[My parents were doing some housekeeping and found this. It’s a short story I wrote for my creative writing class during my sophomore year of college.

I remember turning it in and expecting the professor to hate it. Then to confirm my fear, the professor singled me out before class and asked me to stay after to discuss my story. I fully expected him to tell me that my story was terrible and that I should drop the class. After all, I was a chemistry major, what am I doing taking a creative writing class?

I braced for the worst sitting through that 50 minute class. And then, he told me that he loved it and wanted me to submit it to a writing competition.

This story is the beginning of my twenty year love/hate relationship with writing. I retyped it from the pdf scan Dad emailed to me (with a few small edits… because of course I would).

Enjoy – CH]

6:00 a.m.

The consistent blaring of the clock radio shook Norm from his sleep. He had been dreaming he was cliff diving in Hawaii, or at least he suspected it to be Hawaii. Norm had never been to Hawaii nor had he ever tried cliff diving. If presented with the opportunity to cliff dive, Norm probably wouldn’t do it. Too many risks involved for Norm’s liking. A strong gust of wind could alter your descent, causing you to crash head first into the jagged rocks.

Not a good way to die, Norm thought as he sat up in bed. Too much time to think about your demise on the way down. Skydiving would be worse of course. Plummeting at a hundred fifty miles an hour, pull the cord and nada. That leaves a good thirty seconds to think. Nope that’s definitely no good. I’d probably try to repent for my sins in every religion in the world.

While contemplating whether to repent as a generic Christian or as both a Catholic and a Protestant during freefall Norm realized his alarm was still going off. He thought he had set it to play music but the buzzing sound of the alarm made it sound like a garbage truck was backing into his bedroom.

“Shut the hell up,” Norm uttered as he reached over and reset his alarm for seven, making sure to queue the radio this time. Thus began Norm’s morning ritual.

Norm would always set his alarm for six, wake up, and then reset his alarm for seven and sleep for another hour. Norm cherished this last hour of sleep. He had read somewhere that the last hour of sleep is the “deep sleep” when the body reaches maximum relaxation, and Norm wanted to be able to enjoy it. Most people sleep through this last hour of sleep without even realizing it. To Norm, it was like eating the last cookie in the box without realizing it was the last cookie. You reach for another but, alas, the box is empty. You find yourself darting your tongue around your mouth, between your teeth, trying to find bits of the last cookie to make the taste last because, after all, it was the very last cookie. It leaves you feeling empty, yearning for more. Norm didn’t like that feeling, so he made sure to savor every last cookie, and of course, every last hour of sleep.

Norm laid his head back down on the pillow, closing his eyes. He was almost asleep again when he heard a noise. Or at least he thought he had heard a noise. Norm wasn’t sure if the noise he heard was real or leftover dream impulses from his earlier excursion of cliff diving. He sat up in bed, listening for the sound again.

Silence.

Just a dream, Norm convinced himself. That is, until he heard it again.

Click! Click!

“What the hell is that?” Norm said, sitting up in bed. Definitely not a dream. He reached over to the nightstand and switched on the lamp. His eyes ached from the jolt of light in the dark room, so he held his hand over his eyes until they adapted. He looked around the room, searching for the source of the noise. The lamp only managed to throw more shadows on the room, causing the small recesses to appear as deep chasms. He sat still, listening, trying to get a bearing on where the sound was coming from. The only sound was Norm breathing and flicking his teeth with his fingernails, a nervous habit that stuck with him since childhood.

Must’ve been a tree limb on the window, Norm thought, still flicking his teeth. He let out a big yawn and stretched, popping every vertebrate from his head to his ass. He wiped the sleep from his eyes and looked over at the clock. 6:17 a.m.

“So much for that last hour of sleep,” Norm said, speaking aloud to break the silence. “Might as well get up and fix a pot of coffee, big meeting today.”

Norm was an accountant for a manufacturer of novelty items, Bags o’ Gags. It was the largest novelty manufacturer in Minnesota; in fact it was the only novelty manufacturer in Minnesota. They made all sorts of stuff: fake vomit, whoopee cushions, pepper gum, chattering teeth, you name it. Norm was tasked with allocating funds for their newest novelty, SilliSnot. It works just like SilliString: shake the can, point and shoot. But instead of shooting string, it shoots a gooey, stringy, snot-like substance. Norm gagged the first time he saw it. Almost all new products at one time or another are tested on Norm; for Norm was not only an accountant, he was an easy mark for pranks.

Norm scooted to the edge of the bed and was about to put his feet on the floor when he heard the sound again.

Click! Click! Click!

It startled Norm because it was close. Very close.

“Definitely not a tree limb,” Norm said, moving away from the edge of the bed. The sound was definitely coming from inside the room. It sounded as if something was tapping on the hardwood floor.

Click!

This time Norm was listening close enough to get a bearing on the sound. It was coming from under his bed.

“I really don’t have time for this shit,” Norm said, talking to himself and to whatever was making the sound. “I need to get up. I need to prepare my presentation. What I don’t need is to act like a scared child because I heard a noise. It is time to get up.”

Norm moved back to the side of his bed. He positioned himself cross-legged, looking down onto the floor. The sun had made it’s ascention into the sky, casting an orange hue over the room. He could begin to make out the grain in the floorboards. He could hear the sound of cars being started by his neighbors, people who had already gotten out of bed to start their days.

But Norm could not bring himself to stand up.

He uncrossed his legs and lowered his feet onto the sideboard of the bed. There, that’s a good start, Norm thought, collecting himself. His bed, a large colonial style four poster, sat high off the ground and his feet couldn’t touch the floor while he was still sitting on the bed. With the box spring, the top of the mattress was almost four feet from the floor. The woman who sold it to Norm made the joke that he would need a stepladder to get in and out of bed. So there was no way to get up slowly or get up half way. It was all or none.

Click! Click! Click!

The sound was coming from under the bed, no doubt about it. And from where he was sitting, Norm noticed something else when he heard the tapping sound.

Movement.

“Oh shit,” Norm said, bringing his feet back up onto the bed. Something moved. It moved, whatever the hell was under the bed, it moved. Norm drew some ragged breaths as his heart thudded against his ribcage.

