Debbie Weiss, the winner of the Klaus Trofobia Flash Fiction Competition

Klaus Trofobia by Debbie Weiss

        “Klaus, honey, your supper is ready.  Come on downstairs.”  Klaus was in his room in front of his computer, his favorite spot. He was studying the local news clips from the surrounding area.  He had his big book of maps at his desk and was searching for local crime scenes. Klaus loved crime and intrigue.  He had a huge scanner radio similar to the ones the police used.  Klaus read up on the police lingo and soon was able to decipher the different codes.  “Honey, your stew is getting cold.”  Shouted his mother from downstairs.  “Yeah yeah.” Klaus muttered to himself.  “Not hungry.” He whispered.

        His mother did not understand him at all.  He was in his late thirties, he still lived at home, was a very shy and quiet young man.   He stayed in his room all the time until his mother forced him to get a job.  So he finally did and applied for the bagger job at the neighborhood “Buy All” market.  Klaus wore his navy blue slacks which his mother still ironed for him.  He felt comfortable in his brown scuffed loafers since he had to stand for his entire eight hour shift.  He wore a starched white collar shirt and a red and white striped apron.  The final touch, a name badge which he proudly wore.  That was his uniform during the day.  He was thought of as mild mannered Klaus. 

        On Friday nights, it was a different story.  He would turn into Mr. Kevin the Magnificent.  When he noticed the last light go off from his mother’s bedroom down the hall, he would begin.  He would crawl out of his second story bedroom window. He had a sturdy rope hanging from the tall oak tree outside the window.   He would reel in the rope with a fishing pole and shimmy down the wall with his feet like he was Spider Man, one of his favorite hero’s.  Klaus was infatuated with Superhero’s.  He had hung his favorite comic strip characters all over his wall. He wanted to be like the man in the fancy suit that got the bad guys and got the girls but he was so shy.  So instead he went to the “Wear It from me” thrift store and created his own costume.  He wore a one piece yellow jumpsuit which made him look like a cross between Elvis and Liberace.  He had on black rubber boots and a silver cape.  Not exactly like the suave man in the comic strip but he had gotten everything for $5.00.  To complete his ensemble, he bought a black face mask that resembled the Long Rangers and a tight white swim cap to cover up his full head of hair.  He would jump onto his old Schwin bike and head out to fight crime.

        One night while out on patrol, Klaus dressed as Mr. Kevin, wondered into the convenience store next to the gas station. He wanted some gum. A friend of his named Mitch worked there.  But Klaus’s costume was so convincing, not even his friend knew it was him.  As he entered the store, Klaus saw a young punk teenager holding a gun on Mitch.  Klaus tapped the teen on the shoulder and when the teen turned around to see who was tapping at him; Klaus immediately went into a full Karate stance.  The kid took one look at Klaus in his bright yellow uniform and said, “Hey buddy if you don’t get outta here, I’m going to kick your ass.”  Klaus stood as still as a statue, not even a flinch.

The teen started to laugh so hard that Mitch grabbed a bottle of booze and knocked the kid out.  White Mitch was calling the police; Klaus threw down a dollar and twenty nine cents for his spearmint gum and ran out the door.  Mitch had trouble explaining what happened when the police got there. “No really, the guy in the yellow jumpsuit.”  The police knew of some costumed stranger but had not ever seen him.  Klaus rescued cats from trees, dogs from abusive owners; he found a bracelet from a missing girl in some tall weeds one day while riding his bike and that led police to locating here.  Klaus knew he did good work.  But he was too frightened to let anyone know it was him.

      Klaus finally turned off his computer and headed down to dinner, to his cold stew.  His mother handed him an envelope. It was hand written on the outside with just the letter K in yellow.  Klaus opened the envelope as he slurped down the stew.  I know who you are and thank-you was all the note said.  Then Klaus noticed a drawing inside the envelope.  It was of him in his costume and mask.  It looked just like a comic strip drawing.  Klaus smiled as he finished his dinner.  He got up quickly.  “No dessert?” His mother asked.  “Not now.” Said Klaus, as he ran up the stairs to his room.  He got out a thump tack and placed the drawing next to the Mr. Travers comic strip.  The newest super hero, he smiled to himself.  It’s me.       

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Although slightly anachronistic I think Debbie Weiss’ story is the winner mainly because he made me think of the Seinfeld joke, “That every man thinks that he could become a superhero, all he needs is the training.” I also like how the Weiss’s story seemed like a kinder gentler version of the film “Kick Ass.” 

Very close on Weiss’ heels were the other three stories.

“The Twilight Zone,” “Tales by Saki” and Roald Dahl’s “Tales of the Unexpected” all came to mind in Royce Ratterman’s “Street Level.”  I really liked how Ratterman gave a sense of San Francisco in a sort of alternate 1930’s world in which Chinese Americans spoke in an accent that I suspect never really happened.

Klaus Trofobia – Like Lichtenstein by Gigi DeVault had a cute art historical comic book reference that made me laugh. 

Anthony Galica’s story was a very “Twighlight Zone” homage with a bit of “Sybil” thrown in for good measure.

Read the all here:

http://kenney-mencher.blogspot.com/2011/03/write-story-about-klaus-trofobia-and.html

More competitions here:

