Plot Twist Challenge: "How to Kill a Redhead"-- Marlene Simonette

How to Kill a Redhead

By Marlene Simonette

(Plot Twist: Boy meets Girl—but they’re dead)

The summer night was perfect: low humidity, clear skies, and a breeze that carried the scent of blossoming apple and plum trees.

            Anthelm couldn’t believe his luck. What a perfect night for a date!

            The nervous college freshman adjusted his collar, stared at his silver wrist watch for the millionth time. “You ready to go, Peter?” he called up the stairs to his little brother—a young teen with a mind faster than the high schools could keep up with.

            “Not if you’re driving!” Peter’s freckled face glared down at Anthelm from over the top bannister. “You almost killed us the other day, mooning over this gal. I really don’t want to imagine how bad it would be with her in the same vehicle as you.”

            Anthelm sighed. “It’s her car. She’s driving.” He managed to keep his disappointment in check.

            Just then, the impatient rev of a high-octane engine being forced to go slower than eighty miles per hour echoed down the block.

            Worriedly, Anthelm peeked out of the cream curtains his mother had given him before he’d left home. “Oh, man.” His voice held a mixture of awe and nervousness.

            Peter hurried down the stairs, galumphing all the way to the window. “What does she drive? That sounded like…” Peter’s jaw dropped. “A Lamborghini?! Wait…” He started laughing. “Is that the same one you almost totaled the other day?”

            The Lamborghini’s door slid up, and its driver stepped out. She was tall, pale, and dark-haired.

            Anthelm cringed as she leaned against her car, crossed her pale arms, and examined the lime-green (not his choice of color; he’d lost a bet) truck in the driveway. Her body language was clear: she recognized Anthelm’s truck.

            Oblivious to Anthelm’s quiet distress, Peter laughed. “Yup, that’s the same one.” He galumphed back up the stairs, his laughter echoing after him like the cackle of some demon. “I’ll be just a minute!”

            Anthelm remained at the window, frozen. “I can’t believe this.” Taking a deep breath, he tried to compose himself. “I can do this, be casual, don’t sound like—”

            “Tinker Bell on a sugar high,” Peter jocularly interjected. He bolted out the door, waving. “Hey lady!”

            Anthelm hurried after Peter. “Delilah,” he said as casually as he could manage.

            Which wasn’t casually at all, given the way his throat tightened at the closer view of Delilah. Her outfit was simple: a light peach top, with matching lipstick and earrings, and black slacks. But it made his breath catch all the same. “Meet Peter,” he finished quietly.

            This last sentence wasn’t necessary, as Delilah and Peter were already interacting.

            Delilah smirked slightly at Peter. That was as close to smiling as she got. “So you’re the kid so dedicated to woodworking and math that he signed up for midnight classes.”

            Peter beamed, looking from the car to Delilah. “Since I’m getting out first, can I take shotgun?”

            She nodded. “Stow your gear in the trunk, and let’s get moving.”

            Anthelm hadn’t realized how much he’d wanted her to make eye contact with him, until she did.

            “You can sit up front after we drop him off if you want.” Delilah cocked her head. “Are you feeling alright?”

            Anthelm shook himself from his stupor, managed to tear his gaze from her dark green eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Just…nervous.”

            “Don’t be. I’m just a librarian.” She said this sarcastically and with one of her characteristic smirks.

            Trying to loosen up, Anthelm laughed as well as his quivering lungs would allow. “That probably means you know a million medieval ways to hurt me, right?”

            “And make it look like an accident.” Delilah tossed her curled hair and slid into the driver’s seat.

            From the passenger’s side, Peter impatiently called, “I could’ve solved two Euler problems by now!”

Delilah pulled up at the building where Peter was taking his classes. “Here we are.”

            Peter laughed the laugh of someone who just had a thrill ride. “I can’t believe how fast we got here!”

            “Neither can I,” Anthelm managed to gasp. He swallowed and wondered if his face was white. It felt like it. He clawed his way to an upright position. “How fast were you going?”

            Delilah shrugged. “A bit over the posted speed limit.”

            Peter exited the vehicle and walked around to the back. With the press of a button, Delilah popped open the trunk for him. “So, you want to sit up front, Romeo?”

            “That depends…” He waited while Delilah and Peter waved goodbye, then continued. “Is there a barf bag in the side door?”

            “C’mon, car sickness isn’t as bad in the front seat.”

            Anthelm adjusted his belt buckles (he’d strapped himself in using all three). He didn’t want to look like a coward, but figured he’d already blown it. “Thanks. But no thanks.”

            Delilah didn’t answer. She was staring out the passenger window, tapping her long fingernails against her chin.

            He called her name three times before she answered with a distracted, “Hmm?”

            “What’s so interesting?”

            He tried to see, but whatever she was looking at was blocked from his view by a jutting wall. A jutting wall he could have seen past if he was in the passenger’s seat. With a sigh, he unbuckled and went around to the passenger’s side. “I still don’t see it,” he said after a moment.

            “That guy that let Peter in. About three inches taller than you, with dark brown hair, a crooked nose that looks like it doesn’t belong on that smooth of a face. One of the teachers?”

            “Sounds like Professor Jagoda.” Anthelm reached back to grab the belt buckle.

            Delilah “hmm”ed again. Before Anthelm could buckle in, she peeled out of the campus.

