to all of France’s bakers and housewives I have insulted! And, in addition, you indeed do not look old enough to get the senior citizen’s discount at the Louvre!”

Justice and fair play had prevailed once more in the life of France’s most renowned swordsman.

  

PLEASE DON'T EAT THE LAZIES - A short story by N.C.C. McGowan

PLEASE DON'T EAT THE LAZIES

He knew for a fact that he would be next. Sitting there in the corner of that wooden cage, which was situated near the rear of the Cyclops' cave, he had seen his four companions removed from their prison and torn limb from limb by the Cyclops before he devoured them for his evening meal. And only he remained now, so it was just a matter of time before the giant Cyclops was ready for another meal, so he did not need to be given the gift of prophecy to know that his neck was next on the chopping block (chopping block being a figure of speech in this regard, as the Cyclops did not take time to chop up his victims, as he was the impatient sort of cannibal). As Cyclopes go, he was not the tallest of tall, but at nine feet, six inches, he was still of a magnificent height nonetheless, and with a belly the size of a small village, was nearly the same width as he was height. With a girth like that, it was obvious to the prisoner that this Cyclops ate very well.

The prisoner decided that in attempting to chat with the Cyclops, there would be a chance that he could ingratiate himself into the Cyclops' good graces and perhaps spare himself, or at least delay for some time, the inevitable. It was not much of a chance but it was a least a chance. He would be no worse off than his companions for the trying.

"Oh, sir!" he cried out. "Mr. Cyclops! I say, have you a minute to spare?"

"Ho," the giant shot back, somewhat startled at the impudence of his intended meal. "I am not used to my dinner speaking back to me, but, very well, pray, speak on."

"Well, I just thought that since we are here together, we would get to know each other before you began gobbling me up. Just a thought, you know. Something to consider before your next tea."

"As I am not yet famished enough to partake of my evening meal, I see no harm in indulging you for a bit. What would you like to discuss, my evening entree."

"There's the good fellow. Such a bright, energetic young man! We might start out by my asking how it is that you have sunk to such a low profession as stealing from the townsfolk, kidnapping and eating their elderly and children as well as any other folk who happen to pass by your lair?"

"HA!" the Cyclops laughed. "Low profession, is it? I pulled you out of that fishing boat, so I assume your profession is fisherman, one of the lowest there is! Lazing about all day, waiting for a few fish to nibble on your line, shooting the breeze with your lazy companions. You really have some nerve, you know. Do not talk to me about low professions, my next meal!"

Truth be told, his prisoner was not in fact a fisherman. He was pulled out of a ship, that is all true. However, he was in truth a mighty warrior on his way home from the most recent wars, a great and highly-decorated field general, an eventual possible heir to the throne, not some mere fisherman. The prisoner saw no need at that time, however, to correct the giant and continued in his line of questioning. If the giant wanted to think him some lowly fisherman, that was fine by the prisoner.

"Well," the prisoner replied humbly to the giant Cyclops, so as not to upset him any further, "I was simply trying to make pleasant pre-dinner time conversation for your evening's entertainment. What I truly meant to say was how is it that you have chosen this rather dubious path in life? A well-kept physical specimen and obviously intelligent individual like you could have chosen many other professions other than stealing and cannibalism to make a living." Here he was pandering to the giant's massive ego, as it was a bald-faced lie that the Cyclops was obviously intelligent. All who knew him feared his physical prowess, that is true, of course, but none in any way were in awe of his intellect (for reasons that will soon become apparent, by the way).

"I was forced into my lifestyle if you must know," the giant replied, "by you and your ilk!"

"Me and my ilk? I do not remember meeting you before that sorry day you rained boulders down upon my ship. How am I to blame for your station in life, sir? Since we are simply playing about here, do you care to explain?"

"Certainly, I will, since I am still not hungry, although my parents admonished me when I was just a tadpole not to play with my food. Where should I begin? The beginning, I suppose. You see, when I was much younger, way back in my grade school days, the other school children laughed at me and made sport of me. They would call poor Oog, that's my Christian name, you know, Oog, all sorts of bad names, taunting me, throwing things at me, chasing me with sticks and stones, which, by the way, proving that some old adages are correct, truly do break your bones. Where the saying went wrong, however, is that names will never hurt you. I was truly devastated at the utter cruelty of my classmates. It made school recess time a very upsetting and harrowing time at school. It upset me so much that come the lunch hour, I could barely wolf down the entire cow my mother had packed in my lunch box."

"Are you sure," the prisoner interrupted, "that these ignorant children were not simply making fun of your name?"

"MY NAME?" cried the giant. The prisoner had inadvertently hit a nerve, apparently. "What in the name of all that is holy is wrong with my name?"

"Well, I just thought that a name like Oog would be fair game on the schoolyard for many a devious little rake. It has the sing-song quality that many a bully would find appealing and be able to rhyme with some deprecating words. It also sort of sounds like the beginning of the word Ogre. I could see some young wits making hay out of that!"

"I see your point somewhat. The Ogres ARE distant cousins but are not of the quality of us Cyclopes. I will have you know that my father before me, and his father before him, and his father before him, going back twelve generations now, have all sported the name Oog. It is an honorable name in Cyclops history to be sure!"

"No offense, old chap. I was just trying to ascertain how you became the jaded and angry individual that you are today."

"Are you blind, you imbecile? I have ONE EYE! Do you not think that reason enough for young, callous school children to taunt a poor lad?"

