Category: Fiction Factor

Fred’s Pet World – situated snugly between Babs’ Book Store and Batteries, Batteries, Batteries on Canton Road – opened promptly at 9 a.m. on Wednesday, just as it did six days a week, Monday through Saturday. Proprietor Fred Vernon wondered how soon it’d be before it closed down for good.

A former software engineer who was obsessed with quantum mechanics, Fred soon learned he didn’t care for the rat race – unless it actually involved rats. He preferred to be at arm’s length from people and spend as much time with animals as possible.

So, he quit his job and sunk his money into Fred’s Pet World, which he likened to more of a rescue that a retail shop. He had no tolerance for puppy or kitten mills; his establishment served as something of an overflow when the shelters got full.

And he wasn’t interested in getting rich; he charged just enough to help pay for overhead.

Lately, though, there seemed to be a surge in people wanting to buy “specialty” animals. Most of the dogs in his care were mutts, and none of his cats would ever find themselves feted at a Cat Fanciers’ Association convention.

Still, he was going to do what he could for as long as he could, and on Wednesday morning he raised the interior blinds covering the inside of the main door.

He was surprised to see a customer (at least a potential one) with a small, pinkish poodle.

He opened the door, greeted her with a nod, and watched her head straight to a cage.

“What you got there, a couple of gerbils?” said the woman, probably close to 80 years old with cotton candy-colored hair and dark, drawn on eyebrows that looked as though they had been applied with a magic marker. She had also taken a fashion risk by rocking a pair of silver shorts and gold boots to go with her magenta blouse.

 “Well, they’re actually guinea pigs,” Fred said. “Somebody dropped ‘em off here, oh, two weeks ago, I guess it was. When a shelter won’t take an animal, I take ‘em and hope somebody will give ‘em homes. They didn’t have names, so I call ‘em Angus and Malcolm.”

“What’s the difference between a gerbil and guinea pig?” she asked.

“I think basically, guinea pigs live longer and they’re bigger,” he explained. “And they eat plants, while you can feed a gerbil insects.”

The woman chuckled.

“I know all that,” she said. “I was just testing you.”

She moved in for a closer look – as did the poodle, causing both Angus and Malcolm to survey the situation with wide eyes.

“Hmmm,” she said. “What’s that word you use to talk about things that you do experiments on … are they gerbils or guinea pigs?

Fred was puzzled by the question.

“Guinea pigs,” Fred said. “But none of these animals are used for experiments. I would never allow that to happen.”

“Good, good,” she said. “No offense. Just seems like humans don’t think too much of each other these days, so I can only imagine how they treat animals.”

The woman stooped down and put a gnarled index finger on the cage.

 “Can I let ‘em come up and lick my finger?” the woman asked.

Fred nodded.

“You can try,” he said. “They can get a little bit spooked, though.”

She leaned over and both Angus and Malcom eased closer, cautiously placing their noses on her finger.

To Fred’s surprise, both guys started purring, even after the poodle – Fandango – was introduced to them.

“They sure are cute little guys,” she said. “We’ve got dogs, cats, lions, tigers, ferrets, ducks, lizards, a three-legged deer and a wombat, and those are just the ones I can name off the top of my head,” she said. “To tell you the truth, I like ‘em better than humans – present company accepted, I’m sure.”

The woman made her way through the rest of the store, stopping to admire and “speak to” every animal she came across.

She held every kitten, and played with every dog. Finally, she circled back to Angus and Malcolm.

“How much …” she asked.

Fred smiled, held up his hand and cut her off in mid-sentence.

“Mostly I just want to make sure they’re taken care of and have a good home. Sounds like you have a zoo and – nothing personal – but if you have all those other animals, I don’t see how you can possibly take care of two more.”

The woman threw her head back and laughed.

“Sounds like you didn’t learn much from quantum mechanics, Fred.”

Fred understood how she might know his name, but how did she know about his education?

Before he could ask, she explained herself.

“I’m not talking about money, Fred,” she said. “I was going to ask how much convincing would it take for you and your friends here to join us on Anamalia. Look outside.”

Fred looked through the window of his shop and saw what appeared to be a snow globe on the sidewalk, pulsating with frantic waves of blue light.

Fred stumbled back against the wall.

“You’ve done admirable work here, Fred … admirable work indeed,” said the woman. “But you can make a greater impact somewhere else. I’m from a parallel universe where things are, well, a little easier for our furry friends. Just thought you might want to come with us, especially since you always hoped there’d be a place like this somewhere – and some time.

“You can work there and live the kind of life you want.”

Fred got up again and took another look at the globe.

“Is that …?” he asked.

She gave a thumb’s up.

“Yep, it’s one of those quantum mechanics deals you were tinkering with … something to do with the de Broglie wavelength or some such mumbo jumbo,” she said, producing a device resembling a key fob. “I have no idea how it works; I just know if I press this, we all make a jump – lock, stock and barrel.”

Everything seemed impossible, but as Fred continued to stare at the globe – an object that looked quite similar to one he had once constructed – the more the situation seemed far beyond some elaborate hoax. And even if it was trickery, what was the harm in going along with it?

Worst-case scenario, everyone has a big laugh at his expense.

Best-case scenario, Fred’s Pet World becomes part of a whole different world.

Fred walked to the counter, put his hand on the cage holding Angus and Malcolm, and flashed a toothy grin.

“Let’s do it,” he said.

Thursday morning, passersby walked along the Canton Road sidewalk as they usually did, glancing at the storefronts without giving them a second thought.

Still – for those who stopped long enough to notice – the empty lot between Babs’ Book Store and Batteries, Batteries, Batteries seemed out of place.

Why only yesterday, a store – some kind of store – had been there.

Hadn’t it?

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?”