The restaurant they went to teetered the borderline between fancy and knock-off fancy. Stylish wall décor and booth dividers pointed towards fancy, while the faux crystal chandeliers and thick plastic cups pointed towards…not.

            Delilah ordered a lobster thermidor with a sushi appetizer; Anthelm ordered spaghetti and meatballs. They both asked for water to drink. The waiter took their orders and left them.

            “So,” Delilah began. “You’ve been practically stalking me since you ran into me with those books.” She didn’t look concerned, or offended. Being nearly seven feet tall and more toned than an average man probably had something to do with that. “What questions have you been dying to ask me?”

            Anthelm clasped his hands together. “Well, I wanted a few suggestions for economy textbooks…and…I’m also curious…”

            The waiter brought them their drinks.

            Delilah stirred the ice in her glass. “Spit it out, and please don’t try to get poetic. We technically just met.”

            Anthelm waited for the waiter to leave before asking his question. “Why do you always smell like coconut?”

            She nearly choked on her water, whether from laughter or offence, Anthelm couldn’t tell. She leaned back, smirking. “Probably because I drink and wear coconut product a lot.”

            “Yeah, but, that’s not what’s weird, what’s weird is I hate coconut anything. But it’s great on you.” He nervously cradled his cup of water. “That sounded weirder than I hoped it would. But less weird than I feared. If that makes any sense.” Cursing himself for babbling, he clamped his mouth shut.

            Delilah chuckled. “How about we stick with questions about hobbies and whatnot?”

            “Good idea.”

            With only a few awkward silences here and there, they conversed throughout the dinner. Anthelm’s nervousness dissolved as he learned more about the goliath of a brunette. When the food was devoured, they found they wanted to extend their evening. So, they ordered dessert.

            The waiter took their orders. After he’d left, Anthelm wrinkled his nose. “You like tofu for dessert?”

            “Not only is tofu high in protein, it adds an amazingly creamy texture to the dish.” She said it as if reciting for a commercial or cooking show.

            Anthelm laughed. “Have you tried becoming a commercial spokesperson?”

            “Yes, actually.” Delilah almost smiled. Almost. “The only reason I didn’t make it: I made the station manager and spokesman look like dwarves.”

            A few questions and side-tracks later, they were talking about high school experiences. “Were you ever bullied for your height or anything?” Anthelm sipped his milkshake. “Or did you go to a cushy school?”

            “Oh, I was bullied alright.” Delilah bit into her Crème Brulèe. “For my height, my hair…”

            “People didn’t like brunettes?” He sounded mystified.

            “Hmm? Oh.” She wrapped a curl around her finger. “I dye it. The natural color is as close to blood-red as hair can be. The literary group at my school used to call me ‘offspring of Judas.’ ” She rolled her eyes. “I’m so glad that archaic jibe is dying.”

            “No way. Peter said he’s being called that, too.”

            Somewhat loudly and angrily, she said, “What?”

            Taken aback by her intensity, Anthelm drew back. “Uh…I said that Peter said he’s being called that, too. And that their antics are starting to get rough. I was going to see the dean about it in the afternoon.”

            Delilah leaned forward. “How rough?” He didn’t answer immediately, so she continued, “Nudges in the hall, curses muttered under their breaths? Or open disgust, jibes about lineage, maybe even a stereotypical ‘let’s deal with this outside’ threat? Garlic left in his locker?”

            Utterly baffled, Anthelm answered, “A bit of everything.”

            Delilah stuffed a wad of cash into the folder the waiter had left and nudged it to the edge of the table. “I’ll finish this up, you can start the car.” She slid the keys across the table.

            “Wait, what?”

            “Ten to one he’s in danger. And no, I’m not letting you drive. Just start the car.”

Anthelm had no time to say how weird he thought the turn of events was; Delilah drove so fast he felt pressed against the seat. He clung to the arm rests and focused on not vomiting.

            “Can you fight?” she asked at some point.

            “Sure,” he answered.

            Delilah whipped around a curve. The half-empty bottle of coconut water that had been in the cup holder nearly brained Anthelm.

            “Really?”

            “I was a bouncer for a little while.”

            Grumbling, she flattened the gas pedal. “If there’s any trouble, let me handle it. Please.”

            Anthelm rode out the rest of the journey—that terribly long, five minute journey—with his eyes shut. Mostly.

            When they missed the turn to the college, he swallowed his bile and shouted, “Where are you going?”

            “If I’m right, your brother’s a few miles away.”

            The empty road whizzed by. They came up on a mini-mall. A short ways away from the light of a faded street lamp was a group huddled together. Anthelm thought he saw a gleam of sharpened metal. When a few members of the group turned, he knew he saw a prone body in the midst of them.

            For a moment, Anthelm feared that Delilah would try to ram the group. Then she slammed on the breaks and spun the car. It stopped, with Anthelm’s side of the car being closest to the group. He peered out the window (more because his face was pressed against the glass than actually trying to look out).

            That was definitely Peter on the ground. His bright red hair and nerdy t-shirt (a Pi symbol saying “get real” to the square root of negative one, and the square root answering, “be rational”) left no doubt.

            With a speed that surprised him, he leapt out of the car. He didn’t even recall unbuckling.

            The group around Peter were backing away, rubbing tarmac and rubber shards from their faces.

            To Anthelm’s surprise, they fled.

            He knelt over his little brother. He knew enough first aid to tell that Peter would be fine. He might have a slight concussion, but otherwise fine. With obvious relief, he sighed. Glancing up at Delilah—who was approaching with a somewhat reluctant speed—he asked, “How did you know?”