You didn’t see anything, calm down, Norm thought to himself, trying to get his breathing and heart rate back under control. It was just your mind playing tricks on you. Shadows, only shadows. Or maybe the silhouette of a bird or plane flying by.

“There was no plane, I would have heard a goddamn plane fly overhead,” Norm said, arguing with himself. He looked over the edge of the bed again, hoping to see something, but also hoping to see nothing. He glanced over at the clock on his nightstand. 6:47 a.m.

Click! Click!

He looked over the side of the bed again, but saw nothing. What the hell did you expect to see, Norm thought. A monster? Elves? Elvis? Norm let out a nervous laugh. “Elvis ain’t dead, his fat ass is stuck under my goddamn bed, and his mouth is stuffed full of pork rinds. Next thing you know Bigfoot will walk through the door and piss on my head.”

Click! Click!

Maybe it’s an alligator.

Yeah, Norm thought. An alligator crawled up from the sewers, opened the door, moseyed its way up the stairs and sat himself under the bed. Norm remembered reading something in the paper about a small child that was killed by an alligator that had crawled into a house through an open door. He had also watched many nature films on alligators, mostly on Discovery Channel, which was Norm’s favorite channel and home to his favorite television event, Shark Week.

I wonder if he’s hungry? Norm thought.

“Probably not,” Norm answered aloud, “Elvis is probably sharing his pork rinds with him, you dumbass!” Now was not the time to let the imagination run wild.

Click! Click! Click!

“What the hell is the matter with you?” Norm asked himself. “It’s not an alligator. What the hell would an alligator be doing in Minnesota? In November? In your goddamn bedroom?”

Click! Click!

Norm looked at the clock again. 6:54 a.m. Almost time to get up. The only way I’m going to get moving is if I look under the bed and find out what is making that noise.

Norm took a couple of deep, calming breaths to settle himself. He moved to the side of the bed closest to the window for better lighting. He gripped the sheets tight in his left hand as he leaned out onto the nightstand on his right, craning his neck to get a better viewing angle of the floor under his bed. The dust ruffle around the bottom of the bed fell to about four inches off the floor, blocking his view. He cursed himself for ever buying the damn thing. It gave the room such a feminine look, and was now the only thing standing between Norm and his sanity. The lady at the store said it added to the decor of the room, or some shit like that. Norm wasn’t really paying attention to her spiel about the importance of dust ruffles, but had apparently nodded in agreement and didn’t want to make a scene at the register when she rung it up.

I gotta reach down and lift up the ruffle, Norm thought.

Norm released the sheets from his left hand in order to lean out onto the nightstand a little farther. Bullets of sweat were forming on Norm’s forehead and upper lip. He wiped his left hand on his pajama bottoms and leaned down, trying to grab the ruffle. It was still out of reach. No good, Norm thought. Gotta lean over a little farther.

Norm twisted onto his side and moved more of his body off the bed so that only his lower extremities were still on the bed. The nightstand creaked from the weight of Norm’s torso. The beads of perspiration on Norm’s forehead accumulated into one big drop at his brow, which trickled down his nose and fell with a tiny splash on the floor below. He eased down farther, his right arm straining, trying to support his weight and hold his position. Norm took a deep breath, pushing it out hard through his nostrils.

It’s now or never, Norm thought.

He reached down with his left hand and grasped the dust ruffle, lifting it.

Except for a couple dust balls, the floor was empty. But even from this angle, more than two thirds of the floor under his bed was outside his line of sight. He pulled himself out farther on his right hand, his muscles shaking from holding his position. Norm was about to lower his head down for another look when he screamed.

K95.7, your favorite in the morning. That was Eric Clapton’s Layla. We’re still waiting for a caller who as the correct answer to today’s trivia question-

It was 7:00 a.m. The sound of the DJ’s annoying morning drivetime chatter filled the quiet room, scaring Norm half to death. Apparently music wasn’t better than the buzzer.

Norm’s right arm collapsed from fatigue. He was falling. He reached for the handle on the top drawer of the nightstand, just barely catching it with his fingertips. He dropped the dust ruffle and grabbed the corner of the sheet dangling from the bed. The sheet was caught under his legs so he was able to steady himself. Then the handle on the drawer broke.

Norm rolled from his side to his stomach, trying to hold himself up using the sheet. His head came forward and smacked on the sideboard of the bed, bloodying his nose. Norm gripped the sheets with his toes and reached for the post by the headboard with his right hand. His right arm was aching, about to cramp up again, but he managed to hold on and scoot himself back onto the bed fully.

We’re still waiting for that correct answer to today’s Morning Stumper. Let’s check in on Highway Joe in the K-copter for traffic-

“Shit, shit, shit, shit, SHIT!” Norm snatched the cock off the nightstand, ripping the cord out of the wall. He wrapped the cord around the clock radio and threw it across the room, where it exploded against the wall into a thousand tiny shards of plastic. Norm then removed the case from his pillow to clean the blood from his face. His heart was pounding.

Calm down, Norm thought, trying to slow his breathing. Let’s not have a heart attack.

Click! Click! Click!

“LEAVE ME ALONE!” Norm screamed. The blood from his nose trickled down into his mouth, leaving a salty, coppery taste. He wiped his face with his pillowcase and threw it on the floor. Norm moved into the very center of his bed, hunching up his knees so that no part of his body was near the edge of the bed. He was shaking violently.

Click!

“Please leave me alone,” he said, pleading. He started crying, blubbering like a two-year-old every time he heard the

(alligator)

clicking sound. Eventually he fell asleep.

Norm awoke rudely to the sound of his phone ringing. The morning sun shined brightly through the window, warming the cold, dark room. His nose had stopped bleeding, leaving a trail of crusted blood on his face. Norm answered his phone just before it went to voicemail.

“Hello?”

“Norm?” It was Dave Rothstein, his boss. “Are you still at home?”

“Huh?” Norm sat up, trying to gather himself. “What time is it?”

“It’s 9:35, don’t you have a clock, Jenkins? You have to give that presentation to the board in an hour, remember? You sick or something?”

“Ah, no sir. I guess my alarm didn’t go off,” Norm said, looking over at the pile of plastic which used to be his clock.

“Well get your ass in here,” Mr. Rothstein said. Norm could tell he was not in a very good mood. “We need to go over that presentation one more time before the board sees it. See you in thirty?”

