THE BINDER OF SHAME: Maimed

 

MAIMED

(a Binder Of Shame story)

By
Al Bruno III

 

WARNING: THE FOLLOWING TALE WILL PROBABLY OFFEND NO ONE SAVE FOR MY THERAPIST. THE NAMES HAVE BEEN CHANGED TO PROTECT THE ACTUAL PEOPLE INVOLVED IN THESE MOSTLY TRUE EVENTS. BUT WHY AM I BOTHERING? WE ARE ALL ALMOST 6O, AND SOME OF US ARE DEAD. WOW THAT GOT DARK FAST.

*

It was just another day in the nondescript city. None of the generic citizens heading into the local bank would ever have expected a bank robbery, but our heroes were ready for it.

This bank got robbed every week.

A man wearing a dark fedora and a trenchcoat charged into the bank. He felled two henchmen with his wrist-mounted ice ray and then smirked, "I'm Frost and you two better cool off!"

The next man through the door wore a flashily colored hazmat suit. He shot waves of fast-acting bubonic plague from the palms of his hands. As another pair of thugs collapsed, the man in the hazmat suit said, "Hi guys! I'm Patient Zero, and I've got a feeling the urge to surrender is getting pretty infectious!"

Then, the front window of the bank crashed inwards, and a man wearing a pointy-eared cowl snarled at hostages and criminals alike. He pulled a sawed-off shotgun from beneath his flowing black cape and began firing wildly. "Die motherfuckers!" he howled as the air was filled with screams and bloodstained deposit slips "Diiiiieeeeeeeeeeee..."

*

I looked up from a map covered with miniature cardboard superheroes, villains, and ordinary citizens. Gordon was holding his CHAMPIONS rulebook against his chest. Adrian was the first to speak, "I thought you were playing Batman."

"Oh no," Daniel said, "My guy is named Bat-Shit because he's like Batman, but he's batshit crazy."

"Well..." I commented, "You can't say he wasn't roleplaying."

Adrian nodded, "Right now I can't say anything at all. I'm kinda stunned."

That's right, folks, we were playing another roleplaying game. Back in my day, these pen-and-paper games were the only gaming we had. You didn't need a computer or a broadband connection; all you needed was the kind of creativity that can only come from social maladjustment and soul-crushing loneliness.

While we might not have to deal with monthly fees or server crashes, we pen-and-paper roleplaying gamers still have to deal with moments like this. Adrian, you see, was the game master; he had written and planned an adventure for our heroes, and now it was completely derailed.

Trust me, all of us old-school nerds have been there at one time or another.

"Talk amongst yourselves for a few minutes, OK?" Adrian pawed through his ring binders and game supplement books, saying, "I just need to make a few quick changes."

Daniel grinned, "My character is even more awesome than you expected, right?"

“Riiiiiiiiight.” I said.

"So, how are things with the Panty Patrol?" Gordon asked as he opened up his second 2-liter bottle of Mountain Dew for the day.

"Busy," I explained, "busier than I expected really. Working in women's clothing isn't as easy as I thought it would be."

Adrain dropped his pencil, "I knew it!"

"No, it's not like that," I explained, "I'm working at the Julia Shop now."

Daniel snickered, "Are they paying you in merchandise?"

"Up yours!" I cleverly retorted. (I think Shakespeare was the one who first used that particular retort.)

"Hey!" Gordon said, "Show the man a little respect. He landed a job that puts him in close contact with women every day. Women with money and needs that only he can fulfill. Woman eager to take off their clothes right on the premises."

"Wow," Adrain's hand tightened around his dice bag.

Daniel gave me an apologetic look, "I didn't know..."

I blushed, "Actually, I mostly work in the stockroom all by myself."

"I KNEW IT!" Adrian and Daniel shared a high-five.

Gordon punched me in the arm, "What the Hell is the deal? Do you want people to think you're a doofus for the rest of your life?"

"I'm not sure if I have a choice," I said, "this could be one of those nature versus nurture things."

"Damn Al..."

Daniel rolled his eyes, "Come on, everyone in the class of 1986 knows who he's still pining away for Lilly."

"Lilly?" Adrian stroked his chin. Isn't she still hooked up with Jessie Manson?"

"Yes."

"The bodybuilder?"

"Yes."

"The guy that can crush walnuts against his abs?"

"Yes!"

"Wow Al," Adrian nodded ruefully, "is your life really that sad?"

I sighed with exasperation, "All I know is that I wish that I had Jessie's girl..."

"Jessie's' girl?" Gordon asked.

"Why can't I find a woman-" a sob caught in my throat, "why can't I find a woman like that?"

