Cindy Anna Jones and the Holiday Mixer of Doom

My entry for the first round of the NYC Midnight Flash Fiction competition. It placed third out of 25.

Genre: Open
Location: 13th floor of an office building
Object: A toy soldier


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Cindy Jones snapped together her leather bag, threw it over her shoulder and stared at the flashing buttons on the elevator panel as they counted off toward 13. "In then out," she said to herself. "Just get in, grab the damn thing and get out of there."

The elevator heaved to a stop. With an ominous ding the doors split, imparting upon Cindy all the familiar horrors of the annual JERCO Janitorial, Paper and Lighting Supply holiday mixer. There was absolutely no force on the planet, she had told herself in the preceding months, which could force her to go to this work party. Yet here she was -- tired, hungry and disheveled, all thanks to one wretched little toy.

And so with a deep breath, Cindy cracked her knuckles and stepped into the abyss.
When soothsayers of days gone by spoke of creatures lurking between the gateways of this world and the hereafter, of demons and foul beasts without equal in our mortal world, they had not yet conceived of such evils as the infamous JERCO holiday mixer.

Trash strewn about, Cindy discovered her workplace had transformed itself into a house of booze and sinful clumsiness.

Bolting in front of her was a flash of pale skin and ruddy cheeks, a streak of bad bourbon-fueled depravity on the bare ass of that guy Dave, the one with the dandruff who's always scratching himself in meetings. As he passed a rush of ghastly fumes assaulted her senses. Cheap cologne, sweat and printer ink. Hairspray, gin, sex and ... fruit juice? Cindy gasped. Yes, and it was from concentrate.

Ducking her head, she weaved through the aisles. Martini glasses and G-strings whizzed by her like darts as she side-stepped vignettes of debauchery. On her right a group of men were gradually disrobing while comparing each other's stomach-shaving routines. On her left a pot-bellied account manager, one suspender dangling over his wine-stained undershirt, pretended not to be fondling his fawning, tightly sweatered assistant.

Cindy burped in her mouth a little. Almost there, she thought. I just need the toy and then I can get out of here before anyone notices and Jonathon will have his little Napoleon and he'll finally go to sleep and maybe possibly I might even get some peace and ...

"Hey, Mindy," a sky-high whine rang out over the music, a mix of the best from the '80s, '90s and today.

Cindy turned. Daftne, the office's resident coquette with an attention span almost as short as her skirt, was straddling their latest all-in-one copier/printer/fax/mechanical bull while a dozen or so drooling interns chanted "scan your documents!"

“I thought you weren't going to make it," the cowgirl said. "I thought you had to like do something with your kids or something."

Cindy, realizing she had been hunched over like a wild animal, stood up straight and smoothed out her night shirt. "I'm just stopping by to grab something and then I have to head right back out," she said. "Don't let me interrupt."

Daftne pouted her lips and wiggled her fingers goodbye. "Now, mush!" she yelled. A cheer went up from the crowd as someone pressed the color option and the electronic rodeo continued.

Resuming her raccoon position, Cindy tiptoed around the corral and straight for her desk. She could see the glint of little Napoleon, his brass beads shining and his bayonet sharpened, no doubt ready for a ride home. Smiling, Cindy placed him in her pocket. She turned around and stood face-to-face with Daryl Dinklehorn.

"Well well. If it isn't the gorgeous Cindy Anna Jones," he muttered. "I've been waiting for you all night, you know."

Wooden-faced as a cigarette shop Indian and swaying like a moose, Daryl had seen better days. Not much better, but better. Pants unbuckled, no shoes on and a row of hash marks on his cheek, he looked as if he had just passed out on a waffle griddle. Above him twinkled a shiny, plastic sprig of mistletoe.

Dear god, Cindy thought. How can his breath smell like vomit and bleach at the same time? And his face ... was he sleeping under my desk?

Desperate, she looked on the floor hoping to find something with which to ward him off. Her hands grasped a long, thin, shrink-wrapped package.

"Um, is that a Slim Jim?" Daryl asked, his eyes wide and tongue darting out like a lizard.

"It sure is," she said. "And I don't think I can even eat the whole thing. You wouldn't want it, would you?

Daryl lurched forward. "Uh, yeah," he said, grabbing at the petrified sausage. "Don't worry though, you still get to make out with me when I'm done."

Shuddering, Cindy snatched the tethered key card at her hip and flung it to the rafters. With impossible accuracy she lassoed a beam and vaulted herself across the office. Her feet skipped above the heads of randy page boys, stumbling secretaries and leathery executives snapping at her heels.

Up ahead she could see the elevator doors were closing fast. Cindy swung down, rolled on the ground and leaped to her feet. A co-worker stepped in front of her mumbling something about her cat's bizarre eating habits, but Cindy spun around her and sprinted forward. Just a slim opening remained between the elevator doors.

Diving, she flung her body through and crashed into the back of the lift. Cindy sat up and the joy of a clean escape hit her. She had made it. Finally she could go back home, give Jon his toy and have a quiet evening.

She reached into her pocket ... and caught her breath. All the color vanished from her face as she beat her fist on the floor. Pulling her hand out, she came away with no miniature French general, but a long, slimy, broken piece of meat.

Key card in hand, Cindy punched the number 13. Again.


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Marine Fights off Lion with Chainsaw

When Dustin Britton found himself face-to-face with a man-eating mountain lion, he did what any self-respecting man would do in this situation: he tried to kill it with a chainsaw.

While camping in Montana with his wife and two young children, Britton was chopping wood when he spotted a starving mountain lion eyeing him from the brush. So when the lion pounced, he revved his saw and struck it in the shoulder. Still, it didn't have the impact he hoped.

"You would think if you hit an animal with a chain saw it would dig right in," he said between cigar puffs, chuckling in his wife-beater. "I might as well have hit it with a hockey stick."

That's right. This man is so manly that the only way he knows how to describe a lion attack is to compare it with sports.

Tatiana: Empress of Disaster

Here's a little tribute vid I've made to one of the most destructive forces mankind has ever known. Hopefully this offering goes a little way to appeasing the beast.

Amadou et Mariam

There's something to be said for comfort zones. We fall in them like large animals fall into tar: slowly at first, as if nothing's wrong, but by the time it hits our breathing holes we're too far gone to ever pull ourselves out of it. Well, fuck that I say. Try something different before you suffocate.

Here's two blind singers from Mali.

1998 Elke Pinot Noir (My Fair Lady)

Let me wine and dine thine inner twine,
Like a blind mime that's short on time.

But a better sketch of the line
Between what's yours and mine,
Is this kind of limp lime rhyme
That brews in foul brine crime.

Entr'acte

Holiday Playlist

Merry Christmas ya'll. Here are some melodies I put together that evoke the merciless, unforgiving spirit of the holidays. Enjoy.

These shoes were made for walking...

In case you hadn't heard, Mr. Barack Obama is going to be our next president. On the night of the election one of his staff took a bunch of candid, behind-the-scenes pictures. I think this is the best one:



Momma always said you could tell a lot about a person by the shoes they're wearing. In that case, Obama seems to have a lot more experience than people give him credit for.