Category: Fiction Factor

The artificial tree appeared to be in decent shape.

There was some wear at the top – probably where tree toppers had gone on an off through the years – and a few limbs were missing their greenery.

It was slightly faded and damp, thanks to a recent rain, but the woman figured it would do just fine. She bent over, gingerly lifted it from its unceremonious spot next to the plastic green garbage can, and threw it in the back of her Ford F-Series truck.

The engine was still running; the old tan-and-brown clunker spat and sputtered every time she tried to crank it, and when she succeeded in doing so, it was always a small victory.

She didn’t know how long her “shopping trip” would last, she merely hoped the truck lasted long enough for her to complete it.

The tree was a good find from a decoration standpoint, but it was only part of the presentation.

She thought she had made her top find of the day a few blocks over – in the area she called “Ritzyville” – when she spotted a pair of scooters leaning against a recycling bin.

Both looked practically new, and she figured people who had manicured lawns and two-story houses could afford to upgrade their kids’ playthings every Christmas. But as she pulled over and tried to inspect, she noticed a couple of young boys staring at her from the bottom of the driveway.

Maybe the scooters weren’t left there for disposal, after all. Perhaps the kids were just taking a break. Regardless, their hard looks were enough to send her on her way.

Feeling a sense of shame was bad enough … she certainly didn’t want to be accused of stealing.

With a little less than two hours before her grandchild got home from school, she knew she should head back soon. But she needed more than a tree – she needed something to put under it other than the puzzle and small dolls she had purchased from the discount store.

So, she continued to drive through neighborhood after neighborhood, hoping something worth taking would catch her eye.

Ultimately, she came across a house in a cul-de-sac that looked as though it had thrown away the entirety of the holiday.

There was a “live” tree that had already turned brown and brittle, and box after box overflowing with bows and ornaments.

As she dug through the first box, she found a small, metal toy car that looked perfectly good except for a small scratch on the hood.

Another box had the pieces of a playhouse. She didn’t have time to figure out if all the pieces were there, but there were enough to assemble a nice little structure.

She even managed to pull out what she called “one of them electronic gizmos” with the back panel cracked and the batteries missing.

Shouldn’t be too hard to find a couple of “D” batteries, though. And a little tape would go a long way in ensuring the crack didn’t grow larger.

She moved some items from one box to another, and filled up one with her “prizes.”

If she left now, she’d have plenty of time to get home and get everything ready.

Later, as the bus rolled by abandoned houses and an overgrown lot full of junk cars, it stopped on a dirt road. There, a young girl jumped out, first checking the mailbox and then running straight to the door underneath the awning of the mobile home.

Once inside she spied a tree in the corner – decorated in red and green ribbons – and saw wrapped gifts placed underneath it.

She squealed with delight, ran to her grandmother and gave her a tight, lingering hug.

“I love you, granny,” she said. “All the other kids have already had their Christmas. Now you and me get to celebrate ours.”

Teddy Dobrota knew all about monsters.

Every day – without fail – he’d tap his animation pod and watch Commander Chasley Carmichael round up man-eating creatures, cage them, and keep humanity safe from the forces of evil.

No matter the size or savvy of the beasts, CCC always got the best of them. Sometimes he’d subdue them with his stun gun, as he did the Martian Marsupial, and other times he’d wrestle them into submission using his own incredible strength, as was the case with the Swamp Hog.

And when he wasn’t watching CCC, Teddy was controlling him with his Commander Chasley Carmichael Interactive Hologram Game. He loved to see CCC fire up his jet pack, fly above a predator, and then drop a weighted chain net over it.

His favorite part was always opening the cage door, making CCC give a swift kick to the monster that forced it inside, then slamming the door shut.

On this particular Saturday, however, Teddy was going to see the real hero and the monsters he had subdued.

The Commander Chasley Carmichael Touring Detainment Center was finally making a stop in Harbor City, and Teddy’s father, Burt, had secured two VIP tickets to the event.

Not only would he have an opportunity to meet CCC and shake his hand, he would get to walk with him as he passed the cages holding the monsters.

“Teddy, you ready to hop on the tube and head to the show?”

Already wearing his green CCC jacket and black CCC Junior Commander’s Club arm band, Teddy didn’t have to be asked twice.

“Yessir!” he shouted. “I can’t wait!”

The transit tube trip took less than five minutes, and father and son arrived at check-in with tickets in hand. A dozen or so other kids – along with their guardians – had also secured VIP passes, and were quickly placed in the queue to enter the center.

