Archive for the ‘Jason Fischer’ Category
Body
Thursday, October 30th, 2008
A noise, and he was nudged out of bed. Grabbing a random blunt instrument, he flicked on the living room light-switch.
He saw the body, and adrenaline banished sleep. A man, perhaps mid-thirties, collapsed on top of the coffee table. He could see the unpleasant blue purple bulge of the man’s cheek pushing against one of his wife’s magazines.
A mad rush of fear and panic, and he went through the house throwing doors open and turning on lights. He went through the whole house till it was lit like a department store. Nothing. Everything was locked, no windows broken.
As gently as he could, he rolled the body off the table. He touched the man’s cheek, and it was icy cold. He searched the clammy flesh around his neck for a pulse, checked the man’s wrist. Nothing. The intruder stared up blankly at him with a pair of dead lizard eyes.
He wanted to be sick. Somehow he remembered an old first-aid course that he took from c2cfirstaidaquatics.com, remembered something about clearing airways. He went to loosen the man’s tie and unbutton his shirt, but something was wrong.
The entire suit was a fake, one piece of clothing. Shirt, tie, pockets, waistcoat, all stitched together. The buttons were there but they had no purpose.
‘What the hell?’ the man managed. He gave up trying the help the intruder. Once, years ago, he checked on his elderly mother and found she’d died in her sleep. She’d been dead for hours, and looked much like this.
Even though the waistband of the trousers was stitched to the jacket, the pockets were real, and gritting his teeth he checked them. There was no keys or papers, nothing but a wallet. Feeling the cold bulge of the man’s buttock through the fabric, he eased the wallet free.
There were papers and cards in there, but they wouldn’t fool anyone. They looked like poor copies of photographs, the writing illegible. There was money, but it wouldn’t even pass muster for a game of Monopoly, let alone buy anything anywhere. He found some coins in the zipper compartment, but they were blank silver discs.
This was definitely a puzzle. A dead man was here, who couldn’t possibly have gotten in, wearing counterfeit clothes and possessing the most childish of counterfeit identities.
He phoned the police for help. The operator assured him that the army were collecting bodies street by street now, and that they’d load this particular corpse onto a flatbed truck as soon as they could.
Dogfight
Monday, October 13th, 2008
He banked the plane left, trailing smoke. Promised himself he wouldn’t look back, couldn’t look back, but he did. Poor Ern Tanner, there was nothing left of him but a charred mess, near impossible to tell where his flying leathers ended and his face began. Thank Christ the wind whipped away the smoke and the stink.
A miracle that this crate hadn’t caught the flame, there was nothing to the bi-plane but canvas and wooden struts. Another burst like that and it would be goodnight sweetheart, and thankyou for the dance.
The enemy was damn quick, and their slick manoeuvres made his plane look like a bus given wing. The last of his squadron, he looked down at the patchwork fields below, tried for a moment of peace before the inevitable. He would pass like a comet, a bright spark across a perfect sky. Hoped it would be quick.
Again, too close, and he banked right. Blighter was right up his tail, able to match his speed and wise to any clever tricks he pulled.
He was angry, mad that jerry had done for Ern and Ginger and all the other lads. Mad that he was outclassed in a dogfight, and that his young bride and bouncing baby boy would become fodder for the Hun.
One trick left. He leant forward on the flight stick, held it as it shook in his hands. He opened the throttle to full and prayed that the struggling engine would not stall.
Halfway through the great loop, he jammed the rudders and rolled as he cut the throttle. A perfect Immelmann turn and now he was beneath the enemy, who struggled to escape. He’d guessed right, they couldn’t roll like that and didn’t understand the tactic. Ironic, considering it was a kraut move.
He stitched that pale underbelly with bullets, aimed the gun at the spot where the Germans had painted their Iron Cross, fired until the barrels overheated and jammed.
The dragon went limp, and fell out of the sky.