Norm sat in silence. But there’s an alligator under my bed, Norm thought, but couldn’t bring himself to say out loud. He was already late for work, and he didn’t need his boss to question his sanity.

“I’ll be there,” Norm said, dropping his chin to his chest. He hung up the phone.

I have to be at work in thirty minutes, Norm thought. It’s a ten minute drive, so that leaves twenty minutes to get ready. Norm reached up and felt his stubbly chin and scratched flakes of dried blood off his face. Five minutes for shaving. Skip the shower, wet the hair, comb it, throw on some cologne and some deodorant. That leaves approximately ten minutes to get dressed. Should be plenty of time.

Click! Click!

One problem.

“I almost forgot about you.”

Click!

I have to get out of bed, get my clothes from the closet, and get dressed without disturbing my reptilian friend, Norm thought. He looked around the room for a way out. The window was the easiest exit, but he couldn’t go to work in his pajamas. Plus his keys were downstairs. Not to mention the ten foot drop to the ground.

His dresser sat six feet from his bed.

I could jump, Norm thought.

He stood up on his bed and looked up at the ceiling which was only three inches above his head. Nope, not enough clearance to jump.

Then Norm got an idea. He crawled down to the end of his bed, grabbing the bedpost with both hands and pulled the top portion of the post away from the baseboard. I’ve freed Excalibur, Norm thought. I am the true king of Camelot! Norm laughed. “Maybe I am crazy.”

The post was about four feet long. Perfect.

Norm stood up and walked diagonally across the bed to the corner opposite the dresser, counting off his steps from one corner to the other. Four steps. He repeated the process again , just to be sure. Definitely four steps, Norm thought.

Click! Click!

“No time to repent,” Norm said. He clutched the bedpost in his hands, his fingertips white from his grip. He crouched down, bouncing up and down on the bed. He closed his eyes and took in a deep breath. Upon exhaling, he opened his eyes and ran towards the dresser, counting his steps.

One…two…three…jump!

Norm lept from the bed, feeling his hair brush against the plaster ceiling. While in midair, Norm thrust the bedpost towards the ground and pushed off. He extended his body, reaching with his feet for the dresser, landing with a crash and kicking over a bottle of cologne. Norm smiled. He had just pole vaulted off his bed onto the dresser.

Click!

“Can’t celebrate just yet,” Norm told himself. He dropped the post and opened the first drawer on the dresser and removed a pair of boxers and a pair of socks. He shut the drawer, opened the one below it and pulled out a tie. Norm stripped off his bedclothes and threw them towards the bed. Standing naked, Norm walked down the dresser and reached into his closet for his suit, placing it on the dresser beside his underwear. Norm then proceeded to get dressed.

Shoes, Norm thought. I need shoes.

He walked down his dresser to his closet again, and could see his black loafers on the floor. He tried reaching down and picking them up but they were out of his reach.

“Shit.” Norm, sensing that time was running out, bent down and removed his socks. Then, he stretched out and snatched the top of the closet door with both hands and let his legs fall from the dresser, leaving him hanging from the door. The hinges on the door moaned in protest.

This was a brilliant idea, Norm thought, mocking himself. He reached with his toes on the insides of the door frame and pulled the closet door almost closed. Norm used his toes again to reach down and pick up his shoes, grabbing them by the heels.

“Got ‘em,” Norm said. “Now what?”

Norm’s fingers were losing their grip on the top of the door as sweat poured off of him. He pushed off the back of the closet with his foot to open the door again. He reached down with one hand and grabbed the shoes from his toes and tossed them onto the dresser. Panting, he placed his hand back on top of the door and bent his knees, lifting his feet back up onto the dresser. With his feet, Norm walked backwards, pulling the door towards the dresser. When his knees were finally on the dresser, he let go of the door. He was back safe on the dresser again.

He put on his socks again, and then held his shoes over his head as if they were a trophy.

“Yes!” Norm put his shoes on and walked down his dresser to the doorway of his room. The door stood open a couple feet away.

“It worked once,” Norm said, and jumped from the dresser.

Norm once again found himself hanging from a door. The force of his body slammed the door into the wall, leaving two concentric circles in the drywall where the doorknob hit. He placed his outside leg on the wall and pushed himself and the door away. As the door swung closed, Norm released his grip from the top of the door and jumped back, grabbing the doorknob and pulling his bedroom door shut.

He was out.

Norm ran down the hallway to the bathroom and shut the door. He turned on the faucet and placed his head in the sink, wetting his hair and removing the rest of the dried blood from his face. Norm then dried his head with a hand towel and combed his hair. He unbuttoned his shirt and applied a good coating of deodorant, then applied a second coat for good measure since his cologne had been sacrificed during his pole vault landing on the bed.

Hair looks okay, Norm thought. Don’t smell all that bad either.

Norm opened up the bathroom door and shot a quick glance towards his bedroom. Still shut. Good. He grabbed his cordless razor off the counter (I can shave in the car) and ran down the hall to the stairs, taking them two at a time. He stopped briefly at the kitchen counter to pick up his wallet, briefcase and keys. He looked at the clock on his microwave. 9:51 a.m.

“Damn I’m good,” Norm said, opening the door to the garage. He pushed the button to open the outer garage door and jumped in his car. After fumbling with his keys, he managed to get the right one in the ignition. It started on the first try.

Norm threw his car into reverse, backed out of the driveway and sped away from his house, leaving treadmarks on the street.

“See you later, alligator,” Norm said, laughing hysterically.

* * * * *

On his way home from work, Norm stopped off at a grocery store to buy some earplugs for when he went to bed that night. He wasn’t about to tell anyone that he thought there was an alligator under his bed, nor was he going to stick his head under the bed to look. Norm figured he had to go home eventually, and he didn’t want to waste money on a hotel room. He just hoped that the bedpost was close enough to the dresser so he could vault back onto bed.

I’m going to have to start setting my alarm for 5:30 if I have to do this every morning, Norm thought.

Norm also stopped by the meat department and picked up a ten pound turkey.

Norm smiled. “Alligators like turkey.”

(Short fiction from a writing prompt on www.reddit.com/r/writingprompts)

Tim turned the collar of his ragged coat up against the wind, but the fabric was so riddled with holes it didn’t make much of a difference. He shivered as he held up his sign on the corner of 5th and Vine. Shivering may be a good thing actually, he thought. Might coax a few more dollars out of people’s pockets.