"Yes, I see. Children can be so cruel sometimes to their fellow schoolmates with disabilities, I fear. Well, in this case, it is not as though that is a permanent condition, now, is it?" This was a quickly-devised thought the prisoner tossed into the conversation.

"Whatever do you mean, sir?" the Cyclops shot back quickly, his interest peaking a bit now over the prisoner's last statement.

"Do you mean to state that no one has told you?"

"Told me what?" the Cyclops was more than just curious now.

"This is quite unbelievable, I must say. Do you mean to tell me that neither your family doctor nor any of your family members told you that having one eye is not a permanent condition?"

"What are you babbling about? I have had this one eye now for nigh unto fifty years! If that is not permanent, I do not know what is!"

"Well, of course, if you have never taken the proper steps, it WILL be permanent. Are you not aware that all children of this world are born with only one eye? The baby eye, as medical doctors have come over the years to call the first eye, is like a person's baby teeth. The two new adult eyes cannot come in until the baby eye falls out or is taken out. Most of the time, it falls out on its own, you see. But, sometimes, in the most extreme cases, such as yours, it seems, it must be poked out so that the two new adult eyes can come in properly. I really cannot believe that no one has ever gone over this with you!"

"No," the Cyclops responded, a bit dejected. "Is this really true? This is hard to believe, I assure you, since every member of my family, as far back as I can remember, had only one eye. Can I truly have two normal eyes like everyone else?"

"I perceive now that your relatives must have been medically ignorant for not taking the proper steps to help out the inflicted members of your family. But have no neighbors ever broached the subject with you, either?"

"Well," the Cyclops answered, a small tear welling up in is one eye, "I do not get asked to supper all that much, what with the mischief I cause in the town, the looting, pillaging, and eating of the townsfolk and all. You can understand their position, can you not? The killing, chewing and swallowing of ones relatives tends to put some of my neighbors off, you know, for what reason I truly do not know, however. I am simply doing what I was born to do."

"Oh, of course, my good man. That is completely understandable. Who could blame them for the slight? But, somehow, I thought that such an intelligent creature as you would have heard something." Here again, the prisoner was simply massaging Oog's ego in the hope that he would be able to delay the inevitable a bit longer. No one in the town or in the valley had ever been known to attribute intelligence to Oog, fearing him though they may.

"No, no one has ever told me about this! How does one go about putting out the baby eye so that the two new adult eyes can grow in?"

"It is not something one can do on his own, you see. A doctor, or someone trained in these matters, must do it for you."

"I do not think I can convince the town's doctor to help me there. Unfortunately, I ate his wife just last month. Plump and tender though she was, if I had known I would have need of his services, I would have waited some time before deep-frying her in olive oil and eating her with a side of parmiginia di melanzane topped off with a little red gray. Oh, and here is something that may be of some interest to you, I sprinkled some fresh basil leaves over the whole meal as well. It actually grows wild just outside my cave door, you know, which is very handy for a culinary sort like me. It really was quite a good meal, as I remember, though now I fear I am going to regret it something frightful."

"Tut, tut, my good man. Do not fret one bit. It just so happens that I was the ship's doctor on that little vessel from which you plucked my companions and me," the prisoner lied, of course, since he was actually a great military leader and the only cutting he had ever done was with a short sword and that on his enemies in battle. "It is just sheer luck on your part that you chose to eat them first instead of me. I can perform the operation in mere minutes for you if you so desire."

Oog's ears perked up. The prisoner could see that he was really interested now.

"And how long will it take for my adult eyes to grow in after this operation?" Oog asked the prisoner.

"Oh, it is hard to say. We doctors have to take these things on a case-by-case basis, but I assure you, it would be no longer than a day or two at most."

"Done and done!" cried the Cyclops, spitting into his right hand and holding it out for the prisoner to shake through the bars on the wooden cage, which he did promptly. "You will perform this operation for me post haste!"

Oog opened the wooden cage, pushed away the bones of what remained of the prisoner's companions, along with those bones belonging to some other unfortunate townsfolk, and set him down on the cave floor.

"Of course, Oog, I will need some type of medical instrument with which to proceed," the prisoner/faux doctor stated matter-of-factly.

"Just what do you need? Say it and I will obtain it!" Oog cried out with joy, believing in his heart he would soon be like all normal folk, with the glaring exception of his height and weight, of course, and sport two normal eyes on his face.

"Hmmm," the prisoner thought out loud. "That long pole over there you are using as a spit for your fire would do nicely, I think. I would need one end to be sharpened like a large pencil, though. Have you the implements to do so?"

"I have a large axe that will do the trick!" the giant replied. "I use it all the time to dice up young townsfolk when I want to start a nice rue. I have been told a rue should start with butter, flour, celery, onions and green peppers, but I find that just a little chopped villager really rounds it out quite nicely."

Acting quickly, the Cyclops took his axe and sharpened the end of the long pole to a fine point. The prisoner found it rather heavy to hold up straight, however, and had to have the giant help him balance it on the cave floor in anticipation of "the operation".

"Now, all you have to do," the prisoner began, "is stay still with your eye open and I will complete the delicate operation."

"O, good, good! I am so excited! Complete away, my doctor my supper!"

