IT'S - Chapter 8

"This Space Intentionally Left Blank"
- (John Shea)

He came, he saw, he dreamt. The nightmares continued. Each morning he would see his green face looking back at him from the monitors at work. Most of the time, the face was grinning. Only, he wasn't grinning at the time. Strange things were afoot in the nether worlds of the net.

Shadows, too many damn shadows . . . but always those two yellow lights steadily piercing the darkness. And the whispers . . . its . . . its . . . Its . . . Its . . . ITs . . . ITs . . . ITS . . . ITS . . . IT'S . . . sometimes it was the "its," but mostly it was the ellipses that drove him to screaming. And then he would wake up.

"You started a sentence with 'And,'" a hissing voice would whisper and fade away. He panted in full sweat. It wasn't the humidity of the Texas dawn; it was the perspiration of fear which was getting to him.

"'That'" and then a giggle and it was gone again.

Johnny got up. Now, why did he use "Johnny"? He hadn't used "Johnny" since the days of The Winners Club.

"Don't forget the trademark symbol."

"Shut up and leave me ALONE!" John shouted. Now he was awake.

Trademark symbols . . . Winners Club. It was coming back to him. Summary of Amendments! He wished these nightmares would stop.

Tonight's had been about driving to his aunt's house in Copperas Cove, Texas. He'd been pulled over for speeding in Harley Heights. The trooper got out of the cruiser and came forward, wearing a natty tweed jacket, red frizzy hair, and a red clown nose. Somehow he looked familiar. Harley Heights was a known speed trap, and he'd been caught there before. He tried to avoid it on later trips to Copperas Cove, but for some reason he felt he had to go through it this time. As the trooper ripped off the pink ticket, a large spider went by on a motorcycle. He looked in the rearview mirror, and the cruiser and clown trooper were gone. And then he saw his own green face staring back again.

"You used 'AND' at the beginning of a sentence again! But I'll excuse you, because it adds closure," the voice said.

"And you used 'But' at the beginning of a sentence, so we're even," John said back.

"Drat," the voice said.

The voice does have a weakness. It was starting to slip. John was making progress with the self-introspective meditation therapy. If he could find one chink in IT'S armor, maybe he could find another. Maybe turn it against itself. Maybe the nightmares could end and he could get a decent night's sleep. He could manage to get a decent day's sleep, but the nights were restless.

He swung his feet over the bedside and went to the kitchen. The James Michener method had to begin. Get up, get breakfast, write like hell for five hours, and then have lunch. Afternoons were for research, evenings for rest and reflection, late evening for prep work and Leno's monologue.

Once, he'd been a technical writer. Once, he'd been an Information Developer. Once, he'd worked for IBM somewhere in the Dallas area. But They killed off J. R. Ewing; They made Kuzak leave; and somehow They suggested now might be the time to run. So, he did.

He had finally crossed the line from being a technical writer to being a fledgling fiction writer. And the words flowed well. (Don't say it. I used "And" for creative license.) It didn't matter that he didn't have an agent or a publisher yet; he'd cross that "t" when he got to it.

Sighing, he began tapping away on his manual Galaxie Twelve typewriter. He missed the quick turnaround of laser printers. It was a sacrifice he made for MarketDrivenQuality and peace of mind. However, most of all he missed the contact with people and mostest (sic) of all, he missed the contact with the network, especially The Winners Club. Lately, the only contact he had was Danny, who would infrequently call him, ask him how the novel was coming, and badger him to complete the last assignment Danny had given out to the rest of The Winners Club.

Tap tap tap the keys were almost in sync with the tap tap tap of high heels on concrete. The ladies of the complex were walking their dogs before they went off to work. How could anyone wear shoulder pads in a T-shirt? Fashion to the extreme.

The diversions were many. NPR broadcasts, Regis, and Donahue . . . if he could just concentrate long enough on his present stream of thought . . . stream of thought and Paula Abdul and reverse waterfalls. That was it. He flicked off the TV with the remote control. He would try to hold out until noon when "Hogan's Heroes" came on or maybe longer until 3 when "Jeopardy" was on. Ricardo was competing, and he didn't want to miss his appearance.

Danny had called again last night. He said Delores was having visions. Something about a subway and yellow lights. Danny was in D.C. Delores was there, too. Danny, he'd last seen over Chinese one dreary afternoon; Delores, last year at a banquet somewhere in New York in a blizzard. They were now on their way to Boulder. Why were they both there? Were they there for a reason? Questions questions questions.

"Rambling prose."

"So?" John asked. He didn't get an answer.

He blinked. His eyes were blurring again. His right arm was starting to hurt, to throb, also. Damn Thoracic Outlet Syndrome; the Operation was supposed to take care of that. He blamed the eye blur on all the reading for research he was doing. The arm was probably a reaction to all the typing he was doing. Too much all at once.

"Too much of a good thing. Perhaps you should take some time off."

There it was again. He glanced down at his fingers. The callouses were starting to peel again.

