Donald and Hillary sitting in a tree

Which psychopath will achieve presidency?

Revolt

   I awake in a fevered state with sweat dripping down my legs. When I manage to squirm out of the damp covers, I find that snow has powdered the carpet of my bedroom. The snow and moonlight are coming in through a hole in the corner of my ceiling, as if a monster had taken a bite out of it while I was sleeping.

   Shivering in only boxers, I check the thermostat in the hallway. The heater is turned off, and frost has made its way onto the walls. I watch icy, translucent veins reach from my bedroom, rooting themselves in the doorways and arching up the ceiling, producing more snow that drifts down to my shoulders.

   On the dusted floor of the hallway, I see drag marks, as if something has been pulled through, leading to the guest bedroom at the end of the hall.

   I look for something to arm myself with and turn back towards my bedroom, only to see my door had been shut without a sound, a lock turned against me. The bathroom in the hallway has a straight razor in the first drawer. I rush to it. That door, too, is locked.

   Downstairs, I go to a drawer for a knife. Protruding nail heads catch on my fingers, and wood creaks in protest as I try to pry it open.

   The door out of the home is barred with crooked planks of wood, and every other door, window, and cupboard I try has been nailed in. My heart slams while I think of breaking a window to escape, certain that the sound of my panicking is echoing throughout the apartment. I could escape, but nothing besides a forest with trails surround my home for at least a mile.

   With a sinking chill in my stomach that is colder than the frosted air, I return to the stairway. At the top, I stare at the drag marks in the snow. Only this time, footprints appear ahead of my steps as if made by a ghost, and streams of blood have begun to slither up from the carpet.

   Relieved that it is only a nightmare, I follow the tracks.

   The door at the end of the hallway is ever so slightly ajar, with icicles formed on the doorknob. Something behind it is snapping, crunching, grinding its teeth. There is a brief silence, and then a sound like leather being torn apart. Something dripping loudly onto the ground.

   I nudge the door open, the frozen hinges cracking.

   A creature writhing with maggots and worms is hunched over my corpse, tearing into the organs behind my ribs. Its hands are sopping crimson as I look into my own wide, white eyes staring at me. The lips of my body are moving, but they make no sound. When I get closer to hear what I am saying, the creature turns, the lower half of its face gnashing mandibles and ichor-dripping pincers, the upper half glaring with black, human eyes.

   Just as I start to sprint away, I wake up …

   In a fevered state with sweat dripping down my legs. The nightmare has me shaking with the image of the monster still in my vision. When I sit up, my head slams with a headache. I look around. The ceiling is untouched, the floor snowless. Still, when I breathe, I see steam wafting from my face. I shake away the nightmare by looking around at the quiet stillness of my room. 

   Outside my window, the forest’s glittering with snow and rain. I stumble out from the piles of covers, regretting the choice as I feel the freezing air gripping my sides.

   In the hallway, the thermostat is turned off. I flick it on, turning back towards my bedroom. That is, until I hear the sound of someone shifting in layers. I turn around, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. The guest room’s door is ajar.

   I live alone. I rent out that room to stranger’s when money is tight. You get the occasional person who sets you on edge, who is too messy or pernicious with their cleaning habits, or the occasional individual who is in and out like a ghost, barely mentioning a word about themselves before they leave.

   I haven't had anyone for the last few months.

   I slip back into my bedroom and get into a pair of jeans and a shirt. When I look into the hallway, the door is opened wider than it was before. The wind from an open window plays with it more, and the hinges creak as it is waves subtly back and forth.

   I lose track of how long I am staring at it. Between me and the door, it feels like miles have stretched, every step’s effort quadrupled by the courage it’d need to take it.

   Just as the dream, my instincts pull me toward the shaving razor in the bathroom. Keeping my eyes on the door, I inch forward down the hallway.

   One finger at a time, I curl my hand around the bathroom's knob and turn. It’s locked.

