Category: Fiction Factor

The spotlight locked in on the 14^th floor of the glass and steel skyscraper in Rickman Plaza, with the police cars below creating their own flashing, red and blue light show.

Professor Purloin – rocking a magenta fedora, lime green tactical suit and small black mask – had expected some of the men and women of law enforcement to make the first move in an effort to stop his latest crime wave. On this night he was looking down on the crowd while standing behind three bound and gagged hostages with a high-tech laser weapon.

Once the police had been foiled, he’d then be forced to deal with either Spectacular Man or Frau the Fearless – or maybe both.

It was a dance he’d done many times, and one that made the Intrepid City High Security Prison his home away from home. In any moment, he figured he’d be greeted by a hostage negotiator who’d make a futile attempt at convincing him to surrender.

But when the door to the office he had commandeered opened, there was no sign of an arbiter.

Instead, it was an older gentleman adorned in a beige newsboy cap, baby blue polyester jogging suit, shiny white support sneakers and orange sunglasses.

Professor Purloin raised his weapon and took aim.

“Who the hell are you?” he asked.

The man cupped his right ear with his right hand.

“Could you say that again? My hearing isn’t so good.”

Purloin shook his head.

“I said … who the hell are you, old man!” Purloin shouted.

“Yessir, that’s me,” he answered.

Purloin frowned.

“That’s you?”

The man smiled.

“I’m Old Man. That’s what they call me now,” he said. “You know … because I’m old. I used to call myself Pinto Man. You know why? Funny story … about 50 years ago – or it might have been 60 – no, it was closer to 50 years ago because that was the same year I got my yellow Ford Pinto and was recruited by the Integrity Alliance of America. I’ll bet you’re too young to even remember Pintos, aren’t you? I got some whitewall tires for mine and had a Keep On Truckin’ sticker on my back bumper and I thought I was something else.”

Purloin lowered his weapon and stared at Old Man.

Was this some kind of joke? Did the guy walk away from an assisted living facility and get lost?

“Listen, Old Man,” he said. “I’ve never heard of you. I have no idea what you’re talking about, and you obviously have no idea who I am – or who you’re dealing with. I’ve fought all your superheroes – and none of them have been able to keep me locked up. Now what you need to do is just walk on out of here, go watch a Matlock rerun and then you don’t have to get hurt. I’ll just sit tight until the big guns arrive.”

Old Man laughed.

“Oh, I love Matlock,” he said. “I’ll bet you don’t know this, but Don Knotts made 17 appearances on Matlock. It was always good to see him and Andy Griffith together. Of course, it wasn’t as funny as when they were on The Andy Griffith Show. And if you ask me, that show was never the same after Barney left. Barney Fife was who Don Knotts played, by the way. And Andy Griffith played Andy Taylor.

“I guess because he was the star – Andy, I mean – he got to use his first name in the show. It’s probably best that Don Knotts didn’t use his. Don Fife isn’t as funny as Barney Fife. This is something though … I went to grammar school with a guy named Barney Knotts, and …”

Purloin unleashed a long groan.

“Holy crap, will you just shut the hell up!” he screamed. “You’re boring me to death, Old Man. I mean, I’m starting to get sleepy just listening to you drone on and on and on about … about … about …”

Purloin was overcome with a wave of confusion and dizziness, and felt the feeling start to drain from his arms. Suddenly he had the urge to simply close his eyes and go to sleep.

He dropped to his knees and the weapon fell from his hands, which seemed to involuntarily open.

Moments later he lay on the floor frozen – unable to speak – yet fully aware of everything going on around him. It was as though he was in a state of suspended animation.

Old Man briskly walked over to the hostages, untied them, and told them to take the nearest elevator down to the first floor where police and paramedics would be waiting for them.

He walked toward Professor Purloin and eased down on one knee.

“I don’t imagine you remember me,” he said. “I’ve been following you around for weeks – ever since you escaped from prison. Found out where you bought supplies, where you were holed up – pretty much knew your every move. About 10 days ago, I bugged your hideaway.

“And last week I was that old fellow who bumped into you on the street. I also injected you with a slow-acting paralytic. If you think back, you might recall feeling a little stick. It’s my own recipe … I have an IQ of 297 and a knack for designing chemicals. Intelligence is my superpower.”

Old Man slowly rose, cracked his back, and walked toward the window.

“You know how I caught you so easily?” he said. “Because you overlooked me. People like you always overlook people like me – older people. It’s like we don’t exist … we’re practically invisible. And because of that, it allows me to play up all the cliches and lull you into a false sense of security.

“I was ‘boring’ you on purpose because I needed a little more time for the paralytic to kick in. But I’ll tell you the truth … I do enjoy Matlock. And I get to watch it a lot because I just do this superhero stuff part-time.”

The police captain and several officers arrived in short order, cuffing Professor Purloin, dragging him to his feet, and taking him away.

“Good job, Old Man,” the captain said, patting him on the shoulder. “I gotta tell you, though … I was getting a little worried that you might not show up on time. You cut things pretty close.”