http://www.kenney-mencher.com/

Write a story about Jairo and Win the Drawing on the Right

Write a story about Jairo and Win the Drawing on the Right

The contest closes Monday April 4th, 2011

Jairo 10"x8" oil and mixed media on masonite Jairo  _________________________________________________________________ The story you write should be a "Flash Fiction" which is a complete story in one thousand or fewer words.  Please post the story in the comment section, you will have to provide your name and an email address in order to be qualified to win or you can e-mail me at kmencher@ohlone.edu with your info.  There is a problem with how many characters can post (only about 4,000) so if you cannot post it.  E-mail it to me at kmencher@ohlone.edu Renovated Reputations is the result of an internet blogging project in which paintings and assemblages based on vintage and antique vernacular photography are the inspiration for short fiction. The catalog and monograph are a collaborative efforts between myself, a twenty or so authors such as professor Mark Brosamer,  mystery writer Matt O'Malley, pulp author Steven D. Rogers of PulpFest fame, Dreamworks animator/cartoonist Brian Newlin, columnist Gigi De Vault and others. The impetus for this project is based in a solo show of paintings in I am having at ArtHaus Gallery in San Francisco in April 2011.   The show is called  Renovated Reputations: Paintings and Fiction inspired by Vintage Portrait Photographs. Show up or else! ArtHaus 411 Brannan Street  San Francisco, CA  94107 415-977-0223 www.arthaus-sf.com Opening Reception Friday April 8th 2011 6PM to 8 PM Show runs through June 25th 2011 Download the draft of Tabloid Newspaper catalog as a PDF. Here's a link to the free newspaper style catalog as a pdf: http://www.kenney-mencher.com/Renovated_Reputations_Mencher.pdf Here's a link to the book: http://www.kenney-mencher.com/Renovated_Reputations_Mencher_Book.pdf (This is about 5MB so if you are using firefox it may stall.  You can right click and save or use explorer.) We're going to have a photobooth for the show for participants to play with and vintage costumes. Of course I'll send the authors free copies of the catalogs. _______________________________________________ This came in by e-mail: By Patrick Nelson This has never happened before. I have never had a car come in with a dead guy in it. Never. Jeez. What do I do? Do I go ahead and fix the car? The thing is, this is Don Approvesco's car. The Don Approvesco. Oh man! I am in big trouble. Why am I in trouble you may ask? Even if I didn't kill this guy (which I definitely didn't) I saw this guy, or at least what used to be him. If I go to the cops, I will be as dead as this guy in the trunk here. Heck, they may even fit me in here with him and take me out to the same landfill for Pete's sake. I gotta think fast. Why do I always look in the trunk? There's no working parts in there, anyway.   We've been working on the Don's fleet for years, since before we moved way down to South San Francisco. I have actually been the head mechanic for these Rolls Royces of his for about a year. We're the only ones in town who work on the Rolls'.  Tango motors around the corner has the other contract for the local mob boss, Don Musso. I guess we would have him too if he drove rolls, but too many Dons spoils the something-or-other. Really one is dangerous enough to handle.  I met Don Approvesco  once. Real scary guy.  I'd even delivered a car back to the estate in North Beach. The men at the gate had searched the underside of the car and one patted me down while the other searched inside the car. The Don came out to look at the finished body work I did. I walked up and gave him the keys then he took my hand in both of his and locked them together. He had this way of looking deep in your eyes one then the other. Like he was searching and searing his gaze into each till he found what he was looking for. Creepy bastard, but don't tell him I said that. In my case I guess he found what he was looking for because he grew a tidy smirk on his dark, pitted Sicilian face. His dark eyes became mirthful slits and his salt and pepper mustache arched up slightly on one end. He said in a deep, gravelly voice with a touch of an Italian accent "nice work, my friend. I may call you my friend?" I nodded and he continued "Good. I can tell you are a good man, but I must keep an eye on you. Not that I don't trust you. After all, you yourself said we are friends. No, I think I must keep an eye on you for you are a smart one."   Wow. All that from a handshake and a really scary staring match. I couldn't do it right then, but later I had to check my underwear. "Um, thanks. I guess I'd better get back to the shop..." That was all I could come up with without risking a heart attack. He released my hand from his grip and waved me off erratically and turned and went inside. His men who stood on either side of the massive wooden front doors and nodded in the direction of the walled gate. Ezra hadn't come in the truck to pick me up yet, but I wasn't waiting. I slipped through the wrought iron gate and tried not to run down the street.   Ah, the old days. The body? Still here. I looked around, but nobody else was nearby. I bent closer to look at the guy. I titled my head and peered at him. He was about my age, 35 or so, with sandy blond hair which was groomed neatly except where a big bloody dent was on the top of his head. His nails where pristine. I always noticed peoples nails because mine where so messy and dirty that I had a sort of thing about them. I felt self conscious about mine. He had no shoes or socks. Funny, there isn't much blood. I always assumed when I saw my first dead-guy-in-the-trunk, he would be awash in blood. Due to the fact that he was resembling a pretzel, it was hard to guess his height. Maybe six feet. He looked about a buck and three quarters heavy. He had on a nice suit; off the rack but altered. How do I know suits? Let’s just say, when I’m not covered in axle grease from head to toe, I clean up real good.   So our Mister personality here did alright but not anymore. I picked up a lug wrench and lifted the jacket’s right lapel. A long brown wallet fell onto his chest and dropped to the trunk floor. I picked it up and opened it. Harold Fromunda. Now that's a name. I thought it was a joke. A few checks in his checkbook, no cash.   I realized I was wasting precious time and since I didn't know him I didn't feel bad about what I was going to do to him. I wiped the wallet off and tossed it on top of him. I slowly closed the trunk until it clicked and I wiped down everything I had touched on or in the car. Now, Tino, the one they called Tiny (yup, you guessed it, he was huge) had handed me the key earlier. He knew it was me that was going to be working on the car. Damn. No way to work my way around that. To buy myself some time, I raised the car up on the hydraulic and left it up there while I went to smoke a cigarette. I don’t smoke, but its appeal now became a little clearer as it was too early for a drink.   The plan I had flashed upon in my mind earlier was now becoming frighteningly clear, but it had to be timed just right or I could be in some real hot water. What was happening to me? I was not finding this as panic inducing as I thought it would be. I mean, my heart still felt like someone was pulling it up through my throat, but I had stopped sweating like a pig at a weenie roast. First, I took a quick walk around the corner to check Tango motors to see if they happened to have one of Don Musso's cars. I couldn't be sure till I looked at the registration on the steering column, but it looked like one of the Cadillacs he had just bought from Tango's. They did sales and service both. I couldn't check until later after they closed so nobody would see me but that wouldn't delay my next bit of legwork. I walked back to the shop stopping on the way to drop some change in the phone and make a call.  "Tango motors. We service what we sell, all the others can go to Hello, how may I help you?" a comedian said over the phone in a forced non-New York accent.  "Yeah, b-b-buddy" I said with a stutter to disguise my voice. I didn't know anybody at their shop, but why take chances? "I am interested in that C-C-Caddy on your left lot. Is it for s-s-sale?"  "The green one? Um... No siree" he hesitated. His native accent was starting to seep in. "It's in for service."  I almost said "perfect" over the phone, but injected "goshd-d-darnit! Does it run ok? I might make an offer." I inquired and crossed my fingers.  The man on the other line replied "not right this moment that's why its in the left lot, repairs. But I am pretty sure the guy who owns it will refuse the offer."   "Oh, darn. She's a ba-ba-ba-beaut" I said and added a goodbye then I hung up. Why the stutter? No idea. It seemed like a good idea at the time and I was under a little pressure. That worked out good so far. I finished making my way back to the shop just as Jimmy Victor, Victory Repair Shop owner was just lowering the Don's car. He had a furrowed brow and seemed mildly irritated. Victor was a short, stocky, balding man in his sixties. He wore a black pinstriped suit that was too small and spotted with grease. Even though he no longer worked on the cars, he still had grease in his blood and under his nails.   "What's with the Don's car, Jairo? Is she done? Why's it still on the stilts?" he rapid-fired to me.  "Whoa, not done yet!" I said as I rushed up and took the lift controls from him gently. "got a few things to do still. Hey boss, why don't you cut out? Its gettin’ on five. I'll lock up when I'm done here. Everybody else has cut out..."  He scratched at a spot on his damp skull and pondered the lift. I had a twinge of panic. Did he suspect something was up? Had the body started to smell?  "Ah, well. All right then. Just make sure you finish the Don's car before you go. I made him a promise." He gave a short wave and headed out the door.   The next step was to finish the repairs. From what I could tell it needed a new belt and some tuning up -oh, and to lose about one hundred and seventy five pounds. The only loose thread was Tiny. If he was as stupid as he looked, I might get lucky and he would forget about the body in the trunk long enough for me to get this repair done and my plan finished. Come on luck, stay with me!  Later after I finished the repairs, it had grown dark enough for me to move on to the next step. I grabbed the keys to the tow truck and drove it over past the Tango lot. Twice. It appeared that everyone had gone home but just to be safe, I parked across the street and called from the phone box in the line of site of the front office. I could hear the dial tone in the hand piece as well as the slightly delayed ringing from the phone in the office. No answer. Bingo. I got in the truck and pulled into the left lot. The green Caddy was still in the same spot. I thought about the keys, but decided I wouldn't need them for what I was pulling off as long as the doors where open.  I backed the truck up to the mob car and lowered the lift bar. I got out and checked the Caddy's doors. Bingo and open sesame. After checking the registration to make sure it belongd to Don Russo, I hooked the chains up to the back of the Caddy. I looked around to make sure nobody was noticing me. No traffic, no pedestrians wondering why a Victory Repairs truck was towing a car from the lot of Tango motors and most of all nobody running out of the office screaming bloody murder. I finished the hook up and lift. I popped the car into neutral. Ten  minutes later I was backing the caddy into the bay next to the rolls. I unhooked the truck, pulled it out of the garage and lowered the door. Now the sticky stage.  I pushed the engine block crane, which was on casters, up behind the rolls. Putting on a pair of grease gloves, I popped the trunk on the Rolls and ran the chains from the crane's frame to under the body of my buddy Harry. We were getting to know each other so well. I pulled them the rest of the way through and hooked the ends back on the crane. Slowly I lifted the body out of the trunk and pushed the block crane over to the Caddy. I popped the trunk. Now this was a trunk to put a body in. Heck, you could put a few in there... yeah, maybe mine. That sent a chill down my spine as I lowered my friend in.   "Work smarter, not harder" I muttered in a self-satisfied manner. I unhooked him and pushed the crane away. Closing the trunk, I lifted the garage door and backed the truck up to re-hook it to the Caddy. Now I stopped to take the time to wipe my prints off the entire car. Everything I may have touched. Yeah, I was turning into a criminal mastermind!   Twenty minutes later, I was back at Victory breathing a sigh of relief. Now the only thing left was to clean out the trunk in the Rolls. I got a small bucket with some warm water and a wheel rim scrubber. I poured a little bleach in the bucket and leaned over the open trunk.   Holy kamoley! Harold's wallet! I allowed myself the luxury of a flash of panic. It sat there on the floor of the trunk scaring the life out of me. After a second or two, I put back on one of the grease gloves and scooped up the wallet. I peered out the office door and seeing no one, I went around the back and ran like a crazy bastard down the alley all three blocks till I came up behind Tango's. I was sweaty, out of breath and had a sharp pain I my side. I crept into the lot and snuck up behind the caddy. I opened the door with my gloved hand and popped the trunk once again. My heart was racing as I dropped it in and quickly slammed the lid. After a short stroll of a few minutes (more like stroll then run then stroll, run) I was back I front of the Rolls' trunk cleaning up the small amount of blood there. What a day.  I pulled the car past the guards at the gate much the same way I had the first time I visited Don Approvesco's estate: they had done their check under the car and gave me the general stink eye. I drove up the gravel drive and parked it in the curved area near the front door. I got out and stretched. The irony of the fact that the estate looked out onto Alcatraz didn't escape me. Escape, that made me giggle like an idiot. I was really nervous. Maybe he wanted to keep an eye on the future. It could be mine too if this didn't work out. No, I wouldn't get that far, the Don would probably just gut me like a fish and toss me out back as chum. The story is he worked his way up from the nearby fishing boat to his current position in life.  I really didn't want to be here. I put up quite a fight with the boss about this delivery but I didn't want to argue too firmly or it would look suspicious. The whole discussion closed when he told me that the Don wanted me personally to deliver said vehicle. Cue dramatic music.  I guess the Don had read this morning's paper. The headline read: "Local Don gets grisly body work done. Dead man found in Don Russo's Cadillac at local garage." The meat of the article went on to inform us that the Don's car held the remains of one Harold Fromunda, a well-known local hoodlum who had been arrested for various charges in the past but most recently was charged with trafficking heroine. The victim, it was intimated, was on the payroll of the owner of the car, Don Angelino Russo. An anonymous tip was phoned in to authorities late last night stating: "you all should take a look under Russo's hood at tango motors. Something stinks." That was all the informant said. Police suspect the murdered man must have run afoul of the big boss, was killed and stowed in the trunk. What baffled the investigators and apparently the reporter too was; why leave it in the trunk for someone to discover?   That was a good question. Only in my case, why Don Approvesco would make such a blunder. The answer came bounding out of the house like an angry, uncoordinated bull. Tino. He was a little over six feet tall, and had the look of a ring-weary wrestler stuffed into a suit three sizes too small. Cartoonish and buffoonish came to mind with a dash of murderous for flavor. The guards had just finished patting down my privates for bombs, knives, machine guns or whatever when Tino came barreling up to me. I felt like a damsel tied to the tracks with an onrushing train trying to squeal to a halt. He put his sausage like finger in my face and bellowed   "Keys. Now!" Even his breath was strong and ugly.   "All you had to do was say the magic word." I quipped bravely.   Where did this courage to do the insane and dangerous thing come from? I dangled them and he snatched them. He lumbered to the rear of the car and opened the trunk. He bent to look inside. I heard the tools and tire being moved around in efforts to, what? Find the body that might be hidden under the mat or spare? Maybe in his mind, he could imagine it had turned invisible, hell I don't know.  He circled back around the bumper and back to me as he pulled up his jacket sleeves. “OK, wiseguy! Were’d you put that bum?” He grabbed my shirt with one hand and made like he was going to put my lights put out.  From the doorway to the house, I heard the familiar raspy voice of the Don. “Tino, I am sure our visitor has no idea what you are talking about. And that is no way to treat a friend of mine...” The Don’s gaze lingered on mine a moment longer. “Tino, mi nipotino. Why don’t you go out back and play with the rabbits? Be a good nephew...”  Tino...Nipotino. Now it was starting to congeal in my mind like clotting blood. It was all coming together in a sticky mass: Tino was Don Approvesco’s nephew. That is why the rather big mistake of forgetting about a dead body did not result in Tino being stuffed into a trunk too. Well, that and the need for a trunk bigger than an elephant’s.   Tino gave me one last shake like I was a rag doll and turned to go into the house.  “I apologize for the rough treatment from my nephew” the Don walked toward me with his hands outstretched like I was a long lost friend. “He sometimes doesn’t know his own strength. Now, let us have a look at your handiwork, my friend.”    There it was again: friend. He shook my hand hard and steered me towards the trunk.  "You do not know what my nephew speaks of, do you?" The Don asked with his hands in his pants pockets. He rose up and down on the balls of his feet as he waited for an answer. He leaned a little towards the trunk and absentmindedly surveyed the interior. I felt a little ping of panic on my sonar, but not as bad as the first time we met.  "Look, Don Approvesco, I am not quite sure what to say in this situation, but honesty has served me well in the past." I started strong. Let's just hope I finished that way (and with no extra holes). "I was presented with a problem which your nephew, no disrespect intended, dropped in my lap. After assessing the situation, I created a solution that I believed was beneficial to both you and I. Believe me, I have never been in this situation and I hope I do not find myself in such again." Whew. Let's see if the next few minutes of my life aren't a blur of screaming, running, bullets and blood.  "Oh, my friend, I wouldn't be so fast to count yourself out" he replied as he stroked his chin and peered at me. "As for Tino, he is my sister's son. What can I do? He's family. I had hoped he would have grown up to have a brain to match his brawn, but alas... My nephew brought you more than one problem. One you knew about and one you discovered upon further inspection of the car. It seems to me that you handled it, without being asked, in a way that a man who fixes things would do."   I started to breath and I could feel my gut start to unclench. "While I appreciate the compliment, I must add that I was a little sloppy about it." I said.  "How so?" he asked.  "Well, if I had been thinking, I would have disposed of the problem completely and you would not have been the wiser." I dared to confide.  "Oh, I would have been the wiser. I have had enough dealings with the police detectives to have some of their skills rub off on me" he said. "Let's just hope this automotive problem doesn't cause further complications for me as that would not be good for you either. But, in all I am quite satisfied with your work. I am particularly fond of the creative touch you put on your... how can I put this? Parts disposal method? I enjoyed the irony." He stepped away from the trunk, closed the lid and wiped his hands together. "Did you hear about the unfortunate situation my business adversary Don Russo has found himself? Yes, it was very interesting to me, also. For many reasons. This young man had approached me for a position in my organization a few years ago." He turned and slowly walked in the direction of the house and motioned me to follow him. I didn't like where this was going but I had no choice other than to ride it out. "This fellow approached me about a new business opportunity opening in my own territory" he looked intently at me before he said more: "heroine."   He was eyeing me like an old lady in the market testing melons for ripeness. He was not going to thump me on the head, but it was a close call. He continued: "when I explained to him that we did not deal in that poison, I was informed that he went to work for Angelino and it was very lucrative for both. I do not begrudge Angelino this bad business decision. We have a truce of a sort after all. I do, however, have a problem with anything being sold in my territory. Understand?"   I raised my hands and started to plead with him about all of this unsolicited information but I was stopped abruptly. "I told you when we first met that you where smart" he said. "Don't make a fool of me now. I tell you these things because you are smart and you no doubt have figured out the nature of my business. I am just making these things clear between you and me." He stopped and reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a white letter sized envelope and handed it to me. "For services rendered. The car repairs are on account with Mister Victor. This, however, is for you. It is only money and I owe you something more than that. I hope to be doing more business with you in the future." He handed it to me and something told me if I didn't take it I would not be fixing anything ever again.   The Don broke away from me and started up the steps to his house. Somehow I knew this was where I got off. Before he crossed the threshold, he asked “you always look in the trunk?”  “Not anymore” I relied. With that, he said something to one of the guards by the door and disappeared. The guard came up to me and told me that he would give me a ride back to the garage. Great. A promotion. As I walked to the car I contemplated the envelope. It was heavier than I thought it would be. __________________________________________________ This came in by e-mail: Full Service By Royce A Ratterman “A full service, son,” demanded the stranger emphatically to the ace mechanic pumping gas into his treasured vintage Ford sedan. “No skimping on anything. I expect the best of everything.” The handsomely uniformed young man simply nodded in agreement to the elderly fellow before opening the hood to check the vehicle’s vital fluids and mechanical stability. “What’s your name, boy” questioned the man out of his window loudly, “I always like to know who’s working on my vehicle, you know.” “Jairo, sir, simply Jairo,” came the reply from under the hood. “What kind of a name is that, son?” Jairo secured the hood of the vehicle and stepped to the driver’s side window, “It is found most often among Spanish cultures, sir. From Hebrew origin, I believe. It can mean ‘God enlightens’ or what my father meant for it to mean . . . ‘A son to brighten my life’.” “That’s nice, young man, real nice. How’s everything look under the hood?” “Just fine, sir. Everything is in order.” “What’s your specialty, young man?” asked the stranger with way too many questions. “Specialty, sir?” “Yes, I mean the types of vehicles you prefer to work on and have a kind of knack for, you know.” Jairo replied to the curious man sitting behind the vehicle’s steering wheel, “Fords, sir. I am the area mechanic assigned to their driver’s final full service.” “There’s a lot of Fords here in South SF these days,” replied the man. “You’ve got a lifetime of work ahead of you, son.” Jairo tipped his black-billed blue service station uniform hat to the man, collected the payment for services rendered, then bid the stranger farewell, “Have a great day sir. I know you will.” After the stranger drove away from 215 South Maple Avenue in his vintage Ford sedan he was never heard from again.                     ~ ~ ~ “Paint . . . you do touchup painting, boy?” asked the gray-haired man in the 1941 Ford after he pulled the vehicle with the scraped fender into the gas station’s lot. Jairo promptly replied, “The best in town, sir. The best in town.” “Got time today for a touchup?” “No time like the present, I say,” answered Jairo. “Pull the car in over there.” “Heavenly,” exclaimed the man as he quickly drove his damaged vehicle into the garage area the attendant had pointed out to him. He never returned home.                     ~ ~ ~ On another chilly weekday morning a black and white unit pulled into the lot for gas and a full service check. It seemed that the police station’s regular mechanic was out sick and the officers needed to assure that their vehicle was ‘street ready’ before commencing their shift. The two cops received the best service of their lives from Jairo that day. But after they failed to respond to radio calls and did not return to their headquarters, an all out investigation was implemented to search for the two law enforcement officers and their Ford police unit. Headlines days later read, “Tragic Patrol Accident - Local Police Officers Killed.”                     ~ ~ ~ A top-notch mechanic for as long as he could remember, Jairo always did his best to please his customers and honor his trade. The old service station had a central entry door accompanied by large windows to each side. Two pumps adorned the tiny entry sidewalk along the two large front windows. Faded white walls augmented with dingy rose trim were the exterior’s decor. A lonely place with an abandoned look.                     ~ ~ ~ One hot South San Francisco afternoon a tearful young woman entered the service station lot in her beautifully manicured Model-A. She asked the attendant, “Can I get a full service?” to which he replied, “It will be quite some time, ma’am.” “Busy, huh?” commented the woman. “Is everything alright, ma’am? You look a bit distressed. Can I help in any way?” questioned Jairo. “Oh, it’s this letter,” she replied, holding up an official looking white envelope, “I guess telling a stranger is easier than telling my family and friends. I’m afraid to open it.” “Sometimes it’s best to face life head on and live it to its fullest.” Looking up at Jairo with her tearful eyes she replied, “Well, mister, last week I got some really terrible bad news from my doctor. Odds are not good for me, you see. My doctor took some tests and the results are in this envelope. That’s why I’m afraid to open it.” Jairo encouragingly replied, “Ah, ma’am, there are folks down in Vegas right now winning huge jackpots with worse odds than you have. Open it. You’ll ease you mind and heart, miss, trust me. Anyway, no doctor would send bad news in a letter, would they now.” The woman placed the envelope on the seat next to her and stared at it for a while. Tears flowed as she slowly tore the envelope open. Sighs of relief echoed as she read the good news. “It’s not my time yet.” When she looked up to thank the attendant she noticed that the station was abandoned. Only cracked asphalt, broken front windows and a missing front entry door remained. The woman exited her Ford and questioned an employee of a neighboring establishment regarding the service station. He simply responded, “Ma’am, that station’s been closed for years. Ain’t been nobody there since I can remember.” Looking in her rearview mirror as she drove away, the woman caught a glimpse of the same uniformed man standing in the abandoned station behind her. She gently waved her hand . . . the man did the same.                     ~ ~ ~ “Welcome sir!” greeted Jairo to a teenager in a ’32 Ford Deuce Coupe hotrod, “Full service?” “Yeah, yeah. Hey, is your boss around, mister?” Jairo smiled and replied, “You’ll be meeting him very soon, son. Very soon!” ____________________________________________________________________________

