Part 1 (1/2)

COIN-OPERATED MACHINES.

by Alan Spencer.

CEMETERY MELTDOWN.

Piedmont Cemetery was located on the outskirts of Blue Hills, Virginia. The area was picturesque, though sadly the calming backdrop view of the Appalachian Valley did nothing for Andrea Stone's current mental state. What could distract her from the reality of her husband being two months dead? Visiting Mickey's grave had been a weekly tradition since his burial. The visits gave Andrea enough solace and stability to keep on working as a dental a.s.sistant and raising their eight year old daughter alone. The single mother somehow remained strong. Despite her wherewithal, Andrea wasn't prepared to hear Mickey's voice again.

”Leave the cemetery/leave before it happens/run for your life/it isn't too late/you won't survive if you don't escape/Andrea, you must run!”

Andrea couldn't dismiss the words, nor could she react to them. The warnings made no sense. She was alone in a cemetery. What did she have to run from? Who was here that could possibly harm her?

The wind carried nothing for a short period of time, as if the words didn't happen at all. The occurrence was so random and unexplainable. What was Mickey really trying to tell her, or was she hearing things? Was independent, strong-willed Andrea finally losing herself to her grief?

The feeling of unease didn't leave her body. Her deep down instincts told her to be afraid and for good reason. Seconds later, the ground rumbled. The turf over the graves, including Mickey's, detonated. Gra.s.s clods and dirt sprayed the air. Pockets of gas erupted from the holes, hundreds of high-pressure poots of air shredding the earth. So powerful the plumes of air, headstones shattered. Slab shrapnel rained down. Andrea had to duck and cover after taking a small sliver of marble to the head. Blood oozed down her scalp. The pain forced her into survival mode. The broken up ground revealed dozens of exposed caskets six feet down.

Mickey was speaking on the air again. ”It's too late/it's much too late, my love/you should've ran away when you had the chance.”

She was dizzy from the blow to the head. Andrea couldn't trust what she was hearing anymore. No time to react, a whoosh of air beneath her feet knocked her helplessly onto the ground. The rocking earth threatened to tip her over into one of the exposed coffins.

The dirt explosions doubled. Every grave was under attack. Andrea couldn't see through the veil of exploding dirt and raining headstone chunks. Then the deathly smell arrived in force. The thick yellowish fog enshrouding the cemetery contained hints of rotting flesh, wafts of infection, and pungent gangrene tangs. She choked on the offal odors. All around her the yellow air grew hotter.

Voices not her husband's beckoned from everywhere: ”The dead are back/the dead are here/the dead have returned/the dead are alive/celebrate their resurrection/you die we live/you die we live/you die we live/the fun is only beginning/play our games, won't you?”

Hundreds of thousands of haunting voices boomed loud enough to rip the limbs off of trees and break both of her ear drums. Deafened, she lost her equilibrium, and subsequently, her footing. Stepping wrong and twisting her ankle, Andrea tipped over and tumbled headfirst into her husband's open grave. The casket, nor his corpse, would break her fall. Boiling black oil burbled up from the grave's hole. The boiling black oil was thicker than tar. Andrea dissolved the instant she touched the wicked brew.

Andrea's deranged voice soon joined the throngs of the dead.

The oils spitting up from the casket holes spilled all across the cemetery acres. The molten tide burned up the gra.s.s and caught fire to the trees. Moving forward, it filled up the cemetery house. So hot the flow, the gla.s.s in the windows melted. The very foundation crumbled upon itself until the entire structure vanished. With nothing left to burn, the black oil seeped back into the earth. It moved underground in a forward direction, slowly working its way deeper into the town of Blue Hills.

AMERICA'S GOT FLAIR.

Nine Days after Piedmont Cemetery Melted Brock Richards, the seasoned talent scout, asked his next tryout to begin their act. After Mr. Stewart lit the torch in his hand, the flaming ball produced a reek of gasoline. He raised the torch, posing to dip it into his mouth. Before he did, the hick finally explained his talent.

”I'm a fire eater, you see.”

Before the flame enters his mouth, a leak out of the metal head starts a liquid-fire spill. Before Mr. Stewart's rented tux is set aflame, Brock raced over to the wall, ripped the fire extinguisher from its post, and doused the tryout in foam. After the commotion subsides, and everybody's deemed unharmed, Mr. Stewart leaves the room in shame.

Brock writes on his Steno notebook as the man's leaving: Never leave home-or host an open try-out-without a fire extinguisher handy.

Next, Anna Belle Young stands before Brock and his co-judge sheepishly, her arms tucked behind her back. She's twelve years old, and her mother has dressed her in a pink dress and pig tails, though the pigtails are crooked, and it looks as if she'd just taken a shower, her hair damp. Brock looks on at the child with sympathy-and sympathy gains a ticket to the finals if the contestant can pull off something half-interesting and competent-and waits for her to showcase her talent.

”Ms. Young, what do you have for us today, sweetie?” Brock's question elicits a knowing smile from the girl's lips. She replies in a sing-song voice, ”My name is Anna Belle Young, and I'm nine years old. I go to school at Mill Creek Elementary. My talent, you can hear it, and you sure can smell it. Here goes!”

