“A Town Called Disdain”, Episode 92: caravanserai

Dick, Harvey, and especially Daphne have had quite enough of Frank and his so-called Rat Pack, and they decide to take their leave from the Samba Room, which happens to be in an enormous space station (invisible from the earth) and go back home. Frank and his goons try to stop them, but Daphne pulls a revolver from her purse, lays its muzzle on Frank’s forehead, and demands a flying saucer. Unfortunately, the only flying saucer on board is out of commission because Daphne urinated in its machinery (she really had to go, and couldn’t find a ladies’ room).

Mulling it all over, Dick says,“Okay, fine. What we’re going to do is, we’re going to bring this whole damn space station back to the Earth...”

(Click here to read our preceding episode; go here to return to that misty far-off beginning of our epic.)

“Ah, but, Dick, you forget,” said Frank, with Daphne still pressing the business end of the snubnose against his glistening forehead, “we are not in your earthling state of reality.”

“So we’re gonna fly this damn thing back into our state of reality,” said Dick.

“Oh, Dick,” said Frank, smiling weakly, “you do not understand. This here hotel and casino -- as fabulous as it all is -- is still merely a station. Think of it as a whatchamacallit caravanserai in the vast desert of space. It is not designed, nor is it equipped, to break out of, of --”

“Fishtown,” said Daphne.

“Yes,” said Frank. “Fishtown. This dimension. For that you need one of our marvelous specially designed flying saucers, outfitted with a, a, uh --”

“A Reality Woofer,” said Daphne.

“Correct,” said Frank. “I can see you were paying attention. By the way, Mrs. Ridpath, I wonder if I might have a cigarette?”

“No,” said Daphne.

Dick looked at his own cigarette, then stubbed it out in a stand-up ashtray near the host-stand.

“All right,” he said. “Take us to the saucer.”

“Hey, pal,” said Brad Dexter, “I just finished telling you the saucer is on the fritz thanks to your old lady --”

Like a flash Dick pulled his trusty old Browning Hi-Power out of his side jacket pocket, cocked the hammer, and pointed the gun at Brad’s chest.

“Cut the bullshit,” said Dick. “You and Frank are coming with us to the saucer. Everybody else stays here and enjoys the show.”

Joey slipped his hand under his jacket again.

“Say the word, Frank, and they never make it through the door.”

Harvey whipped his big revolver out of his waistband, cocked it and pointed it at Frank’s head.

This was now two revolvers pointed at Frank’s head.

“Go ahead, Frank,” said Harvey. “Say the word.”

“I got just one question,” said Frank. “Who the fuck was in charge of frisking these people?”

“Let’s go, Frank,” said Dick. “We’ve got a flight to catch.”



Two minutes later, Dick, Daphne, Harvey, Frank and Brad were all in an elevator car, going down. Brad and Frank were closest to the doors, Frank to the right and Brad to the left, with Dick and Harvey behind them. Dick had his gun pointed at Frank’s back, Harvey’s pistol was in Brad’s back. Daphne stood in a corner, smoking her cigarette and holding her revolver at her side.

“Y’know, Dick,“ Frank said, “I find it a little hard to believe you would shoot me in cold blood.”

“It wouldn’t give me any pleasure, Frank, but you gotta believe I would do it. You know how violent we humans are. And you know I’ve had to kill people before.”

“Okay, granted, you’re a tough guy. But you bump me off, where’s that leave you?”

“Brad will help us,” said Daphne. “Won’t you, Brad?”

“Lady,” said Brad, “long as I got a rod pointed at my back, you say jump I say how high.”

“Faggot,” said Frank.

“Hey, ya know what? Fuck you, Frank,” said Brad. “I been putting up with your bullshit like three thousand years now, and let me tell you, these people put one in your skull you won’t see me shedding a tear.”

“Yeah, you’d like that, wouldn’t ya, punk? Don’t think I don’t know you’ve had an eye on my job --”

“Fuck you, fuck your job.”

“Cocksucker.”

“All right, both of you, shut up,” said Dick.

Frank turned around.

“Okay, tough guy,” he said. “Shoot. See what it gets you. You fucking ignorant earthling. Don’t you realize you kill me my superiors will fucking give you a fate worse than fucking death? How’s an eternity in fucking blackness and solitude and immateriality and silence sound to you, pal? Just you. Just you, and your own pissant awareness of your own paltry self for the rest of fucking eternity, huh, buddy? You think I had a rough time in the stockade from Ernie Borgnine in From Here to Eternity? You ain’t seen nothing, my friend. We’re talking eternity in the fucking hole, pal.”