Old Man grinned.

“I got here as quickly as I could,” he said. “I had to eat first so I could take my pills.”

With run-of-the-mill haunted houses and standard Halloween parties anywhere and everywhere, Jack Fancher and Jean Dobbler were looking for something different. So, how could they pass up something called “Sam Haynes’ Self Storage Facility of Horror?”

Their walk from the Allantide City Center, where revelers were coming and going from parties, took them to several side streets. And it was a homemade sign staked by the side of the road that pointed to an out-of-the-ordinary establishment.

The self-storage part was self-explanatory; it was, indeed, a row of several units with rollup doors.

As for the horror, well, muffled screaming and pounding on the inside of the steel doors created a cacophony that was more irritating than frightening. And instead of a shadowy figure ready to greet unsuspecting victims, the host for the evening was none other than the rather dodgy-looking Sam Haynes himself.

Bespectacled, wheezing – a lit cigarette dangled from his lips – and topped by a horrendously-bad combover, Sam motioned Jack and Jean to come closer.

“Evening,” Sam said, taking a drag from his Lucky Strike. “Are you two ready for the most horrifying experience of your lifetimes?”

The couple chuckled.

“We were just looking for something new,” Jean said. “We love the name of the place … but we were hoping you could tell us a little bit about what to expect first. Also, how much are you charging for admission?”

Sam thought for a second.

“You know, I really don’t have a set price … it mostly depends on my mood,” he said. “How about this; I’ll take five dollars a head and if you don’t think the Sam Haynes’ Self Storage Facility of Horror experience is the most frightening of your lives, I’ll double your money back.

“Now, you can’t beat a deal like that anywhere.”

Jack nodded in approval.

“Hell, yeah, my man,” he said. “But Jean and me – we’ve basically seen it all, so I’m pretty sure we’ll be leaving here with 20 bucks between us.”

Sam turned and began walking toward the units.

“Follow me,” he said. “We’re going to No. 7 down here.”

The banging on the closed units continued, along with more screams and wails. Jack and Jean assumed there were some pop scares courtesy of Self Storage Facility of Horror cast members, although they had no idea how such theatrics could be done convincingly in something that was basically a small garage.

When they reached the front of the unit and looked inside, there was only a table, two chairs, two pencils, two sheets of paper, a loudspeaker attached to the wall and what appeared to be a drop box.

“OK,” Sam said. “You two step inside and I’ll close up. Then we’ll get this party started.”

Jean balked.

“Wait a minute,” she said. “Is this some kind of condo sign-up thing? I don’t see anything in there that’s scary – unless, of course, it is some kind of condo sign-up thing. We’re not interested in anything like that.”

Sam unleashed a loud, chunky cough, then unceremoniously spat dangerously close to Jack’s shoe.

“Up to you,” he said. “I can give you your money back now or – if your boyfriend here is right – you can leave with twice what you gave me. I ain’t gonna push you into doing something you don’t wanna do, though.”

Jack looked at Jean and shrugged.

“Come on Jean,” Jack said. “Even if it is some dumb gimmick, we’ll still come out ahead.”

The two walked in the stuffy unit, and Sam then stepped back to pull down the door.

“Just go in, sit down and in about a minute you’ll get instructions from the loudspeaker,” he said. “But give me your cellphones first; they can set off some pyrotechnics prematurely and we sure don’t want that, do we?”

Sam took the phones and then slammed down the door.

Jack and Jean, meanwhile, made their way to the table and pulled out the chairs. They glanced at two pencils, fully sharpened, and two blank sheets of paper, glaring under the tube lighting on the ceiling.

Moments later, the loudspeaker crackled.

“Can you guys hear me?” Sam asked.

“Yes, we can,” Jean said. “So, are we supposed to be scared of sharp pencils and paper?”

The speaker crackled again.

“Well, yeah, kinda,” Sam said. “Have either of you ever heard of something called the Riemann hypothesis?”

There was no response, so Sam assumed they had not.

“According to Wikipedia it says here that the Riemann hypothesis is – and I’m quoting – the conjecture that the Riemann zeta function has its zeros only at the negative even integers and complex numbers with real part 12.”

If this was a joke, Jack wasn’t laughing.

“This is ridiculous, man,” Jack said. “You brought us in here to do math? Just open up and give us 20 dollars.”

There was a short pause before Sam replied.

“No, see, I can’t do that,” he said. “Not unless you can solve the Riemann hypothesis. If you can, you need to put your answer in the drop box. If you can’t, then I guess this is your tomb.”

Jack banged the table.

“Enough!” he shouted. “Let us out, or I’m gonna kick your old ass.”

Sam cackled.

“Son, nobody’s every solved that math problem,” he said. “And that means nobody has ever gotten out of Sam Haynes’ Self Storage Facility of Horror … at least not alive. You can yell and bang and scream all you want – all my other victims have – but everybody screams and makes noise on Halloween an nobody thinks anything of it. Help ain’t coming, and you’ll be out of air in a couple of hours.”