Write a story about Klaus Trofobia and Win the Drawing on the Right

Klaus Trofobia 16"x20" framed oil and mixed media on masonite panel by Kenney Mencher

$75.00 USD

Write a story about Klaus Trofobia and Win the Drawing
The contest closes Monday March 28, 2011

___________________________________________

The story you write should be a "Flash Fiction" which is a complete story in one thousand or fewer words.  Please post the story in the comment section, you will have to provide your name and an email address in order to be qualified to win or you can e-mail me at kmencher@ohlone.edu with your info.  There is a problem with how many characters can post (only about 4,000) so if you cannot post it.  E-mail it to me at kmencher@ohlone.edu

Go to my website for more contests: http://www.kenney-mencher.com/

Winning flash fiction stories will be integrated in with an exhibit in San Francisco at ArtHaus Gallery (April 8th for the reception).

The show is called:
Renovated Reputations: Paintings and Fiction inspired by Vintage Portrait Photographs

The exhibit will include a series of 20-40 paintings and mixed media works ranging in size from 8”x10” to 18”x24” framed with thrift store and vintage frames.  In addition to the exhibited works ArtHaus is publishing catalogs signed by me and as many of the authors as possible.

Catalogs/books will consist of image of the painting with the text of the “flash story” surrounding the image.  If I can get the authors to come to a book signing/party, authors would sign their pages for some of the printed stuff.

We're going to have a photobooth for the show for participants to play with and vintage costumes.

Of course I'll send the authors free copies of the catalogs. I will announce the winners the day after the closing deadline for the competition. I'm planning on doing one flash fiction competition a week every Monday from now until April. 

(If the conditions in the side bar are not to your liking, I'm totally flexible.  Send me a contract that you like and I will mail it back to you.  I just don't want to chase people for signatures when I publish the catalog!)

• Go to my website for more contests: http://www.kenney-mencher.com/

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This came in by e-mail:

 

Klaus Trofobia – Like Lichtenstein by Gigi DeVault

“I used to be a celebrity.  Drew comics every day.  Superheros were my stock and trade.”

“And dames.  Lots of dames of every kind.  Always crying or kissing.  Or kissing and crying.”

“People love to see dames all wrought up over some superhero they think they love.”

“For awhile there, I let people up here in my loft.”

“This here is where I do the color fill.  With screens and perforated metal.”

“You need regularly spaced holes to make the patterns even.  I tried drilling the holes once myself, but they never came out right.”

“That made me mad.”

“That was when they said things about me.”

“So I don’t let people up here anymore.”

“Yes sir and yes ma’am.  That was when the paper let me go.”

“For awhile, I did some freelance.”

“They said, ‘Creatives can work wherever and whenever they want.’ So that’s what I

became.  A creative.”

“Watch this.  You see how I make the lines for shading?”

“It’s easy for me.  It’s the only thing that’s easy for me, now.”

“So I just keep drawing.”

“Drawing is better than television.  The story goes how I want it to go.”

“Drawing is better than down there.  In the street.”

“I know you don’t agree.  You want to be down there is the street right now, don’t you?”

“Nobody has got any loyalty left anymore.”

“’Cept me.  I’m loyal as can be…to my Lichtensteins.”

“Are you thirsty?  Here you go.  And here’s a little something to eat – a treat just for you.”

“I drew you the other day.  Where did I put it?”

“Ah.  Here you are.  Don’t you look cute?”

“I made your eyes brown because they are.  But I could have made them blue.”

“See the dame I drew in this cell?  Blue eyes.  And this one?  Look right here.  See?”

“Dogs don’t usually have blue eyes.  Some do, though.  But not you.” 

“Not the way I drew you today.” 

 _____________________________________________________

This came in by e-mail:

By Anthony Galica

“Locking up one’s imagination is about the worst thing one can do.”

-        K. Trofobia

Klaus was a genius.  But, Klaus had also been broken by this world.  Was it a woman?  A friend?  Humanity?  None of us can really say, as we weren’t around then.  Some who knew him before he unraveled would say that he ultimately locked himself away, but others would beg to differ.