With that gruesome last thought, that of still being considered for Oog's eventual supper, wafting through his mind, the prisoner lunged forward with the sharpened pole. Since the Cyclops believed this action was going to be completed for his entire benefit, he did not move a muscle, poor soul. The prisoner, almost having a thought of regret at how easy it had been to put one over on the giant but then remembering the fate of his four companions, as well as all of the others who had come to have the bad luck of crossing the path of this hideous creature, thrust with all of the might he could muster and impaled the sharp instrument directly into the center of the Cyclops' eye, putting out his eye and rendering him totally blind.

"Ahhhhhhh!" the Cyclops cried out in excruciating pain. "That really, really hurt! Oww! I really thought it would not hurt so much! Taking the baby teeth out of my mouth did not hurt this much, I can assure you, doctor! Could you not have used some sort of anesthesia in performing this operation? Your bedside manner leaves much to be desired, I must say. And now I can state for a fact that I cannot see a thing! Not one blessed thing! I trust this is normal. I do not know if I can stand this pain for the day or two it takes for my new adult eyes to come in!"

"Oh, that," the prisoner responded as he dropped the long pole onto the giant's lumbering feet, causing even more pain to the hapless giant, who was now holding the pitiful remnants of his bloody eye with one hand and hopping around on two feet in an attempt to ease the pain in his feet. "I was just joshing about the whole new adult eye thing. Cyclopes cannot have more than one eye ever in their lifetime. Kind of defeats the purpose of calling one a Cyclops, do you not think? And, now, since you are bereft of your eyesight and will be so forevermore, and will not be able to see me one whit, I bid you a fond adieu and wish you well, although without your eyesight I daresay you will have a very difficult time even being able to purloin a babe in swaddling clothes from the village hereafter! Quite a boon to the villagers, I do believe!"

"You tricked me, you impudent little insect!" the Cyclops yelled out, moving about in the cave, waiving his hands and arms in an attempt to locate the prisoner. "I will get you and squish you now like a bug you truly are and spread you as a paste onto my evening bruschetta!"

"You could certainly do that if you could see me, you blind corpulent fool, which, HA, of course, you cannot!" And with those words, the prisoner scurried quickly out of the cave, followed none too fast by the Cyclops, as he was bumping into objects in the cave and had a hard time even finding the door. The now blind hapless Cyclops ran into the wall next to the doorway as the prisoner passed through the jamb of the giant's door.

The prisoner had put about a mile between Oog's cave and himself and was well on his way to freedom when, looking back for a second to check on the whereabouts of Oog, he ran head first into a large object. Thinking he had run into the trunk of a tree, the impact was so great, he looked up and saw a huge, shadowy figure towering above him.

"Now what is all this racket I hear from the cave above, little man? What have you done to my brother?" this Cyclops, bigger in height and width than his brother, Oog, asked the prisoner as he picked him up by the scruff of the next, thinking that he would make a very tasty morsel for his next meal.

"You may call me doc, as I am actually a highly-qualified medical doctor with many important operations to my credit," the prisoner replied, continuing with the lie he had told this Cyclops' brother. "Have I ever told you my amazing and proven medical theory on correcting a Cyclops vision, my good man? It is really quite astonishing, I can assure you. It has been published in all of the reputable medical journals, you know. Please allow me to explain."

CHRISTMAS IN NOVEMBER (AND OCTOBER, SEPTEMBER, AUGUST....) - a short story by N.C.C. McGowan

CHRISTMAS IN NOVEMBER (AND OCTOBER, SEPTEMBER, AUGUST....

A few years back, in the month of October, I noticed my wife dragging some boxes marked "Christmas Stuff" into our living room. I was a bit perplexed as to why she would be rummaging through the Christmas decorations well before we even reached Halloween.

"Oh," she noted, "Don't you remember? I always put out my Christmas village just before Halloween."

Now, I truly did not recall any such thing. In fact, my last recollection of the dreaded Christmas village is that she would put it out the weekend after Thanksgiving, giving her plenty of time to enjoy the sights and sounds of her little town before having to take it down the first week in January.

Before I go any further, let me describe my wife's Christmas village, as some may have visions of a few scattered houses on an end table or coffee table. Nothing could be further from the truth. If you were a miniaturized person, my wife's Christmas village would be a wonderful, roomy place in which to reside, a veritable miniature metropolis. It basically takes up about one-third of our entire living room, making it difficult, especially once the Christmas tree goes up, to move freely in that area. She has approximately forty or fifty houses of all shapes and sizes (residential homes, businesses, restaurants, dance halls, police stations, etc.). Each home or business is lit from inside. In addition, there are tiny Christmas lights decorated on some of the homes as well as streetlights, a moving trolley car, a railway, different sounds and music emanating from the village, and moving vehicles cruising up and down the main thoroughfare. She has snow-covered streets, and on the outskirts of town there is a small dairy farm, complete with several cows ruminating about what gifts they will be receiving for Christmas. There are various villagers scattered about town, pulling sleds, cutting down Christmas trees, etc. There is even a drive-in movie theatre, complete with a working movie screen (although, I don't think that it gets much business in the winter time). As I said, a nice little town in which to live, unless you are a human being who happens to want to watch television -"Kathy, I can't see what Monk is doing because your ski slope is blocking my vision!"

Anyway, since that first fateful day in October, the time of year my wife has assured me the village had always gone up, the construction date has slowly crept up earlier and earlier each year. A few years after the first October raising of the abomination, I caught her dragging those damnable boxes out a few days before Labor Day in September.

"Now, wait a minute," I declared. "I know for a fact you never start putting that stupid village up in September!"