"OK guys... lets get back to the game!" Adrian said.

*

The three costumed men stood among the bodies arguing about the fine line between costumed crimefighters and masked vigilantes. Patient Zero and Batshit were starting to shove each other, and Frost was looking for a convenient side exit.

"Nice try, you young whipper snappers..." a voice interrupted them. One of the customers stood; her dowdy dress was peppered with buckshot holes, and there was blood in her blue-rinsed hair. "But my healing powers are more than a match for you."

"And who the Hell are you supposed to be?" Batshit laughed as he reloaded his sawed-off shotgun.

Steel claws popped out of the backs of her hands, and she lunged at them. The last thing the heroes heard was her name.

*

"Auntie Mame?" I scratched my head in confusion.

"No," Adrian said, "Auntie Maim."

"Ohhhh..."

TALES OF LOST GODS AND FRAGILE TRANSFORMATIONS

 

THE FAT GUY GETS THE GIRL 

 

When a group of friends goes camping, they stumble upon a mysterious ritual that threatens to take their lives, leaving only Adam - the overweight outcast - to save them all from certain doom.

 

 

 

OPHELIA EXPLAINS IT ALL

 

...just because I am wearing a bomb to a town council meeting it does not mean I’m some kind of a lunatic.

 

 

 

A NIGHT LIKE THIS

 

Mike and Jimbo travel to Montreal to prove Barry's girlfriend isn't real, only to learn the cost of wishful thinking.

 

 

 

FUTTERMAN'S APOTHEOSIS

 

When four friends find a mysterious hatch in a cabin in the snow, they soon discover a world full of secrets and transformation.

 

 

 

THE POLZEIG EXPERIENCE

Your wife told me about the invitation...

THIS IS CHANNEL AB3

 

TEASER ONE

TEASER  TWO

TEASER THREE

 

EPISODE ONE

EPISODE TWO

EPISODE THREE

EPISODE FOUR

 

 

Four Years

 

Has it really been four years since Vanessa Bruno passed away? I guess it has.

 

How did it happen? How did she go from being a member of my friend group I found insufferable to one of the great loves of my life?

 

 

More than anyone else, she made me the man I am today. No, more than that, she made me the man I was supposed to be—the man that sometimes only she could see.

 

 

 

On December 18th, 2019, she left this world after six years of chronic illness and close calls. And it hurt, Lord, how it hurt. But more than anything else, I was grateful, and every year I’m more grateful.

 

 

 

“Don't weep at my grave, for I am not there, I've a date with a butterfly to dance in the air.

I'll be singing in the sunshine, wild and free, Playing tag with the wind, while I'm waiting for thee…”

~~ Jenn, The Butterfly Box

This is Channel Ab3 Episode Four: The Beast Of September

When an innocent night at the drive-in turns into an encounter with terror, Willard Katz's The Beast Of September must be seen to be believed.

'The Beast Of September' was written by Al Bruno III

It was read and produced by Viidith

This episode's music was Ghosts Volume 1 Track #6 by Nine Inch Nails

Our unpaid scientific advisor is Adam J Thaxton

The Channel Ab3 theme was written and performed by Rachel F Williams

Channel Ab3 logo was designed by Antonio G 

Are you enjoying the show?

Become a recurring subscriber.

Or make a one-time donation!

Are you in the market to sell your home, find a new home, or just explore real estate investment opportunities? Don't hesitate to get in touch with me!

This is Channel Ab3 is distributed and licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution Non-Commercial Share Alike 4.0 International License

Check out this episode!

FRESH OFF THE BUS FROM CREEPYTOWN: The Beast Of September

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BUN IS FUM has adapted the second part of 'THE POLZEIG EXPERIENCE'

From Her Channel

 

FRESH OFF THE BUS FROM CREEPYTOWN: Artifacts And Heirlooms

By

Al Bruno III

Mulrooney was the last one left alive.

He ran, but the swamp clawed at his every step. The thick mire sucked at his feet, slowing him down. The bramble and thick roots made him stumble and fall, leaving his hands and face bloodied. When he looked behind him, he could only see the oily night.

But they were there. Mulrooney could hear them moving through the mud and water, swatting branches aside with their withered, impossibly strong arms.

He'd seen those arms crush the skull of Banning, blood and splinters of bone slathering over gnarled, bandaged hands. The sight had sent the rest of the crew scattering into the swamp, abandoning the crates of priceless antiquities.

Everything was abandoned except for one thing. Mulrooney reached into his pocket and felt the reassuring weight of the jeweled scarab. If he could just get to safety, he would be a rich man, he could retire... or at least get into a more honest line of work.