   Still, the guest bedroom’s door yawns half-open and closed.

   As quietly as I can, I backtrack to my bedroom, lock it, and move to my window. I tell myself that the fear of the dream had slipped into reality as I grab my phone. The image of the monster is simply too strong for me to think rationally, I assume, as the window opens easily, and I slide out onto the frozen wall outside. Snow flakes against my skin as I grip the edges of the windowsill, and clamber down until I am on the driveway. 

    It’s nothing. I locked myself out of my bathroom, and the thermostat had turned off from its automatic settings. The door had been left open when I was cleaning it, and the window being open a crack must’ve been something I never noticed. That is what I tell myself as I go around the side of the house, careful not to crack too many branches. One last precaution, and then I'll go back in, shut the guest room's door, laugh, and get back to sleeping away the winter night. 

   On the opposite side of the home with a whitened forest looming around me, I look up at the open window of the guest bedroom. Just as I did in the hallway, I stare, uncertain of how much time has passed. My body begins to shake against my will as the snow gathers on my clothes. I clutch my sides, biting back my breath, and continue watching. 

   Almost everything is numb. My nose begins to drip. I'd imagined all of it, hadn't I?

   I start to turn away, but the intuition latches my feet to the ground. I close my eyes and listen.

   Still standing beneath the open window, I hear nothing besides branches swaying in howling wind.

   I take a deep breath. And then, a heavy sigh. But it wasn't my own. I caught my breath, and had heard the heave of disappointment through the window. The stillness of sound returns, before it is interrupted by the sound of hissing steel. The sharpening of a blade. The creak of the wood as impatient feet get the body to a stand, walking out of the guest room, in search of me.

   I turn away towards a trail facing the city lights miles away. As I step into the shadows of the trees, shivering, I hear my bedroom door slam, and an angered scream.

I fancy myself an assassin on a mission,

Out to eradicate a corrupt politician.

Or a foreign agent toying with nuclear fission,

Who gets caught and now must face extradition.

Maybe a famed actress on an audition,

Playing the part of a psychotic physician.

I’m interested in forensics and decomposition,

But yuck as a cadaver-cutting mortician.

How about a mechanic repairing the transmission,

In a dark green, four-wheel-drive Ford Expedition?

It must be rewarding to be a physician,

Traveling the world to cure malnutrition.

I am rather smart, I could be a statistician,

But that sounds just as boring as a mathematician.

A caped, hat-and-rabbit, upstart magician,

As the opening act for a famous musician.

But alas, it’s just me, a limited edition

Relentlessly pursuing my literary ambition.

Rented room for me, a storyteller,

Said my landlord, don’t go in the cellar,

Each night I heard some inhuman yeller,

So I snuck downstairs to find this dweller.

Lo and behold, a basement full of guys,

Let me tell you, this was quite a surprise,

Torture chamber where they did agonize,

Some missing limbs, others, ears, tongues, and eyes.

Attached to the wall, in shackles and chains,

Blood-filled tubes running in and out of veins,

Some cracked-open skulls and jars full of brains,

A horrific scene, these human remains.

This had to be some kind of sick study,

As evidenced by the ground all muddy,

Completely soaked and awfully bloody,

I turned quickly, feeling rather cruddy.

And there sat my landlord in a bathrobe,

Happily dissecting a frontal lobe,

Lighting areas with some sort of strobe,

Blissfully occupied by her sick probe. 

I cautiously snuck by her with no sound,

Attempting to blend into the background,

I bolted as my feet touched solid ground,

No way in hell I was hanging around.

Gene Wilder was funny. Crazy-funny. Insane-funny. Fill-your-mouth-up-with-water, then spit-it-on-the-floor, funny.

Not many people are. We’ll miss him …

Wilder died of complications from Alzheimer’s disease. He was 83. According to Variety, he’d been diagnosed with non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma in 1989.

“My quiet exterior used to be a mask for hysteria,” he once told Time magazine. “After seven years of analysis, it just became a habit.”