"Oh, yes," she replied. "It has always gone up in September. Don't you remember that little rhyme I made up? 'When you see the kids of Jerry, out come the boxes and it's time to be merry'?"

"No, you're just making that up. You assured me a couple of years ago, even though I am quite certain you were lying even then, that the village always comes out in October, just before Halloween. Now, you'd have me believe you put it up in September?"

"Absent any compelling physical evidence to the contrary, I am sticking to my story and the village goes up."

 So, she was trying to use legal jargon and mumbo jumbo on me. That's the last time I let her watch Law and Order, I thought. I did come up with another plan, however. I took out our digital camera, on the pretext of taking some nice shots of her village to compare it with photos of when it was fully assembled, and dated the photos on the digital prints. That way, I surmised, I could use them next year if she tries to creep the date up even before Labor Day (I saw her evil plan unfolding in my mind and had to do something to put a stop to it).

The following year, when she dragged out those boxes in August, I was ready.

"Hold your reindeer, young lady. I have to put my foot down sometime. The village has never, in recorded history, been put up in August! And I have proof!"

"Oh, of course it has always come out in August," she chimed in. "Don't you remember? It was up for that August hurricane we have a few years ago. The village took a dreadful hit and many of the roofs had to be replaced, not to mention the villagers going without power for quite some time."

"No way," I replied. "I took photos of the village last year, and I time-stamped them with the date you were assembling that monstrosity." When I went to our computer to access the photos, however, I had found that somehow they had been "accidentally" erased.

"Oh, well," my wife said in a sly tone. "I guess you should safeguard important photos better next time."

I was not defeated, however. I decided to have family members and friends sign affidavits that to the best of their recollection the village had never been assembled before August. I had the affidavits notarized and put them in a strong box for safekeeping. I had at least warded off any further encroachment of that village into the calendar year, I thought.

The following year, she decided to try to bring out the boxes in July. In my mind, I had her.

"Not so fast, Mrs. Claus!" I shouted. "I have legal evidence that this village has never before in human history been assembled in July!"

"Oh, don't be silly," she replied. "I always bring it out in July. Don't you remember the little rhyme I invented? 'In the month of July, Santa will fly'?"

"No!" I screamed. "I don't remember any such rhyme. I remember some made-up-on-the-spot rhyme about Jerry Lewis' kids and Labor Day a few years ago, but not this spurious poem you just created! Anyway, I have proof. Unbeknownst to you, I had some family members and friends sign official legal affidavits last year, stating that August was the earliest period they had ever seen you put up your village."

However, when I went to the strong box, the affidavits had mysteriously disappeared. Thinking that all I had to do was get the same people to sign another set of affidavits, I began calling around. Each person who had signed the affidavits had mysteriously disappeared as well. She is diabolical, I thought to myself. Is there no stopping this woman and her village? Mark off July now, as I could not furnish the proper proof.

This year, she pulled off the coup de gras. Instead of taking the village down in January, she left it up. Ostensibly, the reason was that we had family coming down in March, and she wanted to let them see the village. March came and went, and there the village stood. April and May went by. Finally, I mentioned this to her.

 "Oh," she said, "we might as well leave the thing up at this point, since I am only going to have to drag out those boxes again next month."

Next month? June? Since when? I thought. It was at that point that I realized the only way to defeat her was to sell the house and start all over again. Anyone interested in a three-bedroom house with a slightly shrunken living room?

The Servants In The Closet - A Short Story by N.C.C. McGowan

The Servants In The Closet

“Yer all a bunch of wimps and pansies!” cried out Old Sarge, a grizzled old Vietnam War era pair of combat boots. “Why, in my day, all of you 4-Fs would have washed out of the service!”

    “Now, see here, Sarge,” Casual Loafers replied. “That’s a rather harsh statement, don’t you think? I mean, just because you have been hanging around here the longest of any of us in this closet doesn’t necessarily give you the right to lambaste us in that manner. We all have our jobs we do”

    “Oh, blah, blah, blah, you wussie you! You don’t know what it’s like to go on forced marches, get up at 2:00 A.M. for guard duty, and defend your country the way I did! All you Casper Milquetoasts have to do is get up in the morning and go to a sit-down white collar job to earn yer keep! You all make me sick!”

    “Wait a minute, old man,” Nike Sneakers chimed in. “I seem to recall being told by one of my predecessors that you were never actually sent to Vietnam, that you were stationed stateside during the entire war. And I don‘t get to go to a cushy desk job. I‘m a sports-type shoe, used for basketball and other contact sports!”

    “Who told you them pack o’ lies, you basketball court sissy, you?” Old Sarge shot back. “Why, even if that were true, I am still a “Vietnam Era” veteran, you know, entitled to all rights and benefits those other Vietnam combat boots get. And I had to go through boot camp and all of that training regardless. That is more than I can say for you pack of sunflowers. What I did is a sight harder than running up and down courts and ball fields or lounging under an office desk all day. That’s for sure. That’s for dang sure!”

    “Yeah,” Nike Sneakers continued, “but when is the last time you were actually needed? You have had the cushy life for at least thirty years now, just sitting in the back of the closet, all comfy-cozy, living the life of Riley back here. I don’t count retirement as a difficult activity.”