Frank took his gold cigarette case out of the side pocket of his jacket, took out a cigarette and put it in his mouth. He snapped the case shut, dropped it back in the pocket, then took his thin gold lighter out of the opposite pocket, and lit up.

“On the other hand,” he said, “you play ball, you’re the king of the damn earth -- plus you got practical immortality. This is not a bad deal for an earthling. I am sorry about your two friends on the earth down there, but there is nothing we can do to help them. If we had an operable saucer we would move right in there with a death ray attack and deal with the situation, I assure you. But going off half-cocked like this -- this is just --”

The elevator came to a stop with a slight lurch, and after a second or two the doors slid slowly open.

“Our floor, Frank,” said Brad.

“So whaddaya say, Dick?” said Frank. “Put away the hardware and all is forgiven and and all is forgotten.”

“Nice speech, Frank,” said Dick. “Now get out of the elevator.”

“Ah, you’re fuckin’ nuts,” said Frank.

“Sure,” said Dick. “I’m an earthling. Now move it.”

(Continued here. A Larry Winchester production in association with Monogram Pictures Corporation.)

je propre la nuit, part 32

by jean-claude etranger

illustrated by roy dismas

part thirty-two of fifty-two

to begin at the beginning, click here

quivering with laughter, hogan watched clyde disappear down the highway. "should we go after him now?" "nah, let's wait till he gets to that dip in the road - then we can splash him real good." "ha, ha!"

part 33

It’s Not Your Body

On the shuttle Zach recalled the challenges of off-trail hiking. A man could take every precaution and still run into trouble: the weather; shifting elevations; swamps; rock face; even animals. His solo treks had always rewarded him with a sublime mental clarity, which he tried to summon now.

(Click here for the first episode;  here for the previous one.)

As the jet began its descent, he vowed to honor Vida’s needs and his unborn twins’—yet remain loyal to Beth and his two adolescents, Matt and Rosalind. The wheels hit the runway and the thud jolted through him.

By the time he was sitting at his and Vida’s usual table at The Palm, his phone rang. Vida was talking before he said hello.

“After my doctor’s appointment this morning, I don’t feel like eating. You can stop by if you want.”

“I’m flagging a cab now, Vida.” 

She answered the door in a snug, stretchy black dress with a crisp white collar and wide, white cuffs. The hem skimmed her knees. Her lower legs were clad in black footless tights. Vida’s bare feet were pretty, and she knew it, lacquering her toenails deep red or a translucent white. Now they were plain. Her shiny, reddish-blonde hair, which swung in loose waves, was pulled tight and clamped in back.  It looked darker and…well, lackluster. He kissed her round cheeks and pulled her closer for an ardent kiss on the mouth. She pushed him away and reclined on her white leather couch.

Her brownstone on Hopkins Street, built in 1910, was huge. Zach hadn’t really looked closely before; he was always busy with Vida; the excitement from the night before and what awaited them at the Institute.  They slept in her bed with silk curtains tied behind it, on the second floor with its bathrooms, library, and music room. They sometimes ate in her kitchen or beneath a great shimmering chandelier in the dining room. But mostly they slept here and hurried to work at the Institute.

Now Zach registered the expanse of light and luxury: Early twentieth century art decorated the walls; mirrors brightened and altered the space; gold-leaf or mahogany trimmed the tall ceilings and arched doorways; Persian rugs; marble counters, and fine antiques. She had stretched her long legs on the couch, leaving him an adjacent wing chair covered in navy twill. He sank uncomfortably into it, certain it must be an antique. “How are you feeling, Vida?”

“I’m fine. How are you?”

Her darker, duller hair showed white roots when she dipped her padded chin. As he noticed this, it struck him that her hair had been darker and duller for a couple of months. His thoughts must have shown on his face.

“Safer for the babies if I don’t dye my hair,” she pushed back a stray strand. “Or paint my toenails,” she wiggled her bare toes and explained that this morning’s sonogram indicated she hadn’t been still enough. “In another month, complete bed rest will be mandatory.” 

“You’ll need someone to shop for you, and everything else.”

“My sister’s coming next week.”

“You have a sister?”

“Samantha’s a freelance graphic designer. Her son was accepted at Columbia. And no, I didn’t pull strings for him.” 

“Who said you did? I’m happy about this, Vida.”

“You’re scared, Zach.”

“I’m half the equation.”

“No, you’re not. It’s not your body. You don’t need bed rest. No worrying about food additives, diabetes, or high blood pressure. You don’t need to quit working or drinking or traveling.”

“Vida, please. Trust me.”

She lifted her feet in the air and hooted.

“Go ahead, laugh.”

“Stop saying every laughable line, Zach. I don’t need you, and no longer want you. True, you have rights. We can get a lawyer to sort them out or play them by ear.” 