            Delilah sighed. It was a much different kind of sigh; more weary, and sad. She knelt beside him and ran a finger through Peter’s hair. So quietly he almost couldn’t hear, she said, “That’s how I died.”

Make the Villain a Hero Challenge: "A Talented Diversion"-- by Joseph Leskey

A Talented Diversion

by Joseph Leskey

“It should be easy,” thought Lloyd Sneeze, looking doubtfully at the purse two meters away from his hiding place in the cereal isle. He quickly turned back to looking at cereal as a person came behind him.

“Mmmmmm!!” He exclaimed. “Nothing like shredded wheat. Yum, yum, yum.” He turned to the lady behind him. “What do you think? Nothing like a bowl of shredded wheat and Cheerios with a nice cold glass of grape juice. Pure… where’d yo’ go?” He turned happily back to the purse, only to see the lady taking it.

“Hey!” he shouted. “What are you doing with that bag thing?” The lady heeded him not and walked off with loud footsteps.

“Bother. I’m done in here.” He walked off with a box of shredded wheat, cautiously approaching the nearest emergency exit. As it was, some ingenious person had equipped the crash bar with a fire alarm and soon the entire place was in an uproar. And the crash bar stuck.

“FIIIIIRE!!!!” wailed somebody.

“EVACUATE THE BABES!!!!”

“EVACUATE MEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!”

“I don’t see any fire.”

“THE WORLD IS BURNING!!!!!”

Lloyd grabbed a mop from a hyperventilating employee and prepared to charge the exit. A couple of ancient times reached it first and he politely waited as an old man who looked like he could have been a grandfather for at least three generations inspected the hinge. The man jumped back as his wife—presumably—struck the bar with her handbag. Something cracked and the door was easily shoved open. In the mad rush that followed, the cereal box was lost, as was Lloyd’s favorite jacket. He kept his hat, though. It was a very fine top hat that he had won in a fraudulent sweepstake.

“Yo, man,” said a voice, “what’s with the speed?” A man popped out from behind a trashcan.

“Can’t stop, Bluethigh!” yelled Lloyd. “There’s a fire on my trail.”

“Chill out, man.” George Bluethigh patted Lloyd’s back expertly. “Fire doesn’t burn blacktop. How’d your enterprise go?”

Lloyd shrugged. “I lost my jacket.”

“THERE THEY ARE!” shrieked a voice. “MOW DOWN THE MURDERERS!!!!!”

“ARSONISTS!!!!!” contributed another voice shrilly.

“Run!” George Bluethigh took off. He had trained for the Olympics but that didn’t quite go well, though it left him with desirable amounts of speed. Lloyd followed him, far slower, fumbling in his pockets.

“What you doing?” yelled George.

“I’m trying to find a cigarette, so I can be less conspicuous.”

“There’s no time for that,” said George incredulously. “Run!”

“I am running!” said Lloyd. “But only so many feet can be hitting the ground at once. Hey look, teenagers with guitars. They look miserable. Won’t somebody notice us running?” Lloyd merely was confirming a fact that he had observed. Many people abandoned what they were doing and began chasing the runners. “There’s a guy with no shirt and he’s about to catch us.”

“No, he won’t.” George chuckled. Suddenly, he turned a bend and leaped on a motorcycle. “Distract them!” he yelled, speeding away.

Lloyd coughed as the foremost pursuers caught up. “Hey, assembly. Today I would like to direct your attention to a fine piece, which I have myself composed.

“If to a caterpillar you state,

“A butterfly next month you’ll be,

“Would it up and give you debate,

“Would it dispute what say thee?”

“No taste for good poetry, these people.” His audience was gone. George rushed in and picked up Lloyd, throwing him on the cycle.

“You know how much dough I well earned today?” asked George.

“Two dollars?” suggested Lloyd.

“Close. Two million cents.”

“Two million dollars is easier to figure.”

“No, uh… how much does that come out to? What would that be? Two million, divided by ten or twelve?”

“Let’s see. A dollar is to a cent as a man is to centuria, which would be one hundred. And two million divided by one hundred… where’s the next geek?”

“It’s a nerd when its Math,” yelled George. “But there’s one.” He slowed down. “Hey you! What’s two million divided by one hundred?”

“Who?” asked the youth he questioned.

“Wrong type of nerd,” hissed Lloyd. “Let’s move.” They sped on. “Say, it’s a thousand.”

“A thousand? It’s ten thousand, dunce.”

“Oh. Cool. Motorcycle sure couldn’t go slower.”

George set his jaw. “Abandon ship!” The both leaped as the cycle exploded.

“The wha…”

“Run!” George again took to his heels. Lloyd wearily followed him, phone ringing loudly.

“What’s ringing?” yelled George.

“Essie.”

“Who’s Essie?”

“My phone.”

“Well, stop it.”

Lloyd seized his phone and answered the call, to a groan from George. “Hello? Oi, bro, what’s with? Oh… don’t we all. Hey…you did? Awesome. Hey…what? No, man, do it backwards. Right. Give Moms my lasting gratitude… yeah. Hey, I’ve gotta be goin’. Right. Bye, bye, bye.” He threw the phone in a wide arc into the road, where it was promptly run over by a truck.