    “I’m a little nervous,” Discount Sneakers said meekly. “From what I hear, they need new shoes to take over for good old Outside Lawn Care, the poor guy. I heard he has just about had it, the sorry old soul. I remember when he was a young lively sneaker like me before he got a few extra scuffs and nicks and his soul was a bit used up, both figuratively and literally speaking, if you know what I mean. I came into the household when he was in his prime, you know, before that dark day he was whisked away by the master and sold down the river to lawn maintenance. We all know how short your life expectancy can be once that happens with all the grass stains, paint drippings, mud, muck, dirt, rocks and all. I see him once in a blue moon when I get taken out to the porch, where he lives now. It‘s not a pretty sight. Even being donated to Goodwill or the Salvation Army is a better end than that!”

    “I have nothing to fear,” retorted Casual Loafers. “As far as I know, never in the history of this house has a house shoe like me been sold down the river. It’s always sports shoes like you, who are used to the rough and tumble life, who are eventually put to work like that when you get old and worn out. I am so far above your station, you sneakers, that you would need binoculars to see my station.”

    “No one is going to sell an expensive pair of shoes like me down the river, brother, you can count on that!” said Nike Sneakers. “That would be ludicrous. My price tag was about three times that of yours, Casual Loafers. Don’t tell me about stations. Going by sheer price tag alone, I am way above any station you are sitting at. And don’t get me started about how much more I cost than Buy-One-Get-One Sneakers over there. More likely, Discount Sneakers, who can only be considered my backup, will be the one sent down.”

    “No way, Nike, I am still in pristine, nearly showroom, condition!” Discount Sneakers said quickly to Nike Sneakers.  “I see you have a few fray marks on you, Nike boy, and a pit mark in your bottom. I wouldn’t be so sure of my safety if I were you, Mr. I-Cost-An-Arm-And-A-Leg-To-Buy!”

    “If you ask me,” Old Sarge cut in, “I think the whole lot of you should be recycled for whatever material can be salvaged from your sorry hides and be done with it. You can’t compare to combat boots. Why, look at me, over forty years old now and still not a scuff mark on me. I have been spit-shined, lovingly polished, perfectly buffed and spiffed-up in so many ways you could use me for a full-length mirror, you could! No, you can’t beat the U.S. Government when it comes to apparel, I tell you. I’ll last into the next millennium, I’ll bet!”

    “Well, who will be tagged to replace Outside Lawn Care, then?” Casual Loafers asked. “Formal Footwear over there is rarely ever used at all and would not be comfortable enough for the master to use for outside work. Formal Footwear would just kill the master’s feet! Old Sarge says that it won’t be him. Discount Sneakers says it won’t be him, as he is too young and in too good a condition. Nike Sneakers says it won’t be him, since he cost too much initially just to throw him to the wolves like that. I can‘t see master using either Rubber Flip-Flops, Soft Slippers, Cowboy Boots or Work Boots, either! All I can say is that it won’t be me, I can tell you that, as that has never happened before.”

    “Don’t be too sure, Casual Loafers,” Old Sarge answered. “I have been in this closet for quite a while now and I could tell you stories that would make your tongues curl up faster than worms on a boiling hot sidewalk in Florida in August. I have in fact seen both formal shoes and casual shoes get sold down the river to be honest. It all depends, I guess, on how beat up the particular shoe is and if it would be viable to work a season or two out in the yard.”

    “A shoe like me wouldn’t last a week out in the yard like that,” Casual Loafers cut in. “It would be inhumane to put me to work like that, not when the master and I have had some many good times, important times, together. Why, I was there when he purchased his new car, that spiffy new sports car he loves so much. I was there when his grandchildren were born, for gosh sakes! I have been at work with him when he has made million dollar decisions! Why would he waste such a valuable commodity such as me on backbreaking outdoor yard work?”

    “Let me tell you, son,” Old Sarge replied. “It ain’t how expensive you once were or how many experiences, important or not, you have had with the master. It ain’t even what condition you are in right now that counts. It’s the master’s need. If he needs you to go work in the yard, however hard that may be on you and however short that would make your life, then, by golly, you just have to go. We shoes ain’t got no right to complain. Our lot in life is to get used by the master until we are all used up.”

    “That’s a horrible way of looking at things, man!” chimed in Formal Footwear, who had been silent up until this point, as he usually didn’t associate with the other shoes, believing them to be well beneath him socially. “A shoe like me could never be expected to get his laces dirty doing something so beneath him as yard work. Why, I can’t count on my aglets the number of times I have actually been out of this closet. There was the winter formal dance at the country club one year, a wedding here or there, maybe a funeral or two, but that’s about it. He could probably return me to the store and get a full refund with the amount of wear and tear I have had!”

    “That may be, you prissy old thing, you,” Old Sarge shot back, “but the fact remains that if you are needed, you go. Just like getting drafted in the old days. Why, I could tell you some tales about being in the service in the 60s by golly. A combat boot never knew where he was going to wind up. The jungles of Vietnam, the plains of Europe, the Rocky Mountains, you name it. The possibilities were endless! Endless!”

    “The last time I saw Outside Lawn Care a few weeks ago,” Discount Sneakers broke in, “he told me that he didn’t think he could finish out the season. He had more holes in him than an O.J. Simpson alibi. He was so dirty, you wouldn’t even have been able to tell that he had once been white in color. His right heel had such a large gash that it was flapping faster and more frequently than Nancy Pelosi’s gums. I tell you, the trash bin is right around the corner for him. And he used to be an Adidas, Nike, so don’t go thinking you are safe because you are such a high-and-mighty brand name sneaker. We still have a month left to lawn care season, so if he dies before then, one of us will be on the block, I guarantee it.”