Teddy could feel his heart racing, and he was so nervous his mouth was bone dry. As much as he enjoyed seeing CCC and the monsters in cartoon form and manipulating them when playing the game, the 10-year-old was actually about to come face to face with the real hero and some of the most dangerous life forms in the solar system.

The doors to the center opened and a robotic voice greeted the visitors.

“Welcome to the Commander Chasley Carmichael Touring Detainment Center. Each ticket holder will be allowed to ask one question. When the red light in the center of your pass starts flashing, you have 30 seconds to ask your question. Otherwise, do not speak. Do not touch the cages. Do not touch Commander Carmichael unless he extends his hand. Please enjoy your tour.”

Teddy and Burt were six rows back as the line began moving forward, and all eyes turned toward CCC, who was perched on a landing that encircled the cages.

In animated form, the hero had long, shiny red hair and his black, form-fitting uniform seemed to be molded over his muscles.

In person, CCC had close-cropped, reddish gray hair and his build was … lumpy. And instead of the booming voice associated with the animated CCC, the man himself sounded hoarse.

“I’m Captain Carmichael,” he said in a tone that clearly lacked enthusiasm. “I’ve traveled all across the globe and through the vastness of space to ensure human beings are spared the horrifying fate of a monster attack. What you’ll see is just a small sample of what I’ve done during my 30-plus year career of cleaning up scum.”

The first cage housed “Snowball,” a Yeti-like creature CCC had captured on Kepler-186f. Teddy expected to see a hulking abominable snowman with long, yellow teeth, razor-sharp claws and glowing orange eyes.

Instead, Snowball was slumped in a corner – its left hand shaking uncontrollably  and an open wound on its right shoulder. The  creature was wet, dirty and appeared to be scared.

A kid standing just to the left of Teddy held the ticket that produced the first blinking light.

“Commander Carmichael,” the young man asked, “Is Snowball sick?”

CCC gave a quick glance in the beast’s direction.

“I don’t know … maybe,” he said. “They might’ve just drugged him to keep him calm. The important thing is that it’s in there and we’re out here, so it can’t hurt us.”

As the tour continued Teddy noticed that the monsters were nothing like they appeared in the cartoons. Instead of being frightening, they merely looked frightened.

And each time a red light blinked, the question asked was answered with a flippant response:

“How many people has the Martian Marsupial killed?

“I’m not sure it killed anybody, but it won’t kill anybody now, will it?

“Do you ever feel sorry for the monsters?”

“No. Why should I?”

“What made you decide to be a monster hunter?”

“Money.”

Teddy’s light flashed just as the line had reached Swamp Hog’s cage. It wasn’t the giant boar with monstrous tusks he envisioned, but an underfed, brown pig-like animal whose teeth had been pulled.

“Commander,” Teddy asked. “Why is Swamp Hog so thin?”

CCC shrugged.

“Maybe he’s on a diet, kid,” he said, disdainfully. “Look – I just track ‘em down and bring ‘em in. I don’t really care what happens to ‘em afterward. Neither should you.”

Once the tour ended, Teddy and Burt walked quietly toward the transit tube. The child was obviously upset – never even bothering to shake CCC’s hand – and his dad figured he had gotten his feelings hurt by the Commander’s snarky response to his question.

They didn’t talk on the short ride home, and Teddy went straight to his room after they arrived.

A couple of hours passed before Burt knocked on the door – balancing a sandwich on top of a glass of water – and nudged it open.

“You need to eat something, bud,” his father said.

Teddy was playing the Commander Chasley Carmichael Interactive Hologram Game.

“I’ll eat in a minute, dad,” he said. “I’m almost finished.”

Burt looked down to see the Snowball character locking CCC in a cage – after delivering a swift kick to the Commander’s backside.

“That’s a bit of a twist, isn’t it, son?”

Teddy looked up at his father, his eyes welling with tears.

“Not really,” he said. “Monsters belong in cages, don’t they?”

Charlie Mitty walked to his pickup truck – cleats slung over his left shoulder and weighted down by a bag full of pads and equipment – opened the door, and flung the cargo onto the passenger seat.

It was a Saturday in December, and just as he had done most Saturdays since the arrival of fall, he donned a green jersey with the number 99 ironed on the front and back, and squeezed into a pair of grass-stained football pants.

He’d then load up his vehicle, pull out of the parking lot and drive away.

There was nothing particularly odd about any of that – at least not on the surface. It was still football season, and football games weren’t the sole domain of college and professional athletes.