George did not question this and continued running. “Okay. Time for being unsuspicious.” He inverted his jacket and put his baseball cap on backwards, walking with a slow, long gait. His head was bobbing like that of a turkey. Lloyd did the same, disregarding the fact that a top hat being rotated does not necessarily make a difference. Thusly, on the streets were two men with inside-out jackets, taking long steps and jerking their heads like birds.

“I bet we blend in like two birds on a telephone line,” whispered Lloyd.

“Sure! I’ve some cool dudes you should meet.” George turned aside to an ancient, crumbling house. “You first, man.”

“No way. There might be bats!”

“Look, we are about to realize our dreams. We have ten thousand dollars and me buddies in there have twenty thousand each. I’ll become the greatest assassin in the world! You?”

Lloyd eagerly stepped through the wall of the building. “Make way for the next smuggler.”

“Smuggler?”

“Yeah.”

George yelled at him, “I didn’t say anything.”

“Yes you did.”

The room dully lit up to reveal three more people, sitting crosslegged about an electric lantern. George grinned widely.

“Meet my cousin, Felicity Bluethigh; my aunt, Georgina Bluethigh; and my evil kid nephew, Theodore Thompson.”

“Hi!” said Lloyd, to which he received a curt nod from Georgina, a wave from Felicity, and a blank stare from Theodore.

George sat down beside them, beckoning Lloyd to do the same. He handed Aunt Georgina something. She swallowed and said sternly, “After many years of hard work and planning, we now have seventy thousand dollars. And now we must decide what to do with it.”

This announcement quickly animated the assembly.

“I’ll be an assassin!” screeched George.

Theodore laughed maniacally. “The world will be mine.”

Lloyd jumped and down, shouting, “SMUGGLING!!!!”

Aunt Georgina produced a quaint little smile. “I wish to be one in many corrupt government officials.”

Everybody turned to Felicity, who yawned. “I don’t know. Maybe I’ll just starve along roadsides and survive on charity.” Shock was on the faces of her audience. She shrugged. “I guess I could be a spy.” She was cheered.

“Well, what do we do first?” asked Lloyd.

“Worry not,” said Aunt Georgina. “I have a plan. Meanwhile, let us take counsel at the center of our ways.”

Lloyd, though it had been a thing imminent, had never before seen, let alone taken counsel with, George’s extended family. Their headquarters were underneath a small cottage, which was the main attraction of the carefully tended parcel of land it was positioned in. This was the lair of one Gordon Thompson, George’s great uncle, whose purpose in life was to be a stereotypical mad scientist.

It was here that Lloyd sat comfortably at a large rustic table, slurping a root beer float loudly. He listened to the scheming, feeling happily remote from it.

For being so young—actually, perhaps because he was so young—Theodore could loudly express an opinion. “I say we bombard the nearest city until it is ours!”

George shook his head enthusiastically. “No, we assassinate the government officials.”

Great Uncle Gordon burst out laughing. “You’re a cruel one and no mistake.”

Aunt Georgina did not find the situation amusing. “Assassination is no easy thing.”

“I’m good at it,” said George sulkily.

“My mom always did say to use your talents,” contributed Lloyd helpfully.

Aunt Georgina chewed her lip. “I would much rather manipulate politicians.”

Felicity yawned. “It would be far better just to take our seventy thousand dollars and live until we run out.” Uncle Gordon found this hilarious, growing red in the face, and guffawing uproariously. He blew his nose every couple seconds.

“Seventy thousand dollars would not last.” Aunt Georgina shook her head and everybody lapsed into silence.

Suddenly, Uncle Gordon broke it. “I have it!” Everybody jumped. “All you have to do is divide and do whatever you do best! What can you all do, eh?”

George bounced. “Anything you can name!” he exclaimed. Felicity snorted.

“I can spy, but that doesn’t really matter,” she said.

“I can do anything George can do and a bit more,” muttered Lloyd, staring dejectedly at his empty cup. Nobody noticed him speak.

Theodore yelled, “I can take over the world!”

“No you can’t,” grumped Lloyd. “You’re a kid.” He wisely shut his mouth as he found that Theodore was a kid with a gun.

“Good,” said Gordon excitedly, “it’s decided. We’re taking over the world and I’m helping.” Everybody, forgetting such a thing as planning, roared their approval.

In the short traverse from Gordon’s Lair to the hub of the city, plans for each person’s first action was laid out—or, rather, outlined. Lloyd found himself with George—a distraction.

George sulked as they approached an important looking place in the city, “I don’t think they think I could pull anything off, I think. I can think for myself, for their information.”

“Yeah,” said Lloyd sympathetically. “Looks like you and me is in direct cahoots.” Aunt Georgina popped out of an alley. She was frowning.

“You should have said, It looks as though you and I are in direct cahoots. Incidentally, you should be distracting by now.” She strode away.

“She’s as hard as a bootlace,” announced Lloyd, “that one is.”

“I’m with you there. Fire cracker away!” George placed a lit match into a paper bag and threw it. “Run!”

After they had been running for some minutes, Lloyd said, “When are we going to stop?”

“When it explodes!” panted George.

“I don’t hear nothing.”

“Me either.” George performed a running u-turn. Lloyd abruptly followed him. When they came back to the spot, there were charred remains of a paper bag and no other change. A car drove by.

“Dude,” groaned George.

“Huh?”

“I wasn’t talking to you. That was an exclamation.”

“You should exclaim exclamations,” said Lloyd pityingly. “Like this. DUDE!!!!!!”

“It was an interjection, then.”