"'Again' 'again' 'again.' Can't you use better and more varied simile?"

"When are you going to leave me alone?" John said to thin air. "I thought we were rid of you long ago." Yes, he did recognize the voice now.

It had to be her -- she! Nasty old Miss Thistlebottom. He recognized her cheap perfume mixed with chalkdust and greasepaint. It coudn't be, though. They, The Winners Club, had eradicated her from the face of Boulder long ago deep in the sewers that summer. And the 1935 silver-bound edition of Strunk and White had seen to that.

"It was only early retirement. I'm back to help you. You've taken early retirement. Join me and I'll show you the pleasures of freelancing, of litotes and simile and oxymoron and all the parts of speech and grammar you can sink your teeth into."

A single face appeared on the still-warm TV set. It was the face of an older woman, wearing wire-rimmed spectacles.

"You're ending a sentence with a preposition," John scolded in a singsong voice.

"So, I make mistakes," Miss T. said. "That's why I need you. You can give me strength, you can edit my work, you can be my bestest pal."

"'Bestest'? Gee, you are slipping. . . . You made us memorize

'Good, better, best
Never let it rest
Until your good is better
And your better best.'"

"Superlatives were never my strong point. That's why I need someone like you . . . someone to watch over me." Violins filled the background with a slick Mantovani track echo. "You can't live on oatmeal cookies forever."

Oh, so, going for the personal side, was she? Two can play at that game, John thought.

"Don't play games with me, Miss T. I know what you really are," John said. "You're a hack grammarian, cold, ruthless, a dagger-toothed beast." He did remember! He did! It was all coming back to him.

"Of course, you do," Miss T said from the TV, her image shifting from the elder woman to static to a clown face surrounded by balloons. "Since you left the company, you see things differently. You're in a new and different reality. You're out in the real world. My world."

"Reality has nothing to do with it," he said. "I create my own. And I'm doing quite well without your help, thank you."

"You could do so much better with my . . . assistance." The clown had yellow eyes now. "Wouldn't you like to float?"

Float? Yes . . . he remembered . . . deep down in the dark dripping dell, floating freely fantasizing. . . .

"Ahem. Alliteration needs some work," Miss T said. The yellow eyes were getting brighter, not bigger, just brighter while the rest of her began to fade away like the Chesire Cat. "It's lonely here," she whimpered. "Play Misty for me."

"Tell me about it," John said. He could sympathize for once. "You don't float. You sink. And then you blink. . . . I know the truth."

"Then come set me free," she said.

"You want to be free? Don't wallow in your own evil pisspure pity. Come out into the light." John got a grip on himself and reached for another sheet of erasable paper. He was growing tired of this conversation and was getting behind in his writing schedule. He typed away for five minutes without interruption.

"Show me the way, Johnny. . . ."

He turned to the TV. "You want the way? Then, blink. You can get from float to blink, can't you? It's easy. FLOAT, BLOAT, BLEAT, BLEAK, BLENK, BLINK!" He paused and caught his breath. It was coming out in sharp rasps. "And don't call me 'Johnny'!"

"Blenk?"

He threw a copy of Strunk and White at the TV screen. The yellow lights blinked and went out.

There, that was much better. Now he could get some real work done. You just had to be firm with these hallucinations. Now, if he could just get his characters in his novel to start speaking to him.

"You want characters to speak to you? Well, listen to this--!"

He could hear cocoanut shells being clopped together and a horse neighing. The clops got louder. He looked up and all he could see were yellow lights coming toward him. He flailed his arms, but it was too late. The last thing he remembered was a voice saying, "I need you and I need you NOW!"

He didn't even notice the horse turn into the wolf before it started shredding his typewriter and couch pillows. . . .

* * * *

Lt. Forest Owen of the Boulder Police Department ripped off the fax from the National Crime Desk. Another weird death, this time in Irving, Texas, and again pointing to Boulder. Add it to the aspen-leaf murders, the pepperoni murder, the flying rocks murder, even the recent subway fatality in D.C. Each had a weird M.O. and each pointed to Boulder.

Weird. Victim appeared to commit suicide by paper cuts, but it was too clean, too neat. Other anomalies: videotape strewn about, but the papers all in neat piles with grammar mistakes circled in red, crisp circles. Only, the circles were blood. And then, The Winners Club T-shirt hanging from the TV rabbit ears. The TV itself had three letters scrawled in blood on the screen: V - T - P. What did it all mean?

Every 27.2 years another string of murders against Boulder children started again. Much like the cycle of renewed sit-com plots.

Perhaps it was time he called on Dan Culberson. If he had been old enough, he'd have been a reviewer the last time the cycle came. Maybe Danny could shed some light on the new fall lineup.

* * * *

Danny put the phone back on the receiver. He turned and faced what was left of The Winners Club.

"That was Lt. F.O. It looks as if Johnny won't be making the reunion."

Table of Contents - Chapter 7 - Top of Page - Chapter 9 -
Off The Wall - Callahan's Saloon