For my part in this, Klaus made me.  Hell, he made all of us.  None of us would be who we are if it weren't for him.  He was a kind and straightforward man, and despite not knowing us, he treated us with respect.  His imagination was vivid in ways that are hard for most people to conceive.   You see, Klaus was one of those CEO types who also runs the Board of Directors.  But, Klaus’ piece of the pie was shrinking.  He’d been giving more and more of it away, little by little.  He’d always ultimately be in charge, but he was being edged out and would be left to exercise his control from behind the scenes.  Some felt this was ok; some felt that he wasn’t up to the task any longer, including myself.

He had loved once, but he’d never really loved at all, preferring to keep to himself.  Sometimes, Klaus would just retire himself and write.  Usually about himself, and often in the third person.  But not really.  That’s how his imagination worked.  It was contradictory on itself, but at the same time it wasn’t.  It didn’t allow him to cut through his own lies and deceit.  For example, he was often of clean language, but lately (and more than once) he’s been guilty of offering the mailman a large “fuck you” for sleeping with his wife.  More and more, little “episodes” like this would creep out.  Klaus had gone too far, had given up too much.  And now he was cracking – I mean, he’d already cracked according to some, but this was different.  This was much more dangerous.  We’re all at risk because of it.   Some of us knew a takeover was going to happen sooner or later, and now it’s basically imminent. 

For the most part, Klaus doesn’t really even know about us and what we do behind his back.  Despite that, most of us know him very well.  Myself, I have the largest piece of the pie after Klaus, and I was the first one he brought on to help out.  I’m basically next in line in a place where the only way to go up is to take over.   And, naturally, we’ve all been planning a takeover for some time now.  Well, most of us have been, anyway.  Personally, my real intentions are to take Klaus’ slice of the pie, along with everyone else’s.  I think it’s clear that if we maintain a situation where everyone has their own piece of the pie, it isn’t going to work out. 

Some of the others are probably suspicious about my plans, but for the most part, there isn’t much they can do.  Klaus is the only one that can really stop me, but, while he has his own suspicions, he no longer cares.  Besides, it’s no longer in his best interests to stop me.

The battle for Klaus Trofobia ends tonight.

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This came in by e-mail:

Klaus Trofobia by Debbie Weiss

        “Klaus, honey, your supper is ready.  Come on downstairs.”  Klaus was in his room in front of his computer, his favorite spot. He was studying the local news clips from the surrounding area.  He had his big book of maps at his desk and was searching for local crime scenes. Klaus loved crime and intrigue.  He had a huge scanner radio similar to the ones the police used.  Klaus read up on the police lingo and soon was able to decipher the different codes.  “Honey, your stew is getting cold.”  Shouted his mother from downstairs.  “Yeah yeah.” Klaus muttered to himself.  “Not hungry.” He whispered.

        His mother did not understand him at all.  He was in his late thirties, he still lived at home, was a very shy and quiet young man.   He stayed in his room all the time until his mother forced him to get a job.  So he finally did and applied for the bagger job at the neighborhood “Buy All” market.  Klaus wore his navy blue slacks which his mother still ironed for him.  He felt comfortable in his brown scuffed loafers since he had to stand for his entire eight hour shift.  He wore a starched white collar shirt and a red and white striped apron.  The final touch, a name badge which he proudly wore.  That was his uniform during the day.  He was thought of as mild mannered Klaus. 

        On Friday nights, it was a different story.  He would turn into Mr. Kevin the Magnificent.  When he noticed the last light go off from his mother’s bedroom down the hall, he would begin.  He would crawl out of his second story bedroom window. He had a sturdy rope hanging from the tall oak tree outside the window.   He would reel in the rope with a fishing pole and shimmy down the wall with his feet like he was Spider Man, one of his favorite hero’s.  Klaus was infatuated with Superhero’s.  He had hung his favorite comic strip characters all over his wall. He wanted to be like the man in the fancy suit that got the bad guys and got the girls but he was so shy.  So instead he went to the “Wear It from me” thrift store and created his own costume.  He wore a one piece yellow jumpsuit which made him look like a cross between Elvis and Liberace.  He had on black rubber boots and a silver cape.  Not exactly like the suave man in the comic strip but he had gotten everything for $5.00.  To complete his ensemble, he bought a black face mask that resembled the Long Rangers and a tight white swim cap to cover up his full head of hair.  He would jump onto his old Schwin bike and head out to fight crime.

        One night while out on patrol, Klaus dressed as Mr. Kevin, wondered into the convenience store next to the gas station. He wanted some gum. A friend of his named Mitch worked there.  But Klaus’s costume was so convincing, not even his friend knew it was him.  As he entered the store, Klaus saw a young punk teenager holding a gun on Mitch.  Klaus tapped the teen on the shoulder and when the teen turned around to see who was tapping at him; Klaus immediately went into a full Karate stance.  The kid took one look at Klaus in his bright yellow uniform and said, “Hey buddy if you don’t get outta here, I’m going to kick your ass.”  Klaus stood as still as a statue, not even a flinch.

The teen started to laugh so hard that Mitch grabbed a bottle of booze and knocked the kid out.  White Mitch was calling the police; Klaus threw down a dollar and twenty nine cents for his spearmint gum and ran out the door.  Mitch had trouble explaining what happened when the police got there. “No really, the guy in the yellow jumpsuit.”  The police knew of some costumed stranger but had not ever seen him.  Klaus rescued cats from trees, dogs from abusive owners; he found a bracelet from a missing girl in some tall weeds one day while riding his bike and that led police to locating here.  Klaus knew he did good work.  But he was too frightened to let anyone know it was him.

      Klaus finally turned off his computer and headed down to dinner, to his cold stew.  His mother handed him an envelope. It was hand written on the outside with just the letter K in yellow.  Klaus opened the envelope as he slurped down the stew.  I know who you are and thank-you was all the note said.  Then Klaus noticed a drawing inside the envelope.  It was of him in his costume and mask.  It looked just like a comic strip drawing.  Klaus smiled as he finished his dinner.  He got up quickly.  “No dessert?” His mother asked.  “Not now.” Said Klaus, as he ran up the stairs to his room.  He got out a thump tack and placed the drawing next to the Mr. Travers comic strip.  The newest super hero, he smiled to himself.  It’s me.       

________________________________________________________________________


This came in by e-mail:

Street Level
By Royce A Ratterman

“Hello, Mr. Klaus,” greeted Sun Lee as she sat the neighborly gentleman at his preferred window table. After all, he had a ‘thing’ about being cooped up in a side booth or one of the tables in the rear of the restaurant. “You like eat same as yesterday?”

“Yes, Miss Lee. That will be fine.”

He didn’t particularly dislike being referred to as ‘Mr. Klaus’ as opposed to ‘Mr. Trofobia’. In fact, he rather enjoyed it.