“Okay, I can live with that. Say, look at all those people.” He pointed at a small group of people who were staring at him questioningly. “Time to move fast. Come one come all!” he roared. “Be entertained by the lunatic Lloyd and grouch George, eh!” When the few people drew nearer, he began speaking even louder.

“You know, when I looked at how miserable you all look, I said to my self, old lunatic, old thing, these people have their fluids all unbalanced. I guess you might say they are humorous.” Everybody looked puzzled, including George. “Really? You don’t know your history? Well, my teacher once explained why. It’s because history doesn’t know you! Ha ha!” His small audience dispersed.

“Sad,” commented George. Then the screaming started. Lloyd cocked his head.

“Must be a ballgame somewhere.”

“No,” said George thoughtfully, “I think it’s a concert.”

Lloyd, considering himself of an artistic nature, thought he noticed a hidden depth in the sound. “I think I hear fear.”

“Whew,” said George, “don’t say things like that. Creeps me out. Let’s go…” Then the sirens started.

“We’re surrounded!” boomed George. “Run like fast.” They had just started when Lloyd noticed something.

“Will you look at that,” he said wonderingly, pointing to the sky, where Uncle Gordon was walking along in a very businesslike manner.

“How’s that work?” moaned George. Lloyd shrugged.

“Search me. Oh, look—one, two, three… eight dollars.” He bent to pick it up.

“No, you ‘oh, look,’” said George icily. “It’s a bank. Guess what we are?”

“Two happy-go-lucky bank robbers?”

“Right.”

They both entered the building casually, finding themselves unexpectedly facing a receptionist.

“Ugh,” moaned George aloud. “Hi!”

“Hello,” she said, “can I help you?”

“Oh yes,” said Lloyd, “where is the vault, please?”

The lady smiled. “I am sorry. As a credit union, we do not have a vault at this time.”

“Oh, okay,” said George quickly. “We were just conducting a survey on how many credit unions have vaults.” He quickly exited the building with Lloyd, who had a suggestion.

“How about that building? It says, ‘come see the ruby of…’ something I can’t pronounce.”

George was still huffing from his ill treatment in the credit union. He glanced idly at the building Lloyd indicated. “Sure, whatever you want.”

“Including bagels and donuts…oh, and cheerios, and…?…maybe even angel food cake?” Lloyd’s mouth was loudly watering.

“No. Will you shut?”

“’Kay.”

Both men walked cautiously into the museum, where nobody was.

“Where do you suppose It is?” pondered Lloyd.

George pointed. “In that other room.”

“The door is closed.”

“Exactly.” George walked over and shot a hole in the door knob.

“Oh, what an excellent day’s work,” remarked Lloyd. “Now it’s stuck.” George growled and shot it thrice more before smashing the door open.

“Easy,” he said. Lloyd immediately dived into the room, George after him. Just as immediately, an alarm rang out.

“Confounded motion detectors!” shouted Lloyd, continuing his charge.

“Escape!” yelled George, twirling around to see a large metal door slide down over the entrance. “Drat.”

“Don’t say such wicked things!” yowled Lloyd, utterly shocked.

“I meant it too!” growled George. His temper was far from not being ill.

“Well,” said Lloyd, “might as well get the ruby.” The door suddenly swung open, revealing police officers who looked like they meant business.

“Uh oh,” George whimpered.

“And oh no,” agreed Lloyd.

Several minutes later, Lloyd, George, and George’s relatives—excluding Gordon—stood before stern officials. A door swung open and in strode Great Uncle Gordon, an insane smirk on his face. He immediately began a lecture.

“You are foolish, incompetent, vile, inhumane excuses for relatives. Look how easily I lured you into the city, observe how quickly you were apprehended, and soon you shall notice how quickly you’ll be imprisoned. For life, maybe.” A police officer shook his head, but Gordon continued.

“You really ought to be ashamed, you delinquent miscreants. Terrorizing society, attempting to bribe a politician, and trying to steal a ruby. What has my family come to, eh?”

“I’m not part of your family,” said Lloyd disdainfully. “It’s very rude, what you’ve just done. An utter treacherous disgrace be thou. Fie on thee, sirrah. Wow, look at me speaking in old English!”

“That is not old English,” stated Aunt Georgina sourly.

“Oh.”

Great Uncle George grinned nicely. “Into the prison with you. Perhaps I’ll secure you some cake if you’re good.”

Lloyd found himself in a decently sized room with various useful furnishings. He smiled. “Hey, this isn’t so bad. I’ve got a toilet and a little sink and that looks like a comfortable bed.”

“You need not say ‘got’ after you have already said ‘I have,’” reprimanded Aunt Georgina.

“Oh, perfect,” grouched George, “we’ll be getting grammar lessons our whole destroyed lifes.”

“Lives,” Aunt Georgina corrected.

“THAT WAS INFORMAL FUN!!!!!” boomed George, then changed the subject. “You know, if all of us were a distraction and somebody else was actually doing something, our plans went well.”

“My apologies. And, yes, you might say we were rather a talented diversion if not gifted in any other form.”

“You know,” came Felicity’s voice, “I wonder where Theodore got to.”

Aunt Georgina said dully, “Probably your Great Uncle Gordon took him home.”

“Funny. He’s probably the evillest of us all and he gets to live with his great-great uncle for eternity. When the Apocalypse happens, I’ll make sure he knows how much we suffered—if he didn’t cause it. Though, Floyd’s right. This isn’t too bad. What do you figure I have to do to stay here indefinitely?”