I first remember Wilder in “The Producers” — the one without Matthew Broderick and Nathan Lane. His overly stimulated, frenetic “wet and hysterical” scene in that Mel Brooks comedy is both sufficiently wet and convulsively hysterical — in a way only Gene could deliver.

Many of the younger generation then — much older now — welcomed Wilder as the wacky Wonka in “Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory” (1971). That funny flick has too many memorable moments to select just one, but if I were I to do so, I’d pick the tedious (though ultimately fulfilling) build-up-to-his-entertaining-entrance scene.

Wilder filled the bill as a zany character in many comedies: “Blazing Saddles,” “Stir Crazy,” “Silver Streak,” “The Frisco Kid,” and “The Adventure of Sherlock Holmes’ Smarter Brother.”

All-in-all, fine films.

My favorite Wilder performance?

Easy …

“Young Frankenstein”

The 1974 movie, directed by funnyman Mel Brooks, was well-written, well-cast and well-performed, with Marty Feldman, playing Igor; Teri Garr, as Inga; Cloris Leachman, Frau Blücher; Peter Boyle, the monster; and, of course, Wilder portraying the frizzy-haired, intense, brilliant-but-madcap Dr. Frederick Frankenstein.

Too many good quotes in that movie to list — but for me, there’s one that stands out like Mount Everest:

“Put the candle back.”

Thanks, Gene, for the memories. Thanks for the laughs — I’ll put the candle back on my way out.

Just my opinion, but here are my reasons …

1 – They work better with others.

Vampires tend to be egotistical and power hungry. Zombies, on the other hand, are just plain hungry. They simply don’t have the superpowers of vampires and on their own, they can often be dodged, so they have to function as a team. This keeps them humble.

2 – They are less emotionally demanding

Zombies have less emotionally intense issues. Your typical vampire has a grudge that spans continents and goes back generations to well before his family learnt English as a second language. Zombie angst, on the other hand, is limited to “You have one and a half arms and I only have one – no fair!”

3 – Zombies don’t discriminate: It’s easy to join.

There are no complex rules about who’s bite does what, who’s cursed, who’s immortal and who’s not. No awkward loaded questions like “How come he ends up with vampire superpowers and I just end up an enthralled minion?” Nope! With zombies, it’s one bite and you’re in.

4 – They have a simpler outlook on life

A Vampire has to contend with questions like, “Is this girl my next meal or is she my potential soul-mate?”

“If I take her home will my family like her?”

“Will they bite her?”

“Will I bite her?”

No, Sir! For a zombie, no such grey areas exist. The world is delineated clearly into two different groups:

    Zombies  -       (don’t bite); and

    Not Zombies - (bite)

5 – Better work ethic.

Zombies are a relentless slow-growing threat. They keep on ‘keeping on’. They are honest. Vampires, on the other hand, rely on surprise, deception & spasmodic efforts interspersed with some extremely long periods of sleeping.

6 – They don’t hide.

If a zombie surprises you, he probably didn’t mean to.

7 – Zombies can be stopped with guns.

Yep. Conventional weapons work (which incidentally is just one of the many reasons why we should all carry shotguns). Unlike vampires, zombies really do give ordinary people a sporting chance.

8 – Easily recognisable.

Finally, zombies are less likely to pose as ordinary people doing ordinary things. This may not be true for every vocation (I am thinking of a few offices I have worked in) but, in the main, you’re really not likely to find that your co-worker of 5 years has been a zombie all that time.

What do you think?

What secrets have ye,

Leather pouch?

As I sit

Upon my couch.

Cow’s were once

Yer transportation,

Sayin’ “Moo!”

With consternation.

Sad, you’ve gone

From bovine capers—

To stashin’ cash,

Plas-tic, or paper.

Cards are now

Yer basic staple;

Some plain white;

Some tan, like maple.

Photographs,

Old bus tokens;

Past receipts,

Things unspoken.