Living in a rented room on the second floor of the building next door had its advantages. His neighborhood, known as the Castro, was created in the late eighteen hundreds and named after the prominent Californian José Castro, but that didn’t impress Klaus that much. What really impressed him was the plethora of little boutiques and restaurants in the area as well as the short walk to the Church Street Muni Metro station. He was a practical man.

“Man say to give you this, Mr. Klaus,” said Miss Lee, as she handed her favorite customer a white envelope.”

“This is addressed to the shop next door that’s below where I live,” he perplexingly responded. “What man?”

“Oh, he leave already, Mr. Klaus. I don’t know him. Never see before I think. Very old. He say it for you – you must open, only you.”

“Thank you, Miss Lee.”

She replied, “Ok by me, Mr. Klaus,” briskly walking off, presumably to retrieve her patron’s meal.

Klaus contemplated whether or not to open the envelope. He could simply inform the addressee that it was an error if the contents were in fact for the shop itself. It wouldn’t be a lie. He was told that the mysterious envelope was for him. And . . . it was hand delivered to him personally.

He quickly tore open the envelope . . .

The envelope contained a comic book excerpt. Something involving a man, Mr. Travers, who received some phone calls concerning an elevator repair, two women and a ‘Mr. Denton’ chap. He had once known an old priest named Denton from the neighborhood parish. The priest had lived in the area since it was referred to as ‘Little Scandinavia’ back in the 1910s to 1920s, but he knew nobody else by that name.

The waitress approached her customer and informed him, “Food come soon, Mr. Klaus. Man who gave me letter also say wait five minutes and give you fortune cookie. Here you go. Sorry I make you wait for food.”

“No problem, Miss Lee. No problem at all.”

“Man say it very important. I get food for you now.”

“Thank you, Miss Lee.”

He broke open the fortune cookie and read its contents, “A bold and dashing adventure is in your future within the year”. Over and over he read and studied its message. “What does this have to do with the cartoon story?” he pondered. “What does all of this have to do with me?”

He took another look at the envelope and noticed ‘Attn! Sam’ written on its bottom left corner. “Who’s Sam?” he wondered.

He also wondered if the shop below his rental room was suffering economic turmoil. Every time he passed the store and gazed into the window he saw a different type of merchandize for sale. But one constant remained . . . the same elderly man always stood behind the counter beckoning for him to enter. The store was no longer a hip smoke shop. Instead, he saw televisions for sale with an ad sign that read, ‘Color Television – The Future Is Here!’; one day flowers with special arrangements ‘Made To Order’ adorned the boutique; even old antique radios filled the shop one time. Radios that looked as new as the day they were made. Something was drawing him to the establishment, a strange yearning, a calling. This compelling and insatiable curiosity began to plague him.

On four separate occasions at 2:37 AM he was awakened by pestering phone calls asking for a “Mr. Travers”. He assumed it must be some sort of evil joke or silly prank that someone was playing on him.

He felt life was closing in on him and he needed to escape its confining grasp. He desired that ‘dashing adventure’ he was promised in the fortune cookie he had received at the neighboring restaurant months earlier.

One morning Klaus made a bold decision as he peered into the shop on the street level of his building of residence. He was curious. He was curious about the store and its ever-changing merchandize. He was curious about the mysterious letter he had carried with him for many months. He was curious about the elderly man who stood behind the counter always beckoning for him to enter. “Could this be . . . ?”

He entered the store . . . “Sam?”

            ~ ~ ~

Restaurant proprietor, Sun Lee, always wondered what had happened to her favorite customer, ‘Mr. Klaus’. A young fellow named ‘Sam’ resided in the room above the shop on the second floor that was the former abode of a man named ‘Klaus’. Neighbors and regular patrons in the area said that the very, very old man behind the counter of the ‘Twilight Zone’ specialty shop located at 237 Church Street in the Castro District, “Looks vaguely familiar, doesn’t he?”

            ~ ~ ~

A few years later the bell’s chime rang as the store’s door opened once again at 237 Church Street. A young man entered the establishment with a letter in his hand. He explained to the elderly man behind the counter that he was a new resident upstairs and had received the letter during his meal at the restaurant next door. “It contains a comic book page. I also received a fortune cookie with it.” He stretched out the envelope and showed the old man what was written on its bottom left corner: ‘Attn! Klaus’.

“Are you Klaus?” he questioned.

The elderly man simply smiled . . . 
__________________________________________
This next story is by Patrick Nelson.  It's too long to consider it flash fiction (2,000 words) but I'm posting it.  I just love his writing, but, the other entries that are 1,000 words or less will be qualified to win the drawing.

Kenney

Back in the day, some people dropped acid like they were droppin a dime to call their woman. The one day Klause tried it, he saw shit in his veins. Not shit like excrement, shit like words telling him not to do acid again. Well, at least it was a clear message. That’s how Klause and I met: it was the summer of ’72 in Frisco and we were at a mutual acquaintance’s house and the three of us just got a bunch of Chinese from a place by the park and some frescas and were getting ready to get high and go through a pile of comics we had pooled together. I was a grown man, but I loved my comics still. You can tell my man Klause was not too sure about the tabs, but he was too far in now to back down and end up looking like a punk ass bitch. Isn’t that some shit? A mutherfucker would rather get fucked up on some shit that may fuck his mind up for life rather than look like a chicken shit. Dumb mutherfucker, I thought. I usually didn’t hang out with white dudes. Let’s just say it ain’t in my circle of reality. I was around  them all day in class, but hanging out droppin acid was very different story. But, my man Grin said  this dude Klause was some shit and real  cool. Also, I really didn’t think it would be a good idea to tell this dude I wasn't hip with white folks right on the tip of his trip. He might freak. I said whatever. I had the day off and I needed to get the fuck away from my pregnant fiancee and her two kids (and yes, her fetus was mine too). I was looking forward to reading some comics that were different than my old lady’s kids’. They read the dumbest shit: vampires and zombies... That's right, I'm a connoisseur. I needed a total release from the law books I had to pretty much memorize. I digress, so here I am sitting with this dude Klause getting fucked up and he just starts in with this nutty-as-squirrel-shit scenario about the words saying shit to him. He wouldn’t say exactly what, just that it was like his subconscious mind was “spelling it out for him” about his life. “That must be some good shit, Grin.” I turned and said to my friend. “Man, this shit belongs to white boy here.” Grin grinned at me. I don’t need to tell you why he was named Grin when you see him: coke bottle glasses, dark ass skin and when he smiled, the motherfucker’s face was half teeth, white as pearls. “Yeah, my ex had left a bunch of stuff at my house and some of it was these.” Klause said as he tossed me a square of folded up foil. I opened it and found dozens of tiny, round, brown, hard candies stuck to a piece of parchment paper. I looked up under a furrowed brow. “Is this the acid you’re trippin on?” I asked Klause. “Yeah" he replied with a faraway look.  "It must really be some good shit," I said "because this is fucking root beer candy dots, brother."