Uneasily, he managed to move from the arm-chair to the couch and held her feet in his lap. “So fine. Don’t trust me.”

“That’s the mistake your wife made.”

“Not anymore.” He took her hands and looked at her large pale brown eyes. “Vida, will you marry me?”

She pulled her feet away. “Zach, if you had asked me earlier?” She shrugged. “But it wouldn’t have worked. I know that now.”

He asked if he could get a glass of water from the kitchen and one for her.

“Thank you.”

Setting two clear glasses on the coffee table, he felt enormous, shifting his overweight body among the antique furniture. He resumed sitting at her feet, delaying a sip from the delicate water glass.

“Vida, if you tease me about every word, of course I’ll sound insincere. But I don’t know how else to say I love you. I want to be with you and our daughters.”

“You can’t do that.”

“Why not? What if I visit once a week; you can’t say no to that.”

“Call me on the phone. I doubt I’ll be in the mood to entertain you.”

“I want to take care of you.”

She didn’t laugh but rolled her eyes. To distract from his embarrassment, Zach offered to make lunch and then Vida did laugh. “When was the last time you made lunch, Zach? Even just for yourself?”
She withdrew her feet, disappeared into the kitchen, and returned with a tray of sharp cheddar, sesame crackers, and a blue bowl of green grapes. “Everything affects me differently now. I always thought I had no interest in having children. At the last minute, it seems it’s all I ever wanted.”

Zach massaged her feet. “I know you’re having twins. But are there other complications? Women have babies in their mid-thirties all the time now.”

She smiled wryly. “How old are you, Zach?”

“Thirty-eight.”

“I’m forty-five and if these babies are born in their third trimester, which is the goal, I’ll be forty-six.”

He masked his surprise. But getting up, doing anything like sorting through his briefcase, felt risky. A terrible awkwardness had invaded him. So all afternoon he remained still and silent. Finally she suggested a swim in the brownstone’s basement—another surprise.

“Even with complete bed rest, the doctor suggested a little swimming would be good as long as I don’t get too tired.”

“You have a swimming pool in your basement?”

“Yes, well, I’ve made very good money in my time. Enough so that I can raise two girls with every privilege they might want—on my own.”

(click here for the next episode)

read me thrice...

by nooshin azadi

illustrated by rhoda penmarq

je propre la nuit, part 31

by jean-claude etranger

illustrated by roy dismas

part thirty-one of fifty-two

to begin at the beginning, click here

"this is starting to get ridiculous," clyde thought.

part 32

A Town Called Disdain, Episode 91: contretemps

In our previous episode of Larry Winchester’s A Town Called Disdain™ (winner of the Uneeda Prize for Best Sprawling Epic), Daphne had finally had enough of Frank and his so-called Rat Pack, and she got up from their table in the Samba Room and walked off, joined by Dick and Harvey. At the entrance they are stopped by the maître d’, (Henry Silva). Frank and the Pack come up and Frank asks, “Where do you think you’re going and how do you think you’re going to get there?” A reasonable question considering that our heroes are in a massive invisible flying saucer somewhere between the Earth and the Moon.

By way of response, Daphne pulls a revolver from her purse and lays its muzzle on Frank’s forehead.

“Mrs. Ridpath,” said Frank, “leave us not do anything we might regret here.”

“Don’t worry about what I might regret, Frank. All you have to worry about is keeping your brains intact inside that fat head of yours.”

“Just say the word, Frank,” said Joey. He had his right hand inside his jacket at the hip.

“Do not move, Joey,” said Frank. Sweat glistened on his smoothly tanned face. “Do not do anything and do not say anything. In case you have not noticed I am the one who is standing here with a snubnose .38 pressed against my skull.”

“Smart boy,” said Daphne, and just then the club’s doors swung open and in walked Brad Dexter, cigar in hand.

“What the fuck,” said Brad.

“No sudden moves, Brad,” said Frank, looking at Brad out of the corner of his eye, “please.”

Brad took in the situation and then glared at Henry Silva, who still stood there with his right hand hovering near the pistol butt sticking out of his cummerbund.

“What the fuck, Henry,” said Brad, I can’t leave you alone for five fuckin’ minutes --”

“Forget about Henry,” said Frank. “Where the hell you been? You’re on the door like you’re supposed to be, maybe I’m not standing here with some crazy broad holding a gat to my forehead.”

“Control room called,” said Brad. “Emergency down on Earth. Seems that Hope chick and that Enid dame are stuck in a Mexican stand-off with that motorcycle gang, the Motorpsychos.”

“Shit. Why didn’t you come and get me?”

“What do ya think I was just tryin’ to do?”