It was December, but no snow, not yet thankfully. A few blocks away he could hear the Christmas music accompanying the people ice skating in Fountain Square. He tried to get closer so he could get a few more donations but the police shooed him away. With all the improvements made to downtown, the police shuffled homeless away from the city center during holidays or big events. Too depressing for people to be reminded of the homeless problem, it was bad for business and bad for the city’s image.

A cold wind bit at his lower legs. The fabric was worn so thin on his jeans that they were almost down to thread. He looked down at the money in his jar. $8; if they didn’t have another pair at the shelter, he’d have to spend money on a good pair to get him through the winter. The closest Salvation Army store was north of town, quite a hike but one he’d have to make if he didn’t want to get frostbite this winter.

“God bless you sir,” Tim said, almost robotic as a woman in her fifties dropped some change in his Utz pretzel container that was his latest incarnation of a collection jar. The logo had been ripped off revealing strips of white paper where Tim had written “Please Help, God Bless” in crayon on the side.

“Excuse me,” a voice male behind him said as he tapped his shoulder. “I was hoping you could help me find someone?”

Tim turned around, almost dropping his sign as he made eye contact with the boy. The boy was maybe in his late teens or early twenties, with sandy blonde hair, green eyes and freckles on his nose. He averted his eyes, staring down at his feet.

“Don’t know that I can help ya, son,” Tim said.

The boy leaned in, moving his head to get into Tim’s line of sight. Tim turned around back to his spot on the street corner, his shivers now accompanied by a few drops of wetness on his cheek.

“Grandpa?” the boy said. “Grandpa, it’s me, Timothy.”

Tim sniffed and took a deep breath before speaking. “Sorry son, but you don’t know me.”

“It’s you, Grandpa. I know you. We’ve been looking for you. It’s okay now, everything is okay. We want you to come home again.”

Tim’s eyes glistened as he stared out into the street, his stomach turning in knots as the lump in his throat made it hard to talk. He managed to speak, just above a whisper.

“You don’t know me.”

The boy put his hand on Tim’s shoulder, “Grandpa…”

Tim turned around grasping the boy’s arm and pushing him against the building, screaming as he pressed his face into the face of his grandson.  “I said you don’t know me, boy! You don’t know me! YOU! DON’T! KNOW! ME!”

Tim shoved the kid, turning to grab his tip bucket as the other people on the corner stared at him. He fled, running down Fifth street and crossing into an alley, working his way down to the overpass where he had been sleeping. His eyes burned with tears as he slumped down on his piece of cardboard, shoving the money from his collection bucket into his pockets.

He reached into another pocket, pulling out a plastic bottle of vodka and a torn photo from Christmas three years ago, the last time he had seen his family.  Tim pulled the bottle to his lips and took a long, deep drink staring at himself in the photo. A single tear fell on the picture before he crumpled it up and shoved it back into his pocket.

“You don’t know me,” Tim said, sniffing and wiping his eyes.

Jesus, where am I?

Brody opened his eyes. He was lying on a weight bench, his head throbbing.  Above him hung a banner of some no name high school in who gives a shit Georgia. Preston Bulldogs, it read. A high school gym, it was coming back to him now. The banner was flanked by the typical motivational bullshit you’d find in pretty much every high school weight room. “The pain of discipline is nothing like the pain of disappointment” “Pain is weakness leaving the body.” ”Go hard or go home.” If his head didn’t hurt so much, he would’ve rolled his eyes.

Brody got the notice of the gig the night before from a booker he worked with up in MidValley South Wrestling. Brody had driven down from Nashville to Atlanta for a Chikara show; he wasn’t booked for a match, just hanging around to see if they needed him. He wasn’t a big draw, but he had name recognition from his run in the WWF back in the 90s. Sometimes he’d get lucky and get put on the card, but they had a full show scheduled. He even offered to put someone over in a squash for $50, enough to cover his gas and a meal for the ride, but they turned him down.

Brody set up a stand in the parking lot to sell shirts after they told him he wasn’t going to make the show, managing to sell a couple to a few old school fans before security shut him down.  That’s when he got the call about the gig in Preston. The heel for the main event match had cancelled due to a MRSA infection in his leg so they needed someone quick. It was a fundraiser show for the athletic boosters, but the pay was decent: $200 plus money for a hotel room, and he would get a table for signing autographs and to sell his shirts and DVDs.

He drove all night, fueled by some cheap Molly he traded for a few shirts and even cheaper gas station coffee to arrive at Preston High School at 8am for a 1 o’clock show. Since he didn’t need a room his hotel money just rolled into his pay, turning a $200 gig  into a $300 gig. He met with the guy he was wrestling, a babyface who spent a few years as a Gaijin in Japan and was looking to make a name for himself on the Indy circuit that he hoped would parlay into a WWE tryout. The kid had the size and looks to make it on the bigger stage, but was still pretty green in the ring. He was a good talker though, which was important. If you can’t talk and get a crowd invested in an angle, especially a small crowd gig like this, then you weren’t going to put on a good show.

They worked out the finish, deciding Brody would go over due to heel tactics but the ref would reverse it and restart the match and the kid (Sterling? was that his name? Brody couldn’t remember) would get him in a crossface and Brody would tap out. Brody was the bigger star, but he was also the bad guy, and in small shows like this the babyfaces get the win. Brody knew his role was to get the crowd to hate him and help put the kid over.

Brody sat up, his head still pounding.  Across from him the sign that read “Go Preston! Beat Rockdale!” hung from a single thumbtack on the bulletin board by the football sign in sheets.  He could hear the crowd stomping in the gym next to the weight room as the undercard tag match was taking place. Brody didn’t know who they were, just that it was a team of luchas against a couple Ring of Honor has beens. The luchas were going over, doing their flippy shit finisher that crowds like this ate up.

Brody hadn’t even noticed that he wasn’t alone in the weight room until he heard the sound of metal plates clanking together as someone loaded up the incline bench. He looked over to see his opponent warming up, getting his chest and arms pumped for the match. Back in his younger days Brody would do the same, but at 46 years of age with two reconstructed knees his prematch routine consisted of chewing three Oxycontin and chasing it with Mountain Dew.

