Saturday, October 2, 2010
Thursday, September 30, 2010
THE MANLY ADVENTURES OF ABNER DEGGENT
Abner Deggent Goes Commando
Al Bruno III
“Keep low to the ground Brooks,” Deggent pushed my head down.
I had to spit out a mouthful of what I fervently prayed was mud, “Do you really mean to go through with this? We’re outnumbered and exhausted.”
“Exhausted? Tonight Brooks we will sleep the sleep of the valiant. Besides there’s barely twenty of them,” he offered me a smug grin, “I handled twice that many when we fought those communist guerillas.”
“That was a leper colony,” I corrected. My name is Ralph Brooks and it is my job as Abner Deggent’s personal biographer to make sure all his adventures are chronicled with the greatest of care.
“That was just a cover story,” he corrected, “they were a pack of agitators with psoriasis.”
“They were unarmed.”
“Only a few of them.”
The need to seek out adventure and escape extradition had led us here to Argentina. We were almost broke when we arrived but Abner Deggent’s mastery of the skills of combat, espionage and high speed house painting served us well.
It was during the painting of one particular home that we were approached by the lovely McDoland sisters. They had heard of Abner Deggent’s reputation for righting wrongs and avenging the innocent. I quietly congratulated myself at this, it had been my idea to print up those flyers and leave them around town.
The McDoland sisters explained that their father Brok McDoland was an eccentric scientist that had invented a new form of plastic explosive he called ‘Death Strudels’. They did not need blasting caps and they were edible but not digestible. Could you imagine what something like this could mean to the espionage world? If an agent needed to sneak an explosive into a foreign country all he would have to do is eat it, wait and, wipe it off.
Unfortunately Brok McDoland’s discovery had come to the attention of others and he had been kidnapped by a man called Colonel Wilhelm Screame.
Deggent and I had crossed paths with Colonel Wilhelm Screame before. He was an escaped Nazi war criminal with two mad obsessions- restoring the Third Reich and training goats for warfare.
The sisters admitted they didn’t have the money to pay our usual fee but they asked us to take pity on them. They were just a pair of nineteen year old twin girls alone in the world with no other marketable skills beyond being trained contortionists.
Abner Deggent listened to their story with growing interest and swiftly hardening resolve. We began our investigations that night leaving several houses unpainted and no stone unturned. Three sleepless days later we found Colonel Screame’s base of operations. It was just a few buildings, a generator and an impressive looking goat pen.
We skulked on the outskirts of the camp. I stole a container of petrol. Deggent stole a case full of Triumph of the Will commemorative soda bottles.
Abner Deggent had me keep watch while he made sloppy-looking Molotov cocktails. I watched the base through a pair of binoculars. There was no sign of McDoland so I turned my attention to the guards patrolling the camp. They were a shoddy looking bunch but the rifles they carried looked deadly enough. I observed one of the guards take time out from his duties to fill the goats’ feeding trough.
“I shouldn’t be long,” Deggent said. He had fashioned a clumsy bandolier out of my suspenders and secured three of the bottles to it. Leaks left his shirt damp with petrol.
Deggent gave me a thumbs up and made his way into the camp. I watched his progress through the binoculars. He crawled and ducked and rolled. None of the guards saw him.
Once he was close enough he lit one of the Molotov cocktails and hurled it at the generator. A sheet of flame erupted over it. He threw the second bottle at one of the cabins setting it ablaze.
The guards began to panic; one of them spotted Abner Deggent and raised his gun.
That was when the generator exploded sending a plume of flames up into the sky. The force of the blast knocked the guards to the ground. All the buildings were burning, the goat pen was burning and unfortunately Abner Deggent’s pants were burning.
The petrol and the heat had set Deggent’s pants on fire. He screamed and began to roll on the ground. Several of the guards had just gotten to their feet only to have Deggent roll into them and knock them over again.
A chorus of wet pops began to fill the air and I realized that Colonel Screame had been feeding the death strudels to his goats.
Flames were spreading throughout the camp. Deggent was no longer on fire but his clothes and burned away and his flesh was scorched. He turned in place trying to get his bearings only to be knocked unconscious by the dozens of bloody antlers and hooves that began to rain down everywhere.
Taking advantage of the chaos I ran down to the camp and carried my friend’s limp body to safety.
A short while later his eyes fluttered open, “D... d... d...”
“Don’t worry old man,” I said, “once I knew you were all right I found McDoland. I’ve sent him to get help.
He tried to speak again, “Do... do... do...”
“I don’t know where Colonel Screame is,” I said, “he must have escaped.”
Blackened fingers gripped the lapels of my jacket, Deggent pulled himself up and he asked, “Do I still have my dick?”
The question surprised me but I made sure to check. It was there, singed but there. “Of course you do old man.”