Mulrooney blundered into a patch of thick, knee-deep mud, and for a moment, he was stuck fast. Squealing, he clutched at a nearby tree, dragging himself forward, leaving one of his shoes behind. He didn't dare try and go back for it. Not when Whemple's horrified pleading still echoed in his ears. Mulrooney had turned away before Whemple had been torn limb from limb, but its sound nearly drove him to madness.

Easy money.

They'd thought it would be easy money, just pick up the cargo and drop it off again a few miles down the coast. Smuggling was never a problem; smuggling was their stock and trade. Drugs, illegals from Cuba, and weapons had all been stowed on their boat at one time or another. Their captain, a tattoo-covered man named Blane, was ex-Coast Guard, and he knew the Everglades like no other man. He had loved it in a strange way, but that was no protection when the alligators took him screaming into the deep. Mulrooney had almost been envious.

That was a good, sensible death. That was a death you could understand.

Slipping into the silhouette of a dead tree, Mulrooney took a moment to catch his breath and try to gain his bearings. No matter where he looked, he could not find the lights of civilization, and the low-hanging clouds kept him from navigating by the stars. Mulrooney had no way of knowing what way led to land and what way led back to the ocean. He could wander around all night and not find his way back to safety.

A guttural whispering joined the chorus of frogs, insects, and birds. Mulrooney started moving again, knowing they would never tire that they would run him to the ground, just like they had done to Patrick. Patrick had never been in the best shape, and though he tried to keep pace with Mulrooney, he soon began to fall a step behind. Then, two steps. Then a dozen. Then they caught up with him as he was doubled over gasping.

Poor old Patrick, he tried to fight. He always tried to give as good as he got, but his blows only raised clouds of dust and grime; his gunfire only tore holes through bloodless flesh.

Thoughts of what had happened then gave Mulrooney renewed strength. He urged himself to move faster. Mulrooney vowed that if he ever found his way out of here, he would find the man who had hired them and dispense harsh justice. They should have been warned.

Their employer had been well dressed and smarmy, and for some ridiculous reason, he called himself 'Jack Diamond.' He smoked expensive cigars and liked to rest his snakeskin boots on other people's furniture.

Jack Diamond. Mulrooney had thought that was a ludicrous name, like something out of a cartoon. When Banning asked him what they were bringing through, Jack Diamond smiled and said, "Artifacts… well, heirlooms, really."

No one in the crew believed him, but the money he was offering was enough to buy a fleet of ships to replace the 'Wicked Moonlight.'

What wouldn't Mulrooney give to be able to find that boat now? The name had been a gag, taken from the titles of one of the many pornographic movies Whemple had owned.

They'd all been watching one of those movies just a week ago, waiting outside US territorial waters for Jack Diamond's yacht, 'the Rhiannon.'

The 'yacht' had been awe-inspiring, almost five times the size of the 'Wicked Moonlight,' and equipped with its own helicopter landing pad.

Mulrooney wondered aloud why a wealthy man would need their help. The whole crew had agreed, but there had been no turning back. Most of them men had already begun spending their shares of the payoff.

The soft, marshy earth gave way beneath Mulrooney's feet, and he found himself waist-deep in dark water. He squealed with fear and stumbled back. Blake had only been knee-deep when the alligators had taken him, snapping and rolling as they fought over every morsel. They had been strange-looking creatures, too. Mulrooney remembered how odd their heads had looked- long and narrow, almost spear-like, not like proper alligators at all.

Shivering, Mulrooney doubled back and made his way along the ragged shoreline.

The trip back had been easy. The 'Wicked Moonlight' had slipped into US territorial waters like a shadow. They followed Jack Diamond's directions precisely, making their way from the ocean to the Everglades, where a third boat would be waiting for them.

During the time it took to make the trip, Mulrooney and the others became curious. He, Patrick, and Banning had made their way down to the hold, chuckling and half-drunk with greed.

Exhausted, Mulrooney fell to his knees. He shivered with guilt and revulsion at the memories that came next. What had he been thinking? Why had he let the others goad him?

There had been seven crates; most had been nailed shut, but a pair of them relied on hinges and padlocks. Patrick had always been good with locks; burglary had been his primary vocation before joining the crew. Soon, both crates were wide open. One was full of statues, rings, and necklaces; the sight of all the gold and gemstones dazzled them. Beautiful as it had been, it had all looked worn and in need of a good cleaning. Whemple wondered if Jack Diamond had robbed a museum. Patrick replied that he had likely robbed some pharaoh's tomb.

To prove his point, he showed them the other crate, the one the size of a piano crate that had shifted unevenly when it had been moved from the Rhiannon to the 'Wicked Moonlight.'