Brody walked over just as Sterling (that was his name, his singlet and boots were emblazoned with it, and a monkey for some inexplicable reason) pressed the bar from the rack. He had three plates on each side of the bar as he sped through eight reps. Jesus, this kid was a monster. Outside he heard the crowd clapping and stomping in a steady rhythm, meaning one of the luchas was about to make a hot tag. Crowds like this are easy to work. As expected the crowd popped with a huge cheer as the tag was made.

“Luchas are about to go home,” Brody said as Sterling re-racked the bar. “You ready to blow the roof off this place?”

Sterling nodded, feeling his chest as he flexed. “We’re lucky you were available to step in on such short notice. Our booker was scrambling trying to figure out how to work this show being down a heel. They talked about dressing up one of the other guys in a rival mascot costume and just have me beat the shit out of him for fifteen minutes. You ever have to do something as stupid as that coming up?”

Brody laughed. “There are worse ways to be booked than squashing a rival mascot, kid.”

Sterling’s face was smooth, not the crisscrossed mess of scars that littered Brody’s forehead from years of hardcore matches. He could tell the kid about the show in Mobile back in ‘91, when a fan stabbed him with a broken bottle after beating down a babyface. Or the time in Dayton back in ‘89 when he was knocked out in the ring and guys took turns breaking fluorescent light tubes across his back. There were still some promotions where that shit happened, but extreme matches are less the norm these days.

“I grew up watching you,” Sterling said. “You had a run with the belts didn’t you? Like around 96?”

“Yep, me and Outlaw Joe,” Brody said. They had traveled doing shows together, they were a decent draw up until Joe died. Three years ago, no four. Overdosed in the hotel room the night before a match in Charleston. In the gym the crowd chanted along with the count… one, two, ohhhh! Save by the heel partner. That was the last false finish, after a flurry of flippy shit the luchas were going over and then Brody was on.

“We’re up,” Brody said as the crowd made the three count. “You better hang back so they can’t see you when I come in.”

Sterling stood up from the bench and extended his hand. “Let’s give them a show.”

Brody shook his hand; it was a bit too firm. First the shiny boots, then the prematch warmup with a shitload of weight, and now a firm handshake. The kid was going to stiff him in the ring. Brody smiled as he popped three Oxy into his mouth, then decided a fourth was needed. He washed it down with a flat bottle of Mountain Dew. Kids gotta learn.

Brody walked down a narrow hallway from the weight room to the doorway of the gym. Marty, the booker was there holding a mic. He extended it to Brody as he walked up.

“Two minutes and keep it clean,” Marty said. He was dressed in a tux, as if dressing up somehow lent an air of professionalism to a wrestling show in a high school gym. Brody peered through the small window of the door, it was a packed crowd, maybe a thousand or more.

The lights in the gym dimmed as opening guitar riff of AC/DC’s Thunderstruck played over the soundsystem. The crowd clapped along as the announcer spoke.

“And now, ladies and gentlemen, your main event! First, weighing in at 247 pounds…”

Brody smiled as he thumped his palm against his belly. I haven’t been 247 in a decade he thought.

“He is a former world tag team champion from Chicago, Illinois, Brody Thunder!”

Brody stepped into the gym just as AC/DC started chanting Thunder, and soon the whole crowd was chanting and cheering along. He was getting a babyface entrance, but he’d soon turn that around. Nothing was more fun than getting a crowd that wanted to cheer you to turn against you.

Brody made his way into the ring, running the ropes and posing for the crowd before his music cut and he was left standing in the ring as the crowd chanted “Thunder!”

“Hello Preston Bulldogs!” Brody screamed into the mic, erupting the crowd into another frenzy. Mention the town name, easy cheap pop. Usually it was the babyface’s job to milk the town name for a pop, but Brody figured the more he built them up the more they’d boo him when he went heel on them.

“I drove in last night from Atlanta just to see you, just to come put on a show for the Georgia famous Preston Bulldogs. And as I drove in last night over the War Memorial Bridge, down Main Street past Dooley’s Pizza, I said to myself, ‘Brody, does this look like a town that needs a little Thunder in their lives? Does this look like a place that’s ready for Brody Thunder to call down the Thunder and Lightning in the ring here and tear the roof off this gym?’  What do you say Preston Bulldogs, are you ready to get Thunderstruck?”

More cheers and chanting of “Thunder!” Even in his medicated state last night driving in, he managed to glean enough information about the town to work into his promo. The crowd was into him, and he was so over that it was almost funny when Brody took the wind out of their sails.

“No, you’re not ready,” he said as the “Thunder!” chant came to an abrupt, confused halt. “I look at this crowd of peanut farmers and I wonder why Brody Thunder wasted his time driving here. I mean come on Georgia! I thought you were famous for your peaches, but when I look at the women in this crowd, all Brody Thunder sees is pits.”

Brody could see it materialize in their faces as it sank in that he was insulting them. The boos grew louder as he amped up his attack.

“Maybe Preston isn’t ready for Brody Thunder. Maybe Brody Thunder should go somewhere he’d be more appreciated. maybe Brody needs to head to a real town, like Rockdale!”

If anyone was on the fence before, they turned white hot against him at the mention of the rival town. The boos were deafening, and a few people even threw trash at him in the ring. Brody picked up the balled up popcorn bag and threw it out of the ring back at the crowd.

“Now you’re throwing trash? Just what I would expect from a low class city like Preston. You don’t deserve to see Brody Thunder. You don’t deserve…”

Brody was midway through the ropes when the kid’s music hit, Guns n Roses Welcome to the Jungle. Sterling stepped through the doorway into the gym and the crowd went nuts for him. After the setup Brody did, even Vladimir Putin could’ve came through those doors and the crowd still would’ve cheered.

“Battling out of the blue corner, weighing in at 278 pounds he is a former Japanese super heavyweight champion from Stillwater Florida, Gorilla Sterling!”

Gorilla, Brody thought. That explains the monkey on his singlet.

Sterling stepped into the ring as the crowd cheered. He posed from the corners, flexing and pointing to the crowd before stepping down and staring Brody in the face.