    “Well, I can guarantee I am safe,” Rubber Flip-Flops added. “It wouldn’t make any sense for him to use me for outdoor work. Kind of defeats the purpose of keeping your feet safe from the elements by wearing flip-flops, don’t you think, boys?”

    “I think I’m okay as well,” Work Boots added. “Who wants heavy clunkers like me on when they are doing yard work? You need something lightweight and fast, like those sneakers over there. Not an old plodder like me. Fact is, even though I am called Work Boots, master never used me for that type of work at all. He put me on to go to watch some football games, to go the flea market, things like that there, but I never actually did any work at all.”

    “They both may have a point there, fellas,” Old Sarge replied. “I ain’t never seen anyone mow the lawn in flip-flops before. Why, one stone kicked up by those blades hitting a bare foot like that could cause a lot of damage. That’s for sure. That’s for dang sure. And Work Boots here, well, I certainly wouldn‘t want to be wearing a heavyweight like him when pushing around a lawn mower for an hour or so, even though it was a regulation in the service to wear special metal-tipped work boots when mowing!”

    “And he won’t choose me, neither, pardners,” Old Cowboy Boots countered in his John Wayne-like voice. He had also held his tongues up until now, as he believed the conversation had nothing whatsoever to do with him and went by the John Wayne cowboy credo of minding one‘s own business. “Why, he ain’t even bothered to put me on since the 1980s. You pilgrims have more to worry about than I do. I think he used me to go ridin’ a few times and that one time in Nebrasky when he went to one of them line dances or square dances, I caint remember which it ‘twas. I think he keeps Old Sarge and me around just out of nostalgia m’self, as he ain’t about to lace up his combat boots or slip on his cowboy boots at his age.”

    Just then, the closet door suddenly sprung open and Soft Slippers were tossed in by the master alongside the rest of the footwear.

    “What’s the word from the outside world, Soft Slippers?” Casual Loafers asked. “Any more on the health of Outside Lawn Care?”

    “Yeah,” Soft Slippers replied. “I just saw him earlier today when the master went out to the porch to pick up the morning paper. He doesn’t look too good. And I heard the master say that he was going to trash old Outside Lawn Care this week, as the whole bottom of Outside Lawn Care’s right shoe is coming off. The master actually wrapped it up with duct tape, his remedy for everything, it seems, but that didn’t hold as well as he had expected, so I judge he will make a choice of Outside Lawn Care’s replacement soon. The only consolation in this whole mess is that the outdoor season is nearly over, so whoever gets picked will only have to suffer for a month or so this year.”

    “But what a month it will be,” Discount Sneakers said. “Who wants to end the year like that? And then you have to sleep out on the cold porch for the remainder of your life, not in comfort like the rest of us house shoes. I tell you, the fields are no place for any decent shoe. It’s a certain death sentence. I can’t remember any shoe lasting more than two or three seasons out there. A couple of seasons and then, boom, to the trash can with you!”

    “If I had a vote,” Nike Sneakers said, “I’d choose Casual Loafers myself. You have had the most wear of any of us, except maybe me, but I cost much more than you, so I can’t see him sacrificing that much money when he can simply sell you out.”

    “Maybe I have a few cuts and scuffs here and there,” Casual Loafers replied, “but those can all be covered up with a little polish here and there. He’s done it in the past, you know.”

    Just then, the closet door opened again and tossed into the dark by the master was another pair of shoes, a new pair that had previously never been in the closet.

    “Who in tarnation are you, pilgrim?” Cowboy Boots asked the newcomer.

    The newcomer, still sporting the light cardboard tag from a local shoewear chain, answered timidly, as would be befitting the newest member of the group. “I’m Slightly Tan Casual Loafers. Just purchased today, in fact.”

    “Uh, you said you are casual loafers?” Casual Loafers asked in a near whisper. “Why would the master need a second pair of casual loafers when he already has me?”

    “Hoo, boy!” Cowboy Boots hollered out. “I think the handwriting is on the wall. I think we have a winner in the Sold-Down-The-River Contest! You’re right. Master doesn’t need two of you, so two guesses as to which one of you will be the next to be sent to the back yard, the brand new spanking new guy who has not one scratch on him, or the beat-up worn-out old timer with more dents and bumps on him than Willie Nelson’s guitar.”

    “No, there’s probably been some kind of mistake,” Casual Loafers continued. “Maybe, I am supposed to break the new guy in, you know. He’s so new he doesn’t know the ropes yet, see? They need a smart old cookie like me to help train the neophyte in what he is expected to do. That has to be it.”

    Slowly, cautiously, almost imperceptibly, all of the other shoes besides Casual Loafers began sidling away from Casual Loafers toward the rear of the closet, as though he had some type of contagious disease.

    “Hey, fellas,” Casual Loafers cried out. “Where are you going? What’s the story here? Come on. You can’t believe I would be sold down the river, right? I mean, I’m a house shoe. I go to a white collar job. They wouldn’t send me to the back yard, would they?”

    At that point, the closet door opened again and a pair of hands descended on Casual Loafers, lifting him out of the closet.

    “Found them, honey!” the master cried out to his wife. “These old loafers will do the job as my outdoor work shoes now. I just threw those old Adidas out! I can probably get a year or two out of them before they wear out doing the yard work. By then, one of these pair of sneakers I have will be ready to take its place. Besides, I have those new casual loafers now I need to break in!”