When Mulrooney drew close to the crate, a strange odor filled his nostrils, the smell of dust, dead flowers, and salts. The scent of a funeral home long abandoned. The crate was packed with straw to protect its strange cargo, but there were mummies under that material layer.

Five mummies, ancient and decayed and, stacked atop one another. The sight left the three men speechless: the twisted frames, the thick layers of sallow, half-rotted wrappings, and the tangible aura of the antediluvian. Where would they see something like this outside of a television show or a bad movie?

The lower four of the embalmed figures were tall and stocky; they reminded Mulrooney of the physiques found on older cops and prison guards. The one that lay atop them was different; it was smaller and more carefully preserved than the others. The layers of weathered linen could not disguise the feminine curves of the body.

Whemple had a gleeful laugh at that. A girl mummy! And, he commented, she was just the way Mulrooney liked them: slender, coltish, and not quite in the full bloom of womanhood. And that was true; it was a vice that had gotten Mulrooney into trouble on more than one occasion.

Mulrooney stared at it, wondering. Was this some lost princess or a king's wife? Questions he knew would never be answered.

It was Patrick who noticed Mulrooney blushing and staring, but it was Whemple who made the dare. Go on! He had urged. Who will ever know? Do you think she's going to complain?

Several dares and counter-dares later, Mulrooney found himself leaning into the oversized crate. His friends giggled like naughty schoolboys when he let his fingertips brush the frayed wrappings that covered the mummy's sunken mouth. When Mulrooney reached out and gave the girlish shape's breast a playful squeeze, they laughed and clapped with disgust and surprise. How much lower would his hand have gone if the captain hadn't heard the commotion and come barging in?

Mulrooney woke with a start, face first in the muddy ground. He didn't remember passing out. He didn't even know how long he had been unconscious. Everything ached, and blood was roaring in his ears. Groaning, he pulled himself back to his knees to find her staring down at him. The chase had left her linen wrappings mud-spattered and torn, loose ends flapped around her in the warm Gulf breeze. She raised her one hand on her hip and cocked her head. She had been waiting.

Hands shaking, he reached into his pocket, pulled out the jeweled scarab, and offered it with a mewling apology.

The scarab had been an afterthought, a bit of mischief. Mulrooney had pocketed it as they closed the crates back up. There were seven boxes of Jack Diamond's artifacts and heirlooms. Surely he wouldn't miss one thing?

Mulrooney barely had time to rethink his theft. Less than an hour later, the things that perhaps had not truly been mummies at all awoke and tore their way from the 'Wicked Moonlight' 's hold. Blake panicked and ran the ship aground. The whole crew scrambled for safety. They knew the movies from childhood. They knew how a living mummy would shamble and shuffle. They knew they could outrun the danger.

But the mummies did not shamble. They moved steadily and silently, wafting along the ground like fog. They had picked off the crew alone and in groups until only Mulrooney was left.

"Please..." He begged, "...take it..."

The mummy swatted his hand away; the jeweled scarab plopped into the dark water and was lost. She drew closer, her motions fluid and predatory. Her hand was on his shoulder, holding him with impossible strength. The linen wrappings had fallen away from the bottom of her face, revealing flesh the color of rancid fruit and a smile brimming with uneven black teeth. And her eyes, when Mulrooney saw what was in her eyes, he had to look away. He found his stare resting on her beast. The wrappings and flesh were still dimpled around where her fingers had touched her.

The mummy tried to speak her voice a guttural purr. She pushed him back into the mud, her touch shredding his clothes and his sanity.

In his madness, Mulrooney realized it had not been theft or blasphemy that had woken her- it had been an invitation.

His unwitting invitation.

BUN IS FUM has adapted the first part of 'THE POLZEIG EXPERIENCE'

From her channel

 

This is Channel Ab3 Episode Three: Infant Terrible

When the Mad Chef of Schenectady takes the mayor, police chief, and a visiting celebrity hostage, it's up to the Maven to foil her plans and save the day.

'Infant Terrible' was written by Al Bruno III

It was read and produced by Linnea

This episode’s music was Fight by Hot Music

Our unpaid scientific advisor is Adam J Thaxton

The Channel Ab3 theme was written and performed by Rachel F Williams

Channel Ab3 logo was designed by Antonio G 

Are you enjoying the show?

Become a recurring subscriber.

Or make a one-time donation!

Are you in the market to sell your home, find a new home, or just explore real estate investment opportunities? Don't hesitate to get in touch with me!

This is Channel Ab3 is distributed and licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution Non-Commercial Share Alike 4.0 International License

 

 

Check out this episode!