“You know, Gorilla Sterling grew up in a small town much like this. Gorilla Sterling had a blue collar mom and dad who worked late shifts, night shifts, overtime, time and a half, double time, all the time! Whatever we had we worked hard to get! Maybe Body Thunder doesn’t understand how we do things here in the South!”

The crowd cheered. Brody played his part as the shocked heel.

“ What do you say, Preston?  Should I show this Chicago thug a little down home, Southern justice?”

More cheers erupted. Sterling turned his back to Brody to address the crowd.

“Once I lock in the Gorilla Vice, Brody Thunder won’t…”

Brody kicked him in the back, knocking the kid down. He stomped him down as the crowd booed. Brody didn’t go too stiff with the kicks, just enough to sell the attack. The kid went down as he was supposed to, selling Brody’s offense. Maybe the kid’s going to be okay, Brody thought.

Once Sterling was down and rolling on the canvas in pain, Brody did a couple mocking poses for the crowd as another shower of boos rained down. Brody rolled out of the ring and dragged the official in, berating him to start the match even though his opponent was still dazed by Brody’s kicks to the back of his head. Although he was reluctant, the official signaled for the bell.

The match was over; all they had left to do was wrestle it.

Tom didn’t know how he got here. He remembered stalking the woman through the parking lot, waiting for the right moment to make the grab. Her Coach handbag dangled from her elbow as he tagged behind her, pretending to text on his phone to lessen suspicion. He waited until she exited the parking lot onto the busy sidewalk of Broad Street before making his move. He walked up, bumping into her as he slipped the purse off her arm and ran. He remembered hearing her yell as he stepped out onto the street, and then the sound of a horn. Was that a bus? Sounded like a bus. Then everything was quiet, everything was dark.

And now this.

Tom was wearing a grey jumpsuit, standing outside of a gray building with no windows on a street lined with buildings of the same design. The street stretched on for miles into the haze in both directions. Above him the sky was a lighter color gray filtering the light shining through.

Am I dead? Tom thought. He took a deep breath, feeling his lungs expand. Could I be breathing if I was dead? Is this really air?

Tom walked toward the building. There were no signs, only a revolving door leading to a lobby. He considered walking to one of the other buildings but they all looked the identical. What if this one was “his building”, and after checking the other buildings he didn’t remember which one was his? If he was dead, he didn’t want to end up an aimless spirit lost in purgatory because he lost his building.

Tom stepped through the revolving door and entered a small lobby leading to a receptionist’s window. The walls were bare except for a single painting of a dog, hanging askew. There was a small alcove with a table that had a few magazines on it, all 1970s issues of Sports Illustrated. Tom walked up to the receptionist’s window and pressed the buzzer. When the window opened, a small red creature with black horns greeted him.

“Jesus!” Tom yelled, stepping back.

The creature cocked an eyebrow as it spoke. “I get that a lot. Honestly, we don’t look a thing like each other.”

“Where am I? Is… is this Hell?” Tom stuttered, staring at the creature. Besides the red skin and horns, its eyes were all black with no pupils. It was dressed in a forest green blazer that had a nametag clipped to the lapel. Whatever it was, it’s name was Nybbas.

The creature was standing on the receptionist’s chair in order to reach the window. Tom could see its little cloven hooves digging into the fabric trying to steady itself as the chair tried to swivel under him.

“Didn’t the dog tell you?” Nybbas said.

Tom looked around behind him. “Dog?”

Nybbas snorted. “Dammit, that dog… always running about, he’s supposed to guard this place! We put one of those Invisible Fence collars on him, but does he care? No! Just runs right through it. I told them he needed a collar for each head, but procurement wouldn’t authorize buying more than one. Just give me a sec, okay?”

Nybbas plopped back down in his chair and picked up his desk phone and dialed. “Lydia? Nybbas. Cerberus is loose again, you need to call Thade down in… you need to call, Lydia. No, you do. Because you’re in charge of him. Yes… no… Lydia, he won’t listen to me. No… Lyd… Lydia… when the big guy finds out… Uh huh. Yeah. What’s that? Are you serious? How far can he run? Is that really your response right now? We’re floating on a lake of fire, Lydia! Just call Thade. Call Thade, Lydia. That’s your job. Thank you.”

Nybbas set the phone back on the cradle and stroked one of his horns between his fingertips. “I can’t deal with this shit today.”

Nybbas sat like that for a few minutes before Tom coughed, reminding him of his presence.

Nybbas looked up and spoke. “Oh, new guy. Yeah this is Hell. Let me pull your file up. Name?”

Tom cleared his throat, his voice shaking a little. “Tom Northrup.”

Nybbas typed his name into the computer. “Let’s see, new arrivals, ah! There you are! Theft, Lord’s name in vain, general dickish behavior. Wow! Got popped by a bus after lifting some old broad’s purse! This isn’t your day, bub.”

“So that’s it, I’m dead? And in Hell? Nothing I can do about it now?” Tom felt a lump in his throat as his eyes watered. “I’m still just a kid! I’m too young to be dead already. I have so much still to do, and mom, oh shit my poor mother…”

“Oh boy, we’ve got a crier,” Nybbas said. “Listen, Hell isn’t so bad. You ever hear the expression that history is written by the victors?”

Tom nodded, sniffing as he dabbed his eyes with his shirt collar.

“In a nutshell, that’s Hell,” Nybbas continued. “The Bible talked this place up like a real shithole, but what else was the big G supposed to do? Had to keep you humeys in line, didn’t he?”

Tom took a deep breath and straightened his shirt, his collar damp from wiping his tears. “Doesn’t matter much now anyways, does it? I’m here.”

“There’s the spirit!” Nybbas said. “And look, since it’s such a slow intake day, you’re going straight up to meet with Satan.”

“I’m meeting Satan?” Tom asked, his voice shaking.

Nybbas nodded. “You should be honored! Most humeys have to wait a week before they get to meet him.”

Tom stepped away from the desk, looking back at the revolving door.

“Don’t get any ideas kid,” Nybbas said. “Outside that door? Still Hell. Run for a hundred miles in any direction? Still Hell. And on the off chance you do make it to the edge, there’s the whole lake of fire you’ve got to deal with. Runners never make it, and it just pisses everyone off. Don’t make me have to call Lydia again. You’d really be busting my balls if you did.”

Tom gave the door another glance before stepping back to the window.