THE END

An Amazing Speedway Experience - A short story by N.C.C. McGowan

An Amazing Speedway Experience 

The title of this little tale has nothing to do with NASCAR or Gran Prix racing or any real racing at all. It refers to the little racetrack in Tomorrowland at The Magic Kingdom in Orlando, Florida. I know everyone has their own special and unique Disney World experience, but one would be hard pressed to beat what happened to my granddaughter and me at the Tomorrowland Speedway some time ago. And I don’t think that the Disney officials will forget it for quite some time, either.

                It was late in the afternoon, just before twilight, when my granddaughter, Jessie, out for a grandfather and granddaughter day at the Magic Kingdom, and I climbed into one of those mini Tomorrowland NASCARs kids love. Where else can a nine-year-old get behind the wheel of a fake race car and, the metal rails confining the car notwithstanding, take a whirl around a fake raceway at speeds that rival the speed of snail? What happened next, however, was something that still haunts my dreams to this day.

                Just before Jessie stomped down on the gas, the car lurched forward and then paused for a moment, and we heard the vehicle talk. “Whadda ya say we blow this popsicle stand and really take a tour of the park?”

                “Papa,” Jessie said to me, “did you say something?”

                “No, Jess,” I replied, “I think…..I think the voice was coming from the car.”

                “Oh, great,” the voice said. “I pick a couple of geniuses to be my guinea pigs.  Of course it’s me talking, you two jamokes! Do you see anyone else around?  I’m offering you a time like no one else has ever had hear at Mouse Ears International.”

                “Either Disney has created a new attraction based on that Cars movie,” I mentioned to Jessie, “or this little jalopy is talking to us.”

                “Of course I’m taking to you! Who else is around on this ride, Walt Disney himself?”

                “Disney,” I admonished the little car, “prefers the term attraction over ride.”

                “Attraction, smacksion,” the car snapped back. “Do you want the ride of your life or not?”

                “He IS talking to us, Papa!” Jessie cried out.

                Now, at this point in my fanciful story, I know what you’re thinking. How can one of Disney’s cars, absent those on the silver screen, talk to or address one of its guests? And because of the metal rails binding the cars on the raceway, how could the car take the guest on a tour of the entire park? And even if the little thing could jump the track, how could it get past the six-foot high fence surrounding the entire attraction? I was thinking the same thing myself…..but I digress. All these questions will be answered in due time.

                “Okay,” leaning back, I replied to the little-car-that-could, “I’ll bite. Once around the park, Jeeves.” I said this rather sarcastically, of course, thinking there was no way that the car, the fact that it could actually speak notwithstanding, could deliver on its promise. After all, those little cars barely go as fast as a kid’s tricycle, so I thought we were in no danger whatsoever.

                In response to my answer, however, and to my utter amazement, the little car began to go faster than any of those little cars could possibly travel, and took off toward the first turn on the racetrack, tires burning rubber, smoke trailing behind us.

                “Hey,” I yelled out to the car, “how can you be going this fast? These things usually go about two or three miles an hour tops!”

                “Ha!” the car sneered back. “Disney thinks a little engine governor can slow me down. I figured out how to disable that sucker long ago!”

                With that, because the car was doing at least fifty miles per hour, it was able to jump the metal rails with ease. After hitting the grass alongside the track, the car sped toward the fence surrounding the place.

                “Whoa, little fella!” I exclaimed, clutching the sides of the car in horror. “How are you going to get over that fence?”

                “Don’t worry, bubela! I’ve been eyeing a crack in their defense, and I do mean ‘de fence’,  for some time now. The two of you just need to duck down as low as you can get so as not to get decapitated!”

                “Not getting decapitated is a good thing, I guess. Right, Jess? I mean, it’s not something usually associated with a weekend outing at Disney.”

                “No,” replied Jessie, “I don’t think my mom would appreciate me coming home decapitated, Papa!”

                Heading his warning, Jessie and I scrunched down as far as we could and the car popped through a small fissure in the fence and we were then footloose and fancy free out in the park itself. I can still see the looks on the faces of those tourists waiting outside the Speedway when they saw the little car, going faster than any little car they had ever seen before, motor on by them.

                “So sorry, ma’am!” I yelled to a female Japanese tourist whose chocolate-covered frozen banana was inadvertently snatched from her salivating mouth by Jessie as we got a tad too close when zipping by. “Beg your pardon, sir!” I then yelled to a fat German tourist whose bratwurst went flying out of his hand as the little car gave him a nasty little hip check any Boston Bruin would be proud of.

                “Listen, Christine,” I yelled out to the car in an off-handed reference to the Stephen King novel, “you need to be more careful with those tourists so close by. For some strange reason, Disney takes a dim view of its attractions murdering the guests!”

                “I’ve always wanted to take a jaunt on Space Mountain,” the car shot back, ignoring my admonishment about being careful. “Both of us being Tomorrowland rides…..”

                “Attractions!” I interrupted.

                “All right…..ATTRACTIONS! Both of us being Tomorrowland attractions, I got to see that Space Mountain a million times a day, seeing all of those tourists waiting hours just to go around inside there for a few short minutes, and I have always wanted to take a turn there myself. So here we go, guys!”