“Murder somebody,” replied George.

“Rats. Too bad life sentences aren’t transferrable. Still, I guess I’ll get some shuteye. Might as well enjoy the life, free from work and duty.”

The painfully ancient voice of a man spoke. “Wor–k?” The voice laughed, then coughed. “Oh, aye, there’s work. Is there not work, Rebekah?”

The voice of a woman, ancient, but not painfully so, stated drily, “Oh, yes. There’s work, young one.”

Felicity squeaked out, “I’m twenty-six, for your information. I’m not all that young.”

Both voices harshly laughed, then coughed uproariously, and became still.

“Um, dear friends and comrades, all,” gulped Felicity. “Let’s get out of here.”

copyright 2017 by Joseph Leskey

Make the Villain a Hero Challenge: "The Stealer of Tires"-- by Anne Leskey

The Stealer of Tires

By Anne Leskey

      The night was well established over the ranch-style house. The garage beside was fixed with someone’s gaze. This someone was riding in a dark green vehicle, and driving on the sidewalk, their car going very slow.

     As the person neared the garage, they slowed the car down, and then stopped it completely, though leaving the engine on. The person, who was dressed in dark colors, perhaps blue, had a large sack that was on a wheeled device, with a ramp, which was down. The person took out a lock pick from the pocket of their navy jacket, grunting as they inserted it into the lock of the garage door. The moonlight revealed that they smiled as the door unlocked.

     The small personage walked into the garage, not closing the little side door they had entered by. The two cars that were in the garage were seated side by side. The person, who looked like a woman, undid the tires with some tools she, if it was a she, had in her pack. She then placed the wheels into the bag, or onto the thing the bag was on. She was beginning to get ready to leave the building when a ferocious growling stopped her in her tracks.

     A dog barred the way to the door, its teeth clenched in a snarl. The garage was a fair distance from the house, but surely people could hear that dog’s barking. The person opened the door, slamming it gently into the dog. The dog yelped, before running a bit back. The person took their opportunity, going out of the door, closing it carefully behind her. What she didn’t realize was that there was a dog door, from which an angry, grey, medium-sized dog emerged.

     The woman rolled the tires swiftly into the passenger seat of her green car. It was moments before she heaved the contraption upon which the bag sat into the back bench seat, and ran to her seat, the dog barking and snarling at almost her very feet.

    The dog, when the woman had sped off, going about ten miles above the speed limit, whined, and decided not to give chase, instead yelping piteously, before crawling back into the garage, to catch up on his sleep. Meanwhile the car was racing through mud puddles, which splashed all over the windshield. The woman quickly turned on her car lights, the inside ones, turned on the wipers, and drove into the driveway of a large house.

****

     The morning after these events, an old lady, of the age of eighty-six, was seated on the closed-in front porch of a large magenta-colored house, with a lime green roof, and an aqua door. The grounds were completely void of wildflowers of any sort or nature, and all the lush green grass was uniformly trimmed to perfection. This, as Bridget McIntosh thought, was all Jamie’s doing. Coral never bothered much about housework, and Bridget, as she woefully admitted to herself, was far too old. Bridget held her empty mug to her wrinkled, pale cheek. Nineteen-year-old Coral came up, her clothing dusty.     

     Bridget raised her thin white eyebrows. “Really,” she said mildly, “do you have to get so dusty, Coral, dear?”

     Coral laughed, “Why, Grandma. Dusty is my middle name, literally!”

     At this moment Jamie McIntosh came in, from where he had been tending the round bed of roses that was in the otherwise empty yard. Of course, the bed had to be surrounded by perfectly shaped rocks.

     Bridget pointed back at Coral. “James William McIntosh, you go tell that girl to clean up. Where on earth did you get all that dust?” inquired she.

     Coral Dusty glanced innocently around. “You know, the third basement isn’t the cleanest spot.”

     “Shh,” hushed Bridget. “We’ve no third basement.”

     After each word she slammed her gold-handled cane into the floor, viciously. At this there was a scratching and whining at the door. Upon opening, two small dogs bounded in; one was a scruffy brown sugar color, the other a dark chocolate.

     “Coral,” Bridget said, glancing as little brown paw prints marked her green silk. “I think, perhaps, that we need a little liquid refreshment. Perhaps a glass of iced mint tea? And I’d prefer it inside, thank you. I’ll go clean up, as it is obvious Scruffy and Coco wish me to do.” With these words she sailed into the house, walking straight, for an old lady, and entered her bedroom.

     When they met in the kitchen, Jamie held out the morning newspaper, which the lady grasped eagerly. She then gave a little gasp of horror. “Oh, Jamie, Coral,” she said. “How awful! Someone has stolen the tires from a car about a week ago. It doesn’t give the name.”

     Jamie nodded, taking it in stride. Coral listened to the account, whilst poring iced mint tea into already full cups.

     “Coral,” said Bridget, with biting sarcasm. “I think when a cup is overflowing that there is enough tea in it. Of course, I am old fashioned, so maybe it is the style now!”

     “Oh,” Coral said, righting the pitcher, and getting out paper towels.

     Bridget shook her papers, and laid them aside, sipping at her tea, with a little stack of gingersnaps on a plate by her side. Bridget sighed, leaning back into the chair. “I wish people would stop stealing,” she wished.