Moments pa.s.s, and Brock catches a whiff. ”Whoa, okay now! That's all we need. Thank you very much for coming in, Ms. Young. The door is right behind you.”

The hasty chicken scratch on Brock's notebook reads: I never believed farting between every word when you talk was a talent. What on Earth does that mother feed her child?

Mr. Roy Hanover is up next. Brock watches him strut into Ralston, Kansas's, Community Center Banquet Hall Conference Room with hair s.h.i.+ning of fresh pomade and adorned in his best suit with an oversized red bow tie. The man opens his black carry case to introduce Reggie, the jive-talking short order cook.

Brock writes in resignation: Didn't Mr. Hanover read the sign? No ventriloquist acts.

The next act came and went in under thirty seconds. Brock raises and lowers his jaw to check if his hearing has been damaged. His hand aches, but he keeps writing in his trusty notebook anyway. No, Debra Franklin, you don't sound like the love child of Cindy Lauper.

After the next act, Tommy Wiseman, the unit producer, is on his hands and knees wiping up spots of blood from the tiles. He scowls at Brock, then bursts out laughing, ”'d.a.m.n yokels'-that's what our show should be called from now on.”

Brock's final verdict on the d.a.m.n Yokels act: As fun as it is watching you punch your friend in the mouth, and as hilarious and amusing it is to watch you bust out his false teeth tooth-by-tooth, I'm afraid it's not suitable for a show designed for family viewing.

Another contestant later, Brock wets his tongue with the tip of his pen before writing: No, Mr. Brundage, peeing for two minutes straight into a Gatorade cooler isn't a talent, it's called having an infection.

Brock completed writing his notes, cringing on the inside after enduring the six hours of open tryouts for the nationally televised show called ”America's Got Flair.”

His fellow judge, Ryan Wilson, patted Brock's back in consolation. ”Well, America Sucks b.a.l.l.s, and the biggest c.o.c.k sucker is...?”

”The guy who could pee like a champion. And did you see him carry that cooler out with him? What the h.e.l.l does he do with the p.i.s.s? Does he save it for later?”

”Start a lemonade stand. Freshly squeezed.”

”I bet the sign would be spelled with a backwards 'L'. Man, we get some serious weirdoes when we visit the f.u.c.king Midwest.”

Brock gathered up his notes and shoved them into his brown leather briefcase. He rubbed the fatigue from his eyes, stood up and stretched, and then checked his watch. It was nine at night. They'd concluded their Midwest tour and their search for new talent this season. Two months from now, the contestants chosen for the finals would be flown out to Las Vegas for recorded try outs, and then the compet.i.tion would be televised and drawn out for network ratings and commercial time. In the background, the unit producer and a few interns from CBS packed up the show, and with few words, the traveling operation was dismantled.

Brock and Ryan exited the community center with two local security officers at their sides. They were each dead ringers for Don Knotts. Their hands were comically arched over their guns ready to shoot themselves in the foot. One of the officers tried to enquire if his farting daughter had made it into finals.

Brock had to lie. ”They're all under serious consideration. Everybody's got a fair shot.”

Once they made it safely to their vehicle, the two cops said goodnight. Brock drove their Winnebago straight out of Ralston, Kansas, and twenty-five miles later, they hit the nearest watering hole off exit 90A. The place was called The Cactus Gulp. The bar had a country western feel, though in actuality, it was a ramshackle p.i.s.s stop with the occasional dying cactus on display and a jukebox that exclusively played down-and-out country music.

Brock said to Ryan as they searched for a place to sit, ”I'd say this was the armpit of the universe, but I think it's more accurately the sweaty area between your leg and crotch part of the universe.”

”Je-sus,” Ryan whistled, turning his eyes over the downtrodden folks in the bar who eyed them back sternly. ”Maybe this is the wrong place for a drink.”

”Nah. Give it a shot. If things go bad, we book it out of here.”

They sat down at the bar. The bar maid was friendly. She wore boots with spurs, a red plaid t-s.h.i.+rt, and tight blue jeans. Her dirty blonde hair was styled in a pony tail with a blue ribbon holding it all together. ”How you folks doin'? After a day of round up, you two sure look plenty bushy-eyed. Well, I'll rope ya back in. What can I get to parch those dry throat of yers?”

”I have something that'll parch your throat, honey,” an old man belted out from four seats down. He gripped his oversized belt buckle with one hand and tipped back a brown bottle into his mouth with the other. ”Shucks, I'd do it for ya anytime, sweetie honey. Just come over her and get on all fours. Howdy howdy!”

”Go stick it in a cow's a.s.s, Bill.” Then flipping him off, she added, ”Ah shucks.”

She turned back to her new customers, her scowl going soft. Brock could spot a fake hick/country impersonation, and this woman crafted it well. ”You're not really a cowpoke gal, are you?”

”No, but my boss insists I act the part. I think it's some kinky fantasy he's got in his head. I'm between semesters at Kansas University. I'm just making ends meet. My parents live a few miles from this place. I save money on rent by living at home.” With that personal nugget disclosed, she asked, ”What ya have tonight, pardners?”