Thing is, Charlie was well into his 60s, and most of the residents at the Serenity Valley retirement community he called home didn’t quite know what to make of him.

Oh, he was friendly enough; he smiled and waved at everyone. But he had a reputation for telling tall tales about his gridiron exploits, and that would usually put a quick end to any potentially lengthy conversations.

Ex-athletes often talked about their glory days – it’s a default setting for some – but Charlie would have you believe he was still living his glory days.

Those who maintained their version of an active lifestyle at Serenity Valley played pickleball or golf, and some would make use of the faded shuffleboard in the back of the complex – once a vibrant green but now more of a mint color thanks to frequent beatings from the sun.

“Hey, Charlie,” Vester Taylor would ask from time to time, “You, uh … you planning on playing football again today?”

Charlie would give him the thumbs-up sign.

“Yessir,” he’d answer. “I’ve got to practice my kicking. Still can’t quite hit a 50-yarder yet, but I’ll get there … I’ll get there. Made a 35-yarder last week against the Dolphins. We lost, and I missed an extra point, but you gotta put it behind you.

“Like they say, the biggest game is the next one.”

Vester and his wife, Sandra, lived in the complex across the street from Charlie. They had followed his “ballplayer activity,” as Sandra called it, for several months.

At first, they noticed him wearing sweatpants and a sweatshirt and carrying a football under his arm. Since September, however, the sweats had been replaced by a uniform.

“I think something must be wrong with Charlie,” she’d say to her husband. “We’re getting on in years, and people our age don’t go around wearing ballplayer outfits.”

Vester would laugh.

“Ah, I don’t suppose he’s hurting anybody. And if you look at him, he seems fine. Drives fine … shoot, he’s got a lot more spring in his step than I do.

“Nah, I imagine he’s just a little off. When you get down to it, we’re all a little off. If he wants to think he’s in the NFL, I say we should just let him think that.”

Still, Vester and Sandra would often amuse themselves by wondering where Charlie went each Saturday – and what kind of attention he attracted.

They’d envision him going to the playground down the road, putting on his helmet and pads, and running around in circles while parents hurriedly snatched up their kids to shield them for the “strange old man.”

When they’d see him arrive home several hours later, he did, in fact, look like a man who spent an afternoon doing something other than sitting on a bench.

On this particular Saturday, Vester was taking out the garbage when Charlie pulled up and hopped out of his truck – still wearing his cleats.

“I shouldn’t be driving in these things,” he said with a chuckle. “But I’m too sore to bend over. They had me punting today, and that worked on some muscles I hadn’t used in a while.

“But get this … I kicked a 45-yard field goal that won the game for us. Kicked it on the last dang play, can you believe that? Jets 10, Giants 8. I don’t like to brag, but this time I will. Still haven’t kicked a 50-yarder, but 45 was all the yards I needed today.”

Vester offered up a polite smile, then shook his head after Charlie walked away.

Once Vester got inside, he eyed Sandra with a concerned look.

“I think poor Charlie has finally gone around the bend,” he said. “Talking nonsense about the Jets beating the Giants and him kicking the winning field goal. I wish I knew if he had any kids or relatives we could talk to. They need to know he’s not right.”

Sandra winced.

“That’s sad,” she said. “You know, seems like I remember seeing some younger people over there a few times. Maybe they’re his grandkids. Let’s keep an eye out, and next time we see one of them …”

Sandra was interrupted by a knock on the door.

“I’ll get it,” Vester said. “Probably something we ordered.”

Charlie opened the door and was surprised to see a twentysomething young man wearing a green jersey – and holding a football.

“I’m sorry to bother you, sir, but I’m a little turned around,” he said. “I’m looking for Pops, uh, Mr. Mitty … Charlie Mitty. These buildings look alike, and I can’t remember exactly where he lives.”

Vester opened the door, stepped on the porch and pointed toward Charlie’s dwelling.

“He’s right across the way,” he said. “Let me ask you something, son … are you related to Charlie, or maybe know some friends of his?”

The young man grinned.

“I am one of his friends,” he said. “Actually, I’m also his teammate on the Jets … we’re a semi-pro team – well, mostly amateur, really –  that plays over at the high school field. When he asked to try out back in August, I thought it was a joke, but Pops is amazing, and a really great guy. He’s my grandpa’s age but man, can he ever kick a football.

“Anyway, I just came by to give him the game ball because he made the winning field goal for us today.”