****

Gloria McIntosh was a young woman, about twenty-six. She worked for a detective named Ronald Malcolm. Gloria woke up, the day after the stealing, and felt greatly refreshed. She walked downstairs, where a calico cat rubbed against her legs, begging to be petted. With the sounds of food tumbling into the dishes a fat, golden puppy bounded into the room, barking. A gray dog came in from outside, and ran from the door to Gloria and back again. Gloria decided that something must be wrong, and followed Wilhelm to the garage. Here she went in, and found to her outraged dismay that her cars were lacking their tires. She ran into the house, the black 3” heels she always wore not stopping her flight in the least.

     When she arrived at her crimson-colored telephone she panted for a couple of minutes, regaining breath. Then she picked up the phone, and quickly pressed some keys, waiting as the other person’s phone rang. “Hello?” she said. “Mr. Malcolm?”

     “Hello, Gloria,” came the answering response.

     “My tires were stolen by the thief last night, as I found out this morning. Could you bring your car and some replacement tires?” asked Gloria.

     “Sure thing,” returned Mr. Malcolm, “Bye.”

     Gloria hung up as soon as he did, and then hurried to her dressing, then she quickly locked up everything, grabbed her purse, ran a hasty hand through it, and dashed outside. Gloria had never liked to walk when she could dash, skip, or run. About twenty minutes later the silvery-blue car that Mr. Malcolm owned pulled smoothly into the driveway. Gloria waved at him.

     Between the two of them they got the cars fixed. Gloria then slyly smiled. “Mr. Malcolm?” she said.

     “Huh?” he said, absently.

     “After I’m done with work today, I’m going to spread some paint or something onto the tires, then, when the thief tries to take the tires, anything they touch afterwards will have their hand print, even if ‘tis in a glove,” she grinned. “And, I’m going to put down flour over the flooring, that way the thief will leave a footprint.”

     Mr. Malcolm beamed. “I trained you well, didn’t I, Miss McIntosh.”

     “Oh, really, I got that from a book!” she smugly said.

     Within minutes a yellow car, and a silvery-blue car in front of it, were going down the road, towards a little brick building. Inside there were six rooms. One was a kitchen/dining area. Then a place to hold criminals until the police could arrive, a bathroom/laundry room, a bedroom, an office room, and a sitting room. Gloria and Mr. Malcolm strode into the office room, where a young man of around twenty-seven sat, at a desk, intellectually pressing on the keys of a laptop. He spun around on his office chair, shrinking what he had been working on. Gloria widened her gray eyes, for his hair, which was a dark blond, was in an astonishing disarray.

     “Ah,” said Ronald Malcolm. “Wallace, good to see you’re working.”

     The hazel-colored eyes of the man looked towards the ceiling. “Where else would I be?” he said, in much the tone of ‘that statement is silly, because I’m never elsewhere and if I’m here I’m working.’

     “Quite right. Gloria and I will be glancing over the clues on that tire thief case,” returned Ronald.

     They turned to a stack of papers, and spent the whole day doing what they had done many times before, hunting for hidden clues within the facts that had been recorded about this thief. 

****

     It was again nighttime, and once more the woman was out. It was three nights since her last crime, and this time she had her eyes set upon a wonderfully well-stocked place. Richard Jackson’s family had a large collection of cars, seeing as each of their ten children had one, and then Richard and Melanie both had their own. That was forty-eight tires, and these couldn’t go unnoticed.

     Pretty soon the woman was at the faded green house of the Jacksons, sneaking into their garage, and stealing their tires. This time she took her own sweet time, not fearing a dog. She got everything onto the ramped thing, and moved to her car, loading each of the wheels happily in. Her work for the night was completed. And she had laid in a goodly supply of rubber.

     As she rode down the bumpy, black road she thought how forty-eight tires could be used, and to what good purpose might they be put? Then she noticed her gasoline was low, and after locating the station she wondered if they would notice the tires in her car, if there was anybody out there. She turned into the side of the road, and put a lot of tires onto the floor, covering them with canvas. Then she stuck a wide brimmed hat on top of the pile in the passenger seat, swiftly putting a blanket around it, like somebody who was traveling might use if ‘twas cold. Then she pulled into the station, and got her gasoline. Her worrying came to no account, as nobody was out. She sped homeward.

****

     Bridget knew that she was getting old, and sometimes after staying up all night for this or that reason her bones hurt to the core. She knew that she was getting on in age, and wondered how many years her mistreated self could survive.  She drove a car too fast, ate like a pig, and slept for only four hours each night. Not to mention that she never brushed her teeth. Bridget grinned. She was missing only one tooth, and that had nothing to do with the teeth brushing, that was from when she lost a tooth when she was little, and the big one never grew in.

     She then wondered what would happen to Jamie and Coral when she died. She thought that maybe Aileen McIntosh, Jamie’s wife, might come back. Bridget grinned again. Aileen and she had never gotten along, and Bridget had been all too relieved when Aileen had gone off to visit her parents, though, it was more like Jamie and Coral had to go to her parents to visit her. Of course, Bridget thought, now that Coral was grown some adjustments would have to be made.

     Bridget then moved her thoughts to the wonderful spring day outside. She took her gold-handled cane, the rest of which was made out of a thick wood, and hobbled outside, breathing in the fresh, morning air. Jamie, was, as usual, tending his precious grass with fertilizers and new seeds. Bridget sniffed, hobbling over to the rose bed, which was her favorite part of the yard, besides her fountain.

     “Jamie,” she roared.

      Jamie looked up. “Huh, mother?”