HIGH ADVENTURE AND LOW HUMOR: Infant Terrible

 

by

Al Bruno III

 

 

The River City police station had only one interrogation room. A two-way mirror dominated one side of the wide chamber, the other walls were painted a dull shade of blue. There was a table and two chairs in the center of the room. A woman sat in one of the chairs, her clothes were black but her apron was white and covered with unpleasant-looking stains. She scratched idly at her hair net with one of her cuffed hands. Her face was egg-shaped and she wore far too much makeup. Her eyes were cruel and unblinking.

The thick metal door to the interrogation room swung open. The figure that strode up to the bare metal desk wore a purple costume and cowl that hid everything but her long red hair. “Julia Infant,” she began, “the Mad Chef of Schenectady.”

“So they sent you...” Julia Infant's voice was deep, “...the Maven.”

The florescent lights buzzed. The Maven sat down in the empty chair, “What did you expect? Everyone else on my team is busy cleaning up your messes.”

The other woman chuckled, “Yes. I imagine it has been a long night for you, and it the night isn’t over yet.”

Just after sunset River City had gone mad with crime; violent bank robberies, random assaults, and explosive jaywalking. A cloud of mayhem had descended upon River City and that cloud was heavy with the odor of fresh bread.

The Maven knew it was all to distract the police and superheroes from the Mad Chef's real goal. She said, “You failed to steal the Cursed Spoon Of Nephren-Ka and you’re in police custody. It’s over. We just have to deal with the last of your dough-boys.”

“Actually I prefer the term People of Cruller.”

The Maven's cowl hid her entire face but there was no disguising the menace in her voice. She leaned forward, “No puns. Do you hear me? No puns ever.”

“Puns? Is that your weakness? Your soft center?”

This was all the Maven needed, fights, car chases and exploding robots made from pastries she could take but she had no patience for mayhem of a paronomasiac nature. Especially not when one of her team mates had been nearly blinded by toxic frosting. “Where are the hostages?” she said.

“Ah... the hostages. I knew it would come to that.”

Any time the mayor, the chief of police and a visiting celebrity were all kidnapped it was a bad sign. It was an even worse sign when all three men were former superheroes.

“Tell me where they are...” the Maven said, “...and it will go easier on you.”

Julia Infant put her feet on the table and leaned back. “I may be in your little local jail but as long as I have them I’m still in charge.” She laced her cuffed hands behind her head, “And you thought all my little schemes were half-baked.”

The Maven kicked the tabled aside and lifted the Mad Chef up by her apron straps. “I said no puns! They’re the lowest form of humor. Just like you’re the lowest form of life!”

“It must be so much pressure!” the villainess burst into laughter. Then she hit the Maven with all the force of a lunch lady linebacker. “Your teammates are brawlers, wizards and but you! You’re supposed to be the world’s greatest detective.”

“I’m not here to play games with you!” The Maven said as she was driven back into the wall with bruising force.

They retreated to opposite ends of the room. Julia Infant grinned, “See I’m just a small town chef turned criminal but I've given you a meaty dilemma. Now the question is do you have the chops?”

“I said no puns!”

The other woman pulled free of her grip and backed away,“You think you’re Sherlock Holmes in spandex! What of you don’t find them in time?” Julia Infant rubbed her hands together in anticipation, “I want you to give me the Spoon and let me walk out of here. You do that and the hostages go free. You’ll get them all- the mayor, the chief of police and Gordon Ramsey. I’ll hand them to you on a silver platter. If you don't, you're gonna end up with egg on your face.”

The Maven looked the other woman up and down, then she spoke into her two-way wrist communicator, “Captain Hero? They're on the North side of town, in the old metalworks. Be careful, the doors are booby-trapped. Gunpowder bombs with tripwires.”

“...how? ...how could you know?” the Mad Chef's went pale with shock, “this is some kind of trick!”

"There’s fresh asphalt on your shoes,” the Maven righted one of the chairs and offered it, “that told me you were operating on the North side of River City. There are extensive road repairs going on in preparation for the opening of the new international bottle museum. I also noticed an insect bite on your neck. It’s too small to be a mosquito and the wound shows signs of minor skin necrosis. The old metalworks is known to be infested with brown recluse spiders.”

“You... you...” the Mad Chef slowly sat down.

“There’s gunpowder on your apron and a slight cut on the left thumb of your glove. A sure sign you were using piano wire for booby traps”

“...not possible...”

“So you’ve lost your hostages, all your plans have failed and you are going to jail for a long ,long time.” The Maven started to leave but then paused,“As you might say, it’s your just desserts.”

The slamming of the thick metal door muffled Julia Infant's scream of outrage.