“Good call, new guy.” Nybbas stood back up on his chair and leaned out the window. He handed Tom an envelop. “Before you go up, this is your new resident packet. It has your badge in it, that’s what you use to get back to your quarters after you meet with Satan. Just put it in the slot in the elevator and it will do the rest. After he gives you your punishment, the key will update with that information and take you to your punishment site when the time comes. Got it?”

Tom opened his packet, pulling out his badge that was attached to a lanyard made of braided horse hair.

“The lanyard is a bit itchy, but this is Hell.”Nybbas said. “Just put it in your pocket, no one really cares. This isn’t the other place, we’re not big on rules. Just don’t lose it.”

Tom stuffed the badge and lanyard in his pocket. The rest of the packet were typical welcome literature, phone lists, and a FAQ page.

“Big guy is ready for you,” Nybbas said. “Step on the elevator and insert your card in the reader.”

“Elevator?” Tom asked. “But there’s no…”

When he turned to look, one of the walls of the lobby had opened up, revealing an open elevator door. Tom stepped into the elevator, which was all black and had no controls other than the card reader. Tom slid his card through it; the door dinged and closed behind him. Just before the door closed, Nybbas called out to him.

“New guy! When you meet Satan, be sure to…”

The door closed.

Be sure to what? Tom thought, as the elevator started moving. Up or down, he couldn’t tell.

The elevator played an instrumental version of We Built This City by Starship. As the elevator moved, the thought occurred to Tom that maybe the elevator was to be his torment. He was claustrophobic, perhaps he would spend an eternity trapped in an elevator? His breathing quickened and his heart thudded against his ribcage (or was that just in his mind?) as the elevator continued its journey.

Just as he was about to break, Tom heard a ding as the door opened. A great red serpent pushed its head into the opening of the elevator. Its fangs dripped with venom as it looked into Tom’s eyes, its tongue darting between the gap of its front teeth. It let out a horrible hiss, causing Tom to cup his hands over his ears and curl into a ball on the floor of the elevator.

It spoke in a deep, raspy voice that rattled in Tom’s chest and felt like his ears were going to pop.

“Welcome to Hell!” it boomed, followed by maniacal laughter. And then poof, it was gone.

Tom looked up from his fetal position to see a humanoid demon with red skin and long black horns pointing at him and laughing. The demon was dressed in a business suit with his hair pulled back in a ponytail. The well dressed demon almost fell over and was holding himself up against the wall of the elevator, pointing and laughing.

“Your face right now,” he said in between laughing fits, “oh my God that’s priceless! You didn’t piss your pants did you? No shame in that, no shame at all.”

Tom wasn’t sure. He looked down and didn’t see any wetness, so he shook his head no.

“That’s good then, save you a bit of embarrassment wetting yourself the first time you meet Satan. Which is me, hello.” Satan did a half bow. “Then it would be all awkward the next time you saw me, you’d be wondering if I’d be telling everyone that you pissed yourself when you left the room. Which I would if you did, but since you didn’t I won’t. Alright, come on now, up with you.”

Satan reached out for Tom to take his hand.

“It was just a joke, rather funny one I might add” Satan said with a beaming grin on his face. Tom reached out and Satan pulled him up onto his feet.

“In case you were wondering about the snake thing, Revelation 12:9 ‘The great dragon was hurled down—that ancient serpent, who is called the devil and Satan, the deceiver of the whole world’, so it’s kinda required. His orders.” Satan pointed up, rolling his eyes. “Well, not really. My idea. I get a kick out of it, it’s a good icebreaker.”

Satan led Tom to a seat in front of a giant desk in the middle of the room. Satan sat in the chair on the other side of the desk, leaning forward, his elbows on the desk as he rested his chin on his fists.

“Well here we are, I’m Satan, this is Hell,” Satan said.” And you’re…?”

“Tom Northrup,” Tom replied.

Satan gasped. “Did you say Tom Northrup?”

“Yes.”

“THE Tom Northrup?”

“I, I guess so?” Tom stuttered.

“Oh wow, this is big. Real big. We’ve been waiting for you.”

“Really?” Tom asked.

Satan nodded. “Oh yeah! Biggest new arrival since Hitler.”

Tom’s jaw dropped. “Me? Really? I wasn’t that bad, was I?”

“Oh yeah, we’ve got a huge file on you, Tom,” Satan said, as he leaned down and lifted a hefty file from the bottom drawer of his desk. “Everything in here says you’re a bad dude.”

Tom was stunned. Sure he, stole a few things and wasn’t the nicest person, but was he really that bad?

The devil leaned forward, talking just above a whisper. “Wanna know what it says about you?”

Tom nodded. The devil opened the file, shaking his head and clicking his tongue as he turned the pages. His face shifted from disgust to shock with every turn of the page.

“I can’t tell you everything in there, for reasons of security, but can I ask you something?”

Tom nodded.

“What was it like diddling all those puppies?”

Tom furrowed his brow. “Does it say I did that?”

“Yeah! Right here,” Satan said, pointing to no page in particular.

“There must be some sort of mistake, I never…” Tom said, but was interrupted by Satan laughing and smacking his hand against the desk.

“I got you again!” Satan said. He wiped tears of laughter from his cheek, one sizzled as it landed on the desk. “You’re easy, Tom. If that IS your real name. And it is, I know because I’m Satan and all that.”

Tom exhaled. Or at least he thought he did; he still wasn’t sure about the whole breathing thing.

They sat in silence, the devil staring at Tom, smiling. It was an awkward silence, Tom unsure if he should say something or if Satan was just looking him over. Tom glanced around the room, avoiding Satan’s gaze. The walls of the office were bare, except for a giant window along the side. Outside, gray buildings stretched for miles in every direction. Off in the distance, the glow of fire rimmed the edge of the buildings.

“Do you like boats?” Satan asked.

“Boats?” Tom repeated, puzzled by the question.

“Yeah, boats. Were you much of a boater in life?”

“No, I can’t say that I was,” Tom answered.

“Oh, that’s too bad,” Satan said.

“Why?”

“Oh, no reason,” Satan said.

More silence. Satan picked up a pen and began drawing on the cover of the folder.