                Before I could object, the little car was speeding toward the queue for Space Mountain, tourists jumping out of the way for their dear lives, and heading up the inside ramp for Space Mountain itself. The little guy swerved and weaved in and out of tourist traffic until we were very quickly at the front of the line. I had no idea what the car would do next, as there was no way the three of us could fit into one of those Space Mountain spaceships. I soon found out, however, that fitting into a spaceship was the farthest thing from the little car’s mind. He simply bypassed the cars and hopped onto the roller coaster’s track. Soon, we were zipping around in the dark, heading up and down the coaster track, probably faster than the other tourists in their simple spaceships. I kept my eyes closed most of the time, since we were not strapped in as is necessary for this type of roller coaster ride (the flimsy little cloth seat belts Disney uses in the Tomorrowland Speedway were quite inadequate, I must say, for the twists and turns of Space Mountain. I was never certain, in fact, why Disney even put those stupid useless seat belts on the Speedway attraction, anyway, as no one can get hit hard enough on that track to put the seat belts to any good use).

               Jessie was no help at all. All she kept doing was raising both arms and squealing with delight, “Weeeeeeeeeeeee!”

As we exited the attraction, heading out through the Space Mountain gift shop, of course, where Disney always dumps its guests at the end of a ride, several souvenir Space Mountain coffee mugs spilled over into the car as we knocked over quite a few souvenir displays that were unlucky enough to be in the direct path of our destructive little friend.

                “Where to next, guys?” the little car asked. “I’ve heard that Splash Mountain is great this time of year!”

                “No, no more rides…..er, I mean…..attractions! You can just pull over next to that hot dog stand over there and let us out, please.” I said this as I noticed several Disney security guards were moving in fast and I didn’t think they would buy the excuse that the car itself had kidnapped us and forced us on this merry little journey (I did have Plan B in mind, however, if we got caught, as Jessie was the one actually driving the car, so I could always throw her under the bus).

                “Sorry, pal,” the car replied. “I’m out on my own for the first time and we are going to paint the town, or theme park, as it were, red!”

                 With that, we headed over to Adventureland and took a quick detour through The Swiss Family Robinson Tree House. It was amazing to see how the little car maneuvered through those swinging hanging wooden bridges (it had to go on two wheels several times). With the speed we were going, this attraction took on more of the form of Space Mountain, our previous adventure. I don’t believe the stairs and bridges on that attraction were designed for the maneuvers the little car was performing. In fact, I’m quite sure of it.

                 From there, we hit (both literally and figuratively) the Pirates of the Caribbean. The look on the Johnny Depp animatronic character’s face was one for the books, I can tell you, as the little speed demon ran over his toes on the way out. Then, as promised, we motored toward Splash Mountain for a quick dip. I don’t think those animatronic Br’er Rabbit figures appreciated the detours we took through their happy little staged scenes, though. Poor Br’er Fox may never be the same after he was hit as a pedestrian by our little friend.

                Again, Jessie was no help at all and was screaming in utter delight as we slid down the final flume drop at the end of the ride, “Weeeeeeeeeeeee!”

                “Look, little guy,” I pleaded with the car, “this is not going to end well for any of us. Right now, Disney’s PG version of a SWAT Team is probably gathering outside Splash Mountain, ready to cut us down like Osama Bin Laden with whatever weapons the mouse allows them to carry. Why don’t you just stop right here and let us off? We won’t tell anyone your little secret!”

                “Tell you what I’m gonna do,” he replied. “One quick jaunt around Tom Sawyer’s Island, a Mickey Mouse ice cream bar or two, and we’ll call it a night.”

                Those two dozen Disney Security guards who dove for cover as the little car headed directly toward the center of the pack did not look kindly on us as we whizzed by. After they were sure the little car was not coming around for another pass at them, they got up and began chasing us as we motored to out next destination. At every turn, there appeared to be more security guards joining the fray until there was a cozy little army of mouse-eared guards on our tail.

                The car was especially eager to tour the little cave on the island and the fort as well. As suddenly as we began our adventure, however, it was over. Just short of the Mike Fink Keel Boats, he stopped and said, “Okay, all bums out!”

                Not giving him a chance to change his mind, Jessie and I hurriedly hopped out of the racecar and watched him ride off on his own, Disney security fast on his tail (probably thinking Jessie and I were still occupants). I couldn’t help thinking that all of those Disney guards looked a bit like Mack Sennett’s Keystone Cops as they were stumbling over one another in their attempt to run down a car that none of them had the speed to catch.  I quickly grabbed Jessie and we both ducked down behind a nearby bush as the angry security guards rushed by.

                Jessie and I dusted ourselves off and both vowed never again to avail ourselves of that infernal Tomorrowland Speedway ride….er, attraction. However, after a subsequent visit to the park and a ride on the Mad Hatter Tea Cups, I also added that attraction to those forever banned (don’t ask me why, and don’t let this become public knowledge, but those Mad Hatter Tea Cups are the only Disney attraction that makes me nauseous). After we were free from the maniac miniature car, we quickly left Tom Sawyer’s Island and headed toward the exit.

                I think I read later that week that Disney was shutting down the Tomorrowland Speedway attraction for the time being, as there was some sort of malfunction with one of the cars veering off the metal track and spinning wildly through the park. Thankfully, there was no mention of either Jesse or me, though. However, I’m sure one of those Japanese tourists snapped a picture or two of us, so I’m not sure we are completely out of the woods yet. I keep scanning the Japanese newspapers online for photos of two scared Disney guests doing wheelies through the park.