Jack and Jean continued yelling and banging against the wall, draining their energy while increasing their feelings of hopelessness.

“Happy Halloween,” Sam whispered through the speaker. “Did I promise the most horrifying experience of your lifetimes, or what?”

Ezra Reuben rubbed his hands together while sitting on the park bench, avoiding making eye contact with anyone in the Living With Loss group.

After his wife of 43 years had died, it had taken him two months to leave the house and a month more to resume any semblance of a routine. Opening up about his loss was an even bigger step, especially in the setting of grief counseling.

“Everyone, please welcome Ezra,” said Debbie, the group coordinator, gently patting the man on his shoulder.

Ezra raised his head slightly.

“Uh, my name’s Ezra, and I lost my wife, Arlene, a couple of months ago,” he said to the other bereaved gathered in the park. “We were married more than 40 years, and I’m 68 so we were together a lot longer than we weren’t. I honestly don’t know what to do with myself now that she’s gone.”

He finally looked around, seeing friendly if unfamiliar faces among those taking part in the outdoor session. He doubted going out in public and sharing his pain would help, but gentle nudges from friends finally convinced him to at least try – and get some fresh air in the process.

“We knew this was coming for a while,  so when she finally passed, I had braced myself as best I could. But you can never prepare for something like that … not really.”

Ezra then forced a smile.

“Right there at the end, we told each other we loved each other, of course,” he said. “But you know what the last thing she said to me was? She said, ‘Ezra, you’ve got to go on because you have to take care of the cats.’ So, I guess now I’m just waiting for the cats to die.”

The couple had no human children, but animals had been part of their world throughout their marriage. Over the years there had been dogs as well as cats – even a ferret at one point. But at the time of Arlene’s death, the couple was down to 15-year-old Barfolomew and 17-year-old Ferris Mewler – both ginger tabbies.

“Those boys miss their mama,” he said. “But they’re good company – and they make sure to let me know I still have to feed ‘em.”

Ezra didn’t expect to spend his sessions on the bench talking about cats, but it made him feel better when he did – and that feeling seemed to be contagious.

One visit to the park led to two meetings of the Living With Loss Group and two evolved into six. It wasn’t long before Ezra was quite comfortable chatting with everyone in his group. And oh, how he loved talking about his kitties.

Three months into his meetings, however, Ezra showed up for a session with tears in his eyes. Ferris had finally succumbed to kidney disease.

“I was taking him to the vet every week to give him fluids,” he told the group. “But by the end there wasn’t any quality of life left for him, so I had to let him go.

“It’s just Barf and me now.”

Ezra knew all too well the trauma of losing a four-legged family member. He had often said the price you pay for spending some of the best years of your life with an animal is having to endure that one horrible day when you lose them. Coming so soon on the heels of Arlene’s death caused the loss to hit even harder.

It was several sessions before he became “chatty” again, but once he did, he expressed concern about Barfolomew.

“He won’t eat,” Ezra told Debbie after a meeting. “I think he misses Ferris … and Arlene.”

The Living With Loss group met each Thursday, and late on a Wednesday night, Debbie got an email from Ezra.

“Barf is gone,” it read. “I went to check on him before I went to bed and found him dead on the bathroom floor.”

Debbie felt horrible for Ezra, but she was also worried; of all the things he had said during the support group meetings it was the line “I guess I’m just waiting for the cats to die” that concerned her most.

She didn’t want to overstep, but she also feared what the widower might do.

“I’m so sorry about Barf, Ezra,” she emailed back. “You’ve had to deal with a lot in a short period of time but please, please come to Thursday’s meeting. Get there early and you and I can talk.”

Ezra emailed back with an ominous answer: “I’ll try, but I have a decision to make tomorrow.”

Debra spent most of the night pacing, wondering if she would ever see Ezra again. He had made so much progress, but the deaths of his cats had surely been a setback.

When morning came, she decided to drive over to Ezra’s house and do a wellness check.

She rang the doorbell, but there was no response.

She then knocked frantically, but again, nothing.

The garage was closed, so she couldn’t tell if his car was there or not.

But just as she decided to call 911, Ezra pulled up in his driveway.

He got out of the car and waved, then walked to the passenger side and opened the door.

He retrieved a cardboard pet carrier and began walking toward Debbie.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“I was worried about you,” she said. “What have you got there?”

Ezra opened the box and pulled out a black cat – an old boy graying around the mouth and missing a left eye.

“This is Snake Plissken,” Ezra said. “That decision I told you I had to make? It was either getting a kitten or a senior cat, and the minute I saw this guy I knew he needed me – that we needed each other.”

Debbie reached over and scratched Snake’s chin, and he responded with a vibrant purr.

“Arlene told me to go on because I have to take care of the cats,” Ezra said. “From the looks of the shelter, there are a lot that need taking care of.

“I guess I’ll be here for a while.”