Tom grew up in a Southern Baptist household, and even though he hadn’t been to church since he was eleven he recalled the fiery sermons his pastor gave describing Satan as this great deceiver, liar, and tormenter. Satan was a monster. He devoured souls and tormented them for eternity in a lake of fire. At no point in his Sunday school studies did the devil scribble crude drawings of cats with gigantic dicks on a folder.

This reminded Tom of what Nybbas had told him about Hell: history is written by the victors. Maybe Satan was kicked out of Heaven because he was annoying, and he was sent to work in the warehouse like he was the retarded son of a wealthy business owner.

Then again, maybe none of this was real and what Tom was experiencing was the last gasp of firing neurons in a dying brain.

“So, what happens next?” Tom asked, breaking the silence.

“Huh? Oh,” Satan said, like he almost forgot Tom was sitting in front of him. “Tell me about your life.”

Tom cleared his throat. “Well, it was pretty normal, I guess. I was born, went to a small school out in the country, graduated high school and went to Duke University…”

“Blue Devils!” Satan exclaimed. “That’s like me, but you know,” Satan gestured to his face, “Blue.”

Tom nodded. “Yeah, that’s the one. My dad went there so he got me in. I didn’t really have the grades or demeanor to succeed. I got mixed up with drugs and flunked out, ended up disowned by my parents and living on the streets. Then the last thing I did when I was alive was steal a lady’s purse, ran out into the street in front of a bus and now I’m here.”

The devil shook his head. “You were only 23, right?”

Tom nodded. “Yes.”

“Quite the wasted life, wasn’t it, Tom?”

Tom’s eyes welled up with tears again. Whether this was real or not didn’t matter, he did get hit by the bus and was either dead or dying. “It’s not how I wanted things to go. I just got mixed up in the wrong crowd, one thing led to another and I ended up where I was. That’s not how I wanted my life to be, and now… it’s too late to change anything.”

Tom was sobbing, burying his head in his hands.

“Oh, this is awkward,” Satan said, he walked around his desk and stood in front of Tom with his arms outstretched. “Come on, bring it in for a hug.”

Tom shook his head. “I’ll be okay.”

“You sure? Might be the last one you get. This is Hell, after all.”

Satan was smiling, his eyebrows raised as he bounced on his knees, enticing Tom to accept his hug. Tom got the feeling that Satan wasn’t going to move until he agreed, so he stood up and leaned in for a hug. Satan squeezed him tight in his arms, stroking Tom’s hair.

“There you go, buddy,” Satan said.

This is too fucking weird, Tom thought as he felt Satan pat his back. Then he heard humming. Tom recognized the song, but he had to be mistaken; there was no way Satan would be humming that song. Tom’s certainty of the song was confirmed when Satan began singing the chorus in a soft falsetto, stroking Tom’s hair.

Hold me closer tiny dancer.
Count the headlights on the highway.
Lay me down in sheets of linen.
You had a busy day today.

Satan released Tom from the hug and looked down at him. “How’s that? Doing better now?”

Tom nodded, still a bit dumbfounded by what just happened.

After releasing Tom from the hug Satan returned to his chair.

This has to be a dream Tom thought as he sat back down in his seat. There’s no way Satan is this…

Weird? Incompetent? Lonely? All of the above?

“So now,” Satan began, “your assignment. Your eternal damnation for a lifetime of sin. Are you ready for it?”

Tom took a deep, possibly imaginary breath, then nodded.

“You can’t just nod, you have to say, ‘I’m ready’.”

“I’m ready,” Tom replied.

Satan cleared his throat.

“Your punishment,” Satan began, pausing for dramatic effect after each clause. “For all of eternity, which is until the end of time, and then after that, and then even after that, will be… pitchfork cleaner!”

Satan was trying not to giggle. He shoved his fist against his mouth as he looked at Tom.

“Pitchfork cleaner?” Tom replied.

“Yep,” Satan said, stifling his giggling as he spoke. “Your job is to clean all the pitchforks of all the lesser imps and demons.”

Satan was shaking, biting his lip.

“All of ‘em.”

A small giggle broke through.

“All the pitchforks.”

Tom sighed, then nodded. “Alright then, when do I start?”

“You start…” Satan let out a burst of laughter. “You start… never! Because that’s a joke! I got you again!”

Tom shrugged. “Yeah, you got me good that time.”

“You were all, ‘pitchforks? I don’t know!’” Satan crossed his eyes and threw up his hands. “That’s you, that’s what you looked like.” He crossed his eyes and shrugged again. “’Pitchforks? I don’t know!’ Priceless!”

Satan slapped his hand on the desk and laughed. Tom just sat and waited for him to finish.

“You’re a good sport Tom,” Satan said. “Hey, tell you what, you wanna help me prank the next guy?”

“What, really? Can I?”

“Sure! Let’s do it!”

Satan hit the intercom button on his phone. He looked up at Tom, putting a finger to his lips to shush him as he tried containing his laughter.“Nybbas, is that you?”

“Yeah it…”

Satan cut him off. “Are you there, Nybbas? I can’t hear you.”

“Yes, this…”

“Nybbas? Can you hear me? It’s Satan.”

“I can-”

“Nybbas! Nybbas! Can you hear me Nybbas?”

A heavy sigh came over the intercom as Satan chuckled. “You can hear me, can’t you sir?”

“Got you!” Satan said, laughing. “That never gets old, does it?”

Another heavy sigh came over the intercom before Nybbas spoke. “Nope. Never.”

“Nybbas you can send the next one up.”

Satan stood up from behind his desk and ran over to the elevator, motioning for Tom to join him. “This is going to be good!”

“So what about my assignment?” Tom asked.

“Oh yes, about that,” Satan said. “I’ll be honest with you Tom. Hell is a pretty boring place for me. You wanna just hang out? Help me welcome new humeys?”

Tom shrugged. “Sure, why not?”

“Great! Let’s get ready for the new guy. Where is your pitchfork?” Satan asked.

Tom shook his head. “I didn’t get a pitchfork.”

“Did you already lose your pitchfork? That’s pretty serious Tom, you need your pitchfork.”

“But I didn’t get one downstairs, they just,” Tom began, then noticed that Satan’s eyes were bulging as he bit his lower lip to contain his laughter.

“Is this another joke?”

Satan laughed, smacking Tom on the back. “You catch on quick.”