Ticket stubs,

Lost addresses;

Mini-diplomas—

Lotto guesses.

Yer my faithful

Pocket buddy—

’til my Birthday.

(coming Sunday)

Then I’ll dump you,

Like old trash;

Move my plastic,

& my cash.

I’m grateful that

Ya served me well,

But’s face it, Bro:

Ya really smell …

He drew up at the customs checkpoint with the confident air of a man who had nothing to hide and only some Taiwanese-made Shrike sport shoes to declare. 

'Just a half-load then?', said the customs officer, looking into the back of the 40ft container. 

'Yeah', he answered. 'Business is tight'. It was tight all right. That's why he had gone into the lucrative people-smuggling game. 

Today, however, he was in the clear, 100pc legitimate. 

The previous night he had crossed the border from the Republic of Ireland on an unapproved back road to deliver 20 Syrian refugees into Northern Ireland. 

From there they would be taken by others on the various lightly checked ferry routes to their final destinations in mainland Britain. 

He had driven back to the Republic by the same route. 

This morning he was getting on with the legitimate business of transporting Shrike shoes from the Freeport of Rotterdam to their final destination in the UK. 

'Took your time getting from Cork to Newry', didn't you, commented the officer casually. 

'Stayed a night with my sister near Cashal', he said glibly, as the officer checked the manifest. 

This official was a sharp one all right, knowing something was wrong, even if he couldn't quite put his finger on what. 

The driver thanked his lucky stars that he hadn't been stopped during the tense drive from The Netherlands to France or at the customs in Roscoff before boarding the ferry for Cork. At least here, at the Northern Ireland botder, everything was in order.  

'Shrike shoes', said the officer. 'Very nice. I suppose they are genuine?'

'100 per cent genuine', said the driver confidently. 'It's a new brand. Not even on sale yet.'

The customs officer nodded. 'Hold on a second, I need to make a quick call. We've been getting a lot of complaints about counterfeit goods.'

Another customs officer took the place of the first one and started going through the paperwork again. The driver knew better than to protest. 

In the background he could just hear the first officer saying, 'Shrike shoes. You're sure? Thanks.'

The second officer, picked out a box of shoes at random from the big container. Some boxes had become loose on transit. 

Inside the soft tissue packing nestled a very old and very worn pair of Rebok shoes. 

One shoe had a large hole at the big toe. The sole of the other shoe had come half unstuck and flapped when lifted. 

Inside the box lid someone had scrawled in pencil:

Camel dealers need

Higher doors than shoemakers

Al-hamdu Illah

The driver looked at the worn shoes in astonishment. 

'Very interesting', said the second officer. 'I don't think these are on the manifest are they?' 

He waved the flapping shoes at his colleague, who seemed unsurprised. 

'Funny you should mention Shrike shoes', said the first officer. 

'I was chatting to my cousin Charlie who's also in the customs. Based in Scotland. They stopped a load of 20 Syrians at Stranraer ferryport this morning. Routine check. 

'Poor sods, you've got to have sympathy for their plight when all's said and done. Ragged and starving they were.'

The driver suddenly began to feel that his shirt collar was buttoned too tight. 

The officer continued. 'But you know what's funny?  Every single one of them was wearing a brand new pair of Shrike shoes.'

Dear frenemy

Turned enemy

I can't believe you took my dare

To jump out of that plane

Your sorry circumstances

Are about to bring you pain

You will prove the axiom

"What goes up comes down again"

By now you probably realize

That something is amiss

You're staring at a Post-it

As you are reading this

It dangles from your broke ripcord

I wouldn't want you bored

Your fancy flying squirrel suit?

I sabotaged it too-

To make sure that you end up

A steaming patch of goo

Guess this is Sayōnara

Adios, Adieu, Goodbye

I'm sure it really galls you

I get the last words 'fore you die

...And those words are,

"Check and Mate"

In our game of "Spy vs Spy"

-DeRicki