     “It’s time for breakfast.

     “Oh,” he said, rather reluctantly.

     Bridget smiled, and then suddenly was alerted to the fact that someone was pulling into her black-top driveway. When the young woman got out of the car Bridget recognized her, hobbling over to greet her.

     “Gloria!” she called.

     “Great-Aunt-Bridget,” returned the girl.

     “Come in, we were just about to eat breakfast,” invited Bridget.

     “Alright, Auntie, though, I cannot stay very long,” replied Gloria.

     Bridget brushed that aside, and then took Gloria through a tour of the whole house. When they went into the basement Gloria walked on a certain part of a rug.

     “Ouch,” she said. “What’s that?”

     “What’s what, Gloria?” asked Bridget, sharply.

     “I felt something under that rug,” said Gloria. “May I lift it to see?”

     “Gloria Bethany McIntosh,” firmly said Bridget. “That rug has always been there, it shall not be disturbed!” 

     Gloria apologized, and the family ate breakfast together, then Gloria sped away. Bridget stared after her, talking to Jamie, though she didn’t look at him. “Jamie,” she said. “Gloria almost found our secret out.”

     “What?” Jamie said. “You almost let her?”

     “Yes,” agreed Bridget, unhappily. “I’d better go out tonight to do some…shopping.”

****

     Gloria woke up the next morning, and went out as usual to her two cars. She stopped, as she saw that there were footprints in the flour, not to mention that her cars didn’t have their tires, and there were gloved hand prints. She dashed to the phone. “Mr. Malcolm?” she called.

     “Hello, Gloria,” he said. “What is it?”

     Gloria triumphantly said, “I’ve got the footprints of the thief!”

     Mr. Malcolm hung up. Some time later his car came in, with more replacement tires. Gloria sheepishly glanced at the eight tires he had brought. Then she led the way to her garage, flipping on a light. In the flour there were several footprints. Mr. Malcolm instantly brought out his equipment. “This doesn’t help us, much,” he finally said. “The person was wearing flat shoes, I’d guess sandals, there are any number of women or men in this town who wear sandals.”

     Gloria glared, at the footprints, and then gestured at the gloved handprint. “And this?” she said.

     “Useless,” decided Mr. Malcolm.

     When he had gone Gloria decided to make a trap. She attached ropes to the tire and door so that if one took off the tire the door would open, then she set a seat protector and some food and water into the car, making it ready for Wilhelm, her dog. Gloria thought that when the door opened Wilhelm would leap out, and, seeing a thief, would instantly stop him or her. Gloria got up early, so Wilhelm would only have to be out there for eight hours; he’d sleep most of it away, anyhow.

****

     The woman was on the move again, this time directing her attention to the same house she had been robbing from for the past few times, seeing as the owner of the two cars kept putting new tires on them, and never had complicated locks upon her door. She slipped quietly into the garage, and set about working on the front wheel. As it came off, though she didn’t notice it, the door opened slightly, and Wilhelm bounded out, snarling. He closed the door, and turned on the light, as he was trained to do. Then he barked and bayed loudly.

     Inside the house a light snapped on. The woman glanced around, in worry. At last she did the only thing for it. She leaped towards the garage door, putting her hand on the handle, just before it swung open and a tall girl, dressed in green pajamas with yellow cats on them, appeared, with a green velvet bed-robe. The light was on so they could see each other’s features clearly.

     “Aunt Bridget?” gasped Gloria.

     “Gloria?” gaped Bridget.

     Wilhelm was keeping the old lady well occupied whilst Gloria took out her cell phone. Mr. Malcolm raged at being woken at three A.M until Gloria told him she had caught the thief. Gloria firmly led her aunt into the house, seating her comfortably on the chocolate-colored couch. Mr. Malcolm and Wallace arrived, with Jamie, who was walking quietly, and Coral, who was scratching and trying to bite, captive. Behind them Donald Malcolm, Mr. Malcolm’s son, who was also a police officer, rode in.

****

     Gloria thought quickly of a plan. She waited until Mr. Malcolm asked Bridget why she had stolen so many tires.

     “Oh,” Bridget tearfully said. “I was trying to make,” sniff-sniff, “boots for orphans!” she wailed.

     Gloria’s eyes widened, and she blurted out her idea. “Oh, um, Mr. Malcolm?” she said. “Can I keep Aunt Bridget here? Like a house arrest.”

     They agreed, provided that she never went outside without Gloria, until her sentence was over. Jamie and Coral went to jail. Coral, though, fainted. Wilhelmina, the golden puppy, who was being trained to do such things, saw a lady lying on the dirty ground, and instantly ran over, and began walking around all over her. Gloria dragged Wilhelmina off, and then watched as everybody left. Bridget was left, tearfully saying that she hadn’t meant harm. Gloria then realized that she was still in her pajamas, though her robe looked like a dress. Then she looked down and realized why her feet were hurting. The most excellent reason was that she was barefoot.

****

     Bridget allowed herself to be led into the house, where the dogs bounded around Gloria. The cat took one look at Bridget, and frigidly froze with the hair standing up, and the tail pointed at the sky. The cat flew from the room.

     Even after her sentence was over Bridget stayed with Gloria, starting a business of making dress patterns. Bridget, though, couldn’t get over habits, and each night she sneaked out, and took the tires off the cars. Each morning Gloria had to fix them back on. Other than this they got on excellently.

Copyright 2017 by Anne Leskey