Smiling wearily Abner Deggent went limp and passed into what I can only hope was the sleep of the valiant.
Few Americans survived the Night of The Flesh Eating Snuggies.
It was obvious the number of books written by reality stars was greater than the number of books reality stars had actually read.
She carefully worked on canning her fruit preserves while listening to soft rock. She loved jamming softly to soft jams.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
She didn't like that large breasted women being too close to puppets garnered more concern than troops being too close to IEDs
Super heroine Radio Girl's wedding was pretty lackluster but she had quite the reception.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
In The Shadow Of His Nemesis
Chapter Eighty Three
By AL BRUNO III
Saturday, December 4th 1996
The Metastasis had hurt but compared to losing Angie it was the touch of a feather. Sig had left his human form behind and had assumed the shape of his soul, the shape of a Vlodek, one of the blessed children of Phelan.
Sig looked both fearsome and frail. His body was blunt and four legged, the white -gray fur of his pelt was broken by deep scars that crossed back and forth over each other. His head was hound-like with a snout full of yellowed teeth. His pointed ears were twitching and alert. His pale silver eyes brimmed with tears.
The roof of Laurel House was almost completely torn away, the walls bent ominously. Donrrup flew clumsily this way and that, one of them spied Sig and dove.
As soon as it was an arm’s length away Sig brought it down. He snapped his teeth down on the creature’s twitching half-human half-insect face and tore flesh and cartilage away.
They tasted just as foul as he remembered- blood like stagnant water, flesh like something long corrupted and burnt.
Sig left the mortally wounded creature behind and barreled down the leaning stairway. A pair of the drones were there, their weapons at ready. Sig wondered if there were ordinary bullets loaded into those guns or if they had brought the expensive kind.
He was behind caring, beyond fear. Bullets tore through his flesh, leaving neat holes in the front of his shoulders and torso and blasting wide holes of gore and sinew out the back.
A voice from his memory mocked him, “...too much a man to be a monster, too much a monster to be a man...”
He broke the dull faced men like oversized toys. To Sig’s trained ears the sound of their ceramic endoskeletons snapping sounded like hollow musical notes. He charged outside.
There were trails of blood in the snow, one marking where Jack had died, the other where Jason Magwier was being dragged away. At this point Sig didn’t care a damn about either of them.
Three bullets caught him in the back, the pain drove him forward nine steps but his wounds were already healing, his body cannibalizing itself to repair the damage.
This was the secret of why the common born Vlodek were so savage in battle- if they did not feed on their adversaries they would literally starve to death as they fought.
And this was the reason why the Monarchs were so deadly to his kind- they weren’t even remotely edible.
Turning on his attackers Sig saw four of the drones taking aim to fire again. He leapt crashing into the middle of them. One shot fired at point-blank range left him numb from his right shoulder down, a second grazed his skull.
Sig wondered how much longer he would last. How much longer it would be before he joined Angie in oblivion.
A donnrup pounced on him but before it could plunge its stinger into Sig’s flesh there was a cry of “Stop!”
The empty-faced men and the insectile creature did stop. They released the old, wounded Vlodek and backed away. Sig’s wounds were singing, his head ached and he was half blinded. He had fallen face first into the snow and the cold felt good against his ruined skin.
“We know you,” a woman’s voice said, “you belong to Victor.”
Sig raised himself up, his voice was ragged, “I have no master.”
“You’ve been marked by our human regent,” the woman was small with porcelain features and curious eyes. She was one of the Monarchs, or as close to one of them as any creature of flesh and machinery could ever be, “you are to be spared.”
Roaring he stumbled at her, his claws swiping through the air, one swish cut through her clothes, a second cut a single weal into her cheek.
Then she struck him and to Sig it was as though he had been hit by an iron beam. The blow robbed him of his strength and his breath, he started to fall but she caught him easily. “Finish me... you know what I did... finish me...”
“As I said before,” she handed him off to a pair of the drones, they each held him up by one of his arms, “you are to be spared, until the end, until the very end. He was quite specific.”
Sig tried to attack again but he was too weak to break free and his curses came out like sobs. There was an almighty creak and rumble as Laurel House collapsed, caving in upon itself.
The woman looked pityingly at Sig, “Take him to the woods and leave him there. This is none of his business.”
I didn't know anything about ALL FLOWERS IN TIME... and now that I've seen the poster and synopsis I still don't.
"I am not from this place," declares a French cowboy. An old toothless man asks, "Do you know why you're here?" These shape-shifting personalities infect young children with an evil signal in the form of a Dutch TV show. The red-eyed girls and boys believe they can now become other people and monsters, much to their delight.
Monday, September 27, 2010
My latest anthology is available!
Click Here For Preview
My story 'In Memory Alone' is in THE BEST OF FRIDAY FLASH