Me and Grin fell out. Literally. I was rolling on the floor for at least twenty minutes. I needed that shit. I hadn't laughed hard like that for a long ass time. Klause didn't think it was that funny: "Wha! What's with the fucking shit I'm seeing, then? Oh man! I'm losing it!" I asked him real quick; "Slick, did you smoke any of Grin's shit? Cause that shit's good and sometimes it can hit you H-A-R-D."

I think that's when I knew Klause and I where gonna be friends. He was like a grown man with a child's mind. He wasn't retarded or that kind of shit. He was just out there needing help, y'know? 

After a while, Grin got up and went to work. He told us we could hang, but when his old lady came home, we had to go. Klause and I ran out of food at about 6 pm and then comics around 7 so he asked if I wanted to go get some pasta. "I know a great place down by the market." We smoked a little more and took some to go. Grin wouldn't mind. I get him back all the time. 

I got to know a lot about Klause that night and he about me. Trippy shit. He told me all about his life and his family. He came from old bay money and his father never approved of anything he did: college, the family business or being gay. All that shit. He said he just stopped trying to live up to his pop's standards. Just like that.  He still had some property from his family and he used that to make ends meet. I asked him how he knew Grin, he told me he bought weed from him but when he found out Grin had his own painting company, so he hired him to work on his properties.

I had never met a man that was so easy to talk to, to unload shit on like a therapist or something. He knew just what to say to get me to open up. I told him some bad shit I went through that I hadn't told no fucking body. Especially a gay white man. He wasn't the really nancy type gay. He was just a dude, I guess. But white people tended to make stereotypical judgements about me too just cause I was black. Sure I smoked dope and all did all kinds of shit other people did, but I worked my ass off all week to relax a little. I deserved it. Fuck it.

I didn't really trust a white man till I met him. To be honest, I never really had a reason to. It’s no big secret that black folks have plenty of reasons to be suspicious. Even nowadays, but back then racism was still smoldering in the backyard of everyone’s mind like garbage they tried to burn. The civil rights movement had tried hard to put this garbage fire out, but the best all those hard working folks and the government could do was smother it a little. It still smoked and stunk under the wet blanket the laws gave us.  Klause was aware of all this but he had this way of seeming as if those things did not apply to him. Not that he  was about, just more like outside of it.

He listened to my rants about that attentively. I told him he should have been a therapist or some shit and he said he had studied but found that he didn't have the heart to listen to everybody and try to help them. He said it was hard on him when he couldn’t help someone. 

The pasta was just as advertised: some of the best red sauce I'd ever had. Over the years, Klause and I met there for many dinners and long talks. When I passed the bar years later, he let me set up my practice in one of his buildings on Castro. The rent was almost nothing which helped me get a good start. 

Those where some of the best years of my life. We got to hang out every day for a while because he ran a head shop in the same building. We had both stopped smoking a lot of weed and our work was becoming more intense, but we still had a good time whenever we got together.  Years passed and we kept growin up and growing old. Klause met a real nice guy and they moved into a loft at one of the old city buildings he started buying up. My wife and I got married finally, had one more kid and settled down in a house further out. I was even offered a partner position at a firm closer to the center of the machine and moved my office there.

Klause was one of the first to get HIV. His lover had given it to him. Guess men are dogs no matter what: his old man was fucking around on him like anybody else's. Klause ended up being what they call a "carrier", which means with treatment, he could live a semi normal life and not have it turn into full blown AIDS. That is if you could call normal having a dying lover who cheated on you and he gave you the same disease and you may die from it too unless you are very careful. Yeah, normal. Years later Klause's old man died and left him within his darkest days. I feared for him every time I saw him. He was smaller and more like a ghost day by day. There was a long stretch when I had to go see him and bring him food that my wife made. He would eat a little to be polite, but he was as down as a man can get. After a while it started to piss me off. I know I am a selfish fucker about it, but I wasn't ready to lose my friend yet. He was the selfish one. I came to see him for what I told myself would be the last time. I let myself in and turned off his tv. I placed the package I brought with me on the coffee table I turned and took in the death chamber.  His blinds were drawn down and so was he. He stared at me and finally said "what?"

"You know what, motherfucker! You gonna finish yourself off or what?" 

He stirred in his recliner and finally showed a little life: he stiffened up a little. That was fine with me. Getting pissed is better that no emotion at all. I added for a little spice: "I got a pistol in my car if you're wanting to do it fast..."

He scowled at me and spit out "I was wondering how long it would be before you gave up on me too. Why do you care, anyway? I got nothing to give anymore, man!" He looked pitiful and on the verge of tears. 

"Oh, no! Don't try that shit on me, mutherfucker!" I was getting even more pissed. "Either you're  going to the end or you're gonna end it now. You ain't gonna drag this shit out and try to make me and you both feel worse. Get your fucking shit in line or step out." I tried not to be preachy, but goddamn! "I'm tired of being the only one who gives a fuck about you especially if you don't" I added for weight. 

"Man, you got a funny way of showing you care" he showed a little light in his eyes and a wry smile hinted its arrival at the corner of his mouth. Finally. "You know me better than most people, Klause. Better than my wife, I bet" I said. "You know I ain't a man that fucks around. I say what needs to be said and fuck the results. In that vein, I can't keep caring about you and seeing you like this no more. I ain't got no more sorrow in me for you. But I got plenty of joy. You wanna come back to us or you wanna waste it? That's the speech. I'm done."

He was enjoying the uncomfortable situation that I was in. He knew I hardly ever exposed myself to this kind of situation. A minute or two passed.

"Open the blinds for me, mister sensitive" was his reply finally. "You should've been a therapist yourself."

I walked over and drew them up one by one checking over my shoulder at him. He was slowly straightening himself up and coming back to life a little. I walked over to the coffee table and untied the string around the butcher paper wrapped package. I opened it to reveal a stack of comics, a bag of weed and some rootbeer candy specks on the paper roll. I saw the final sign that Klause was gonna be OK: a grin to rival old Grin hisself spread across his face and stayed. "You got any food?" I asked.

"Nope" Klause said. "Guess we could get some pasta delivered."

I was gonna leave the package with K either way: with us blowing it out or as a memorial for my friend. 

Klause passed on this past week. He never gave in to AIDS, but luckily he didn’t see the stroke coming. He was put to rest over in the Columbarium. It took me a while to figure out what I wanted to say about him, but the truth works fine most times. We didn’t really fall into the standard friend molds, but he was the unlikeliest and one of the best friends I ever had. God rest his soul.

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