“What’s this about a Mexican stand-off?” asked Dick, lighting a cigarette.

“Light me one, will you, darling?” said Daphne.

“Of course,” said Dick. “Have this one.” He placed the cigarette between Daphne’s scarlet lips. “Do you want me to hold the gun?” he asked.

Before answering, she inhaled, drew the cigarette from her mouth with two fingers of her left hand, and exhaled the smoke into Frank’s heavily perspiring face.

“No, thanks,” she said. “I’m fine.”

Dick lit a cigarette for himself and turned again to Brad.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.”

“Dexter, Brad Dexter. I’m the manager here. And a thankless job it is, too --”

“I’m Dick Ridpath.”

“I know,” said Brad.

“Now what’s this about a stand-off?”

While saying this, Dick went easily over to Henry Silva and drew the pistol from Henry’s cummerbund; it was a .38 Chief’s Special.

“Them motorcycle bandits,” said Brad. “They stopped Hope on the road to the reservation --”

Dick gave the .38’s cylinder a spin, saw that it was loaded.

“What was Hope doing on the road?” he asked.

“She was trying to sneak out and join you folks at the peyote ceremony. She took her pony, called Whisper.”

“I see.”

Dick slipped the pistol into his waistband.

“The Motorpsychos stopped her,” said Brad. “Were gonna rape her probably. Moloch killed the pony.”

“He killed her pony?”

“I know. He’s an asshole. But then Enid comes along in her truck, she gets out and throws down on Moloch with an M1911. Beautiful. Except all the other Motorpsychos are armed to the teeth and they throw down on Enid. And that’s where it stands: a Mexican stand-off.”

“We’d better get back there,” said Dick.

“Right,” said Daphne. “Here’s what we’re gonna do. Frank?”

“Yes, I am still here,” said Frank.

“Frank,” said Daphne, “you are going to lead us right to one of your cute flying saucers and you are going to take us tout de suite straight back to New Mexico where we will deal with this little problem of Hope and Enid’s.”

“I don’t think so, lady,” said Brad. “Ya see, it seems somebody took a leak in the saucer's engine.”

“Oh,” said Daphne.

“That baby’s gonna be in the shop I don’t know how long. Don’t know what it is about earthling broad piss but I’ll tell ya, lady, you fritzed up that saucer something royal.”

“Well, surely you have some other flying saucers around here,” said Daphne.

“Lady,” said Brad, “what kinda budget you think we got for a third-rate planet like this? That baby was the last operable saucer we got.”

“He’s right, Mrs. Ridpath,” said Frank. “I’ve had a request in for three replacement saucers for what? Twenty earth years?”

“Twenty-two,” said Brad. “Ever since that accident at Roswell.”

“You mean we’re stuck here?” asked Daphne.

“Until we get that saucer you peed in fixed -- yeah,” said Frank.

“Y’know, you guys kill me,” said Dick. “You’re going to set us up as rulers of the Earth and you’ve only got one flying saucer?”

“Hey,” said Frank, “business is not what it used to be. New planets opening up, the fickleness of the public -- always with the new, the new, the goddam new -- plus I already told ya how expensive this operation is -- what with the overhead, the fucking unions --”

“Poor management,” said Brad.

“Hey, fuck you, Brad,” said Frank.

“Mr. Ridpath,” said Brad, “you know why the big brass back home want humans in on the operation now? It’s ‘cause Frank and his buddies are fuckin’ it up --”

“Okay,” said Frank, “that’s it, you’re fired. Go pick up your pay, you don’t work here no more.”

“Fuck you, Frank,” said Brad, “you and your pissant job --”

“Dick?” said Daphne.

“Okay,” said Dick, “Brad, Frank, both of you, shut up.”

Dick took a contemplative drag on his cigarette. The band had been playing obliviously through all this, they were now jamming on “Afro Blue”, and indeed most of the audience and help seemed unaware of the contretemps at the host stand.

“Okay,” said Dick, after a moment. “Frank, this thing we’re on, it’s a great big space station, right?”

“That is correct, sir. And lookit, we got all the comforts of home for ya here, Dick, a beautiful suite of rooms, swimming pool, credit line at the casino --”

“Okay,” said Dick, “fine. What we’re going to do is, we’re going to bring this whole damn space station back to the Earth.”

(Continued here. Soon to be a major motion picture starring Richard Egan, Mara Corday, and Rory Cochrane; written, directed and produced by Larry Winchester for Realart Pictures.)

je propre la nuit, part 30

by jean-claude etranger

illustrated by roy dismas

part thirty of fifty-two

to begin at the beginning, click here

steadily the rain began to fall. headlights appeared in the mist. "i can handle this," ricky said to herself confidently.

part 31