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Here are two short stories that are totally unconnected.

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The CIWby

Alan Shils3026 073018 2,676

“Gin.”

“Damn,” as George slapped his worthless cards down.

“I give up,” said Amy. “How do you win almost every time?”

“S-S-S”

“What’s S-S-S?” she asked.

“Sam’s Superior Strategy.”

“Ehh, you and your facakta strad-edge-eee.” George noted sarcastically.

“Always some dumb theory,” added Amy.

“It’s boring playing with you,” from George.

“This whole place is boring,” Sam agreed, ignoring his friends’ good-natured complaining

which, in truth, was based on exasperation with their assisted living home. “Boring as a grave. Which,

mind you, I am in no hurry to roll into.” Sam spouted that from his low perch in his wheelchair that

had became virtually fused to his body almost thirty years ago after a spinal surgery ‘error’ left him

waste-down paralyzed. Now, at ninety-four, he was still as sharp as he was at half his age.

Alan Shils 0226/3029 081418 Page: 1

“You have no say in when you roll in,” said Amy, emphasizing her words by gently tapping her

boney fingers on the card table. She ranged from four-eight to five-zip depending how her spine bent

to each sunrise. But don’t underestimate her. She weighed near ninety pounds yet could zip around

with her walker faster than the rest of the residents, everybody running out their clocks in The Ethel &

Jackson Cosgrove Assisted Living & Nursing Home. The full name was always used per one of the

Cosgrove’s trust requirements, and the one time somebody mailed a piece saying E & C Nursing

Home, half the Board of Directors was replaced. There’s no accounting for the whims of the wealthy.

Amy always dressed immaculately as though she was, “Going to the Queen’s Ball,” as George

often complimented her. George was always impeccably dressed. Black well pressed slacks, starched

white shirt with conservative jacket and breast pocket-handkerchief to match his scarf. Who wears that

fluff these days?

But Sam was casual. He sported wrinkled but clean jeans and either a short sleeve white cotton

shirt or a plaid wool long sleeve depending upon which incorrect signal his brain’s defective

thermostat proclaimed to the rest of his wrinkled bag of flimsy cells.

“Yeah, but it’s still boring,” repeated George. “We should liven up the joint. Half the people

here act like cadavers in waiting.”

“Trouble is, that ain’t no act,” said Sam.

“True,” said George, “but it’s still boring.”

“Well then, gentlemen,” Amy chimed, “why don’t we provide a little excitement before we all

shuffle off to infinite nothingness? Let’s have ourselves some fun.”

“Excitement, Amy?” Sam stared at her with his well-preserved blue eyes, and suggested, “why

don’t I jump out of this chair and do a Fred Astaire number for us?”

“Don’t talk sarcastic to me, Sammy. None of us will dance again but we can think of things and

make them happen. Somehow.”

Alan Shils 0226/3029 081418 Page: 2

“Minimum thinking and damn near no somehow around here,” groaned George, pondering the

theological implications of ‘infinite nothingness’ — should there be any — and quickly realized that

that’s all there would be. Long ago he’d decided that dead is dead and that is that so don’t stress about

it. Just don’t buy any lies that charlatans sell about an afterlife or heaven or hell or judgment day or

messiahs who just keep everybody waiting because they’re hanging out in dead bars that never close.

The topic of fun easily could have ended here but Amy wouldn’t let go. She had a long history

of instigating. As a child growing up in the Bronx, as a student at Columbia majoring in Medieval

History (minoring in Civil Rights demonstrations), as a mother of four, and then back at work, and

finally as a widow for over twenty years. During her near century of living, she was always a live wire.

“That’s exactly right, Georgie — Sammy.” she stated in her higher than average frequency declarative

mom-like yet sweet voice. “Too much thinking and too little action. We’re going to do something.

Some things, and I know exactly how to get started.”

They gave her puzzled looks.

“Listen, boys. Lunch is in,” she checked her watch, “almost half an hour. Let’s start a rumor.

Let’s tell everyone that they must quickly spread the word. We say, “Don’t eat lunch today. It’s

poisoned. We’ll die if we eat it.””

“That’s ridiculous,” said Sam.

“That’s a great idea, Amy,” said George.”

“Sam, it is not ridiculous, but you are if you don’t help us make something happen around

here,” said Amy.

George supported her. “C’mon Sam. It will be so cool watching everyone refuse to eat, except

the people who forgot not to eat. And just think how bent the staff will get.”

“And we have to pretend we are also afraid to eat,” said Amy.

“C’mon, Sam. Do it,” repeated George with a rare twinkle in his voice.

“Well... I guess there’s no harm in it. And I’d like to see nurse Crab-Ass flummoxed.”Alan Shils 0226/3029 081418 Page: 3

“Ohhhh-kay,” Amy squeaked. “Here’s what to do.” Amy actually was more excited than she or

anyone remembered her being in years, except for her great-granddaughter’s recent high school

graduation. “We’ll tell people not to eat lunch because it’s poisoned, and they must warn others.

George, you get the people at that end of the room; Sam, tell the other end; and I’ll take the ones

nearby. Don’t worry if they see you; they won’t remember who said what. We’ll say, “Go to your

rooms and tell others not to eat the poisoned food. And don’t tell the staff.” She thought it might not

matter if they told staff members because they would probably blow it off as so silly. She then had the

sinking idea how can they remember the message? Well, beside us three, there are a hundred and eight

others so hopefully half of them will get it.

When all were seated and the trays placed, many started to eat, but some sitting nearby

reminded them not to because the food was poisoned. They stopped. The three were amazed. The staff

was puzzled. Many who normally had to be fed clamped their mouths shut. Several residents cried and

Nurse Crabase, who pronounced it, ‘Kra-baze’, was frantically making inquiries. All her answers

consisted of, “Poison,” or, “Why are they killing us?”

The staff finally got almost all of their charges to eat by demonstrating that they would eat the

same food. Some folks took until dinnertime to be convinced.

Crabase held an emergency meeting that included the kitchen staff and security to figure out

what happened. They concluded that somebody started a wild rumor. Who? Nobody knew.

Our three heroes couldn’t have been more pleased with themselves, and they decided to plan

something more exciting in a few days.

~~~

Monday, after breakfast, while playing Gin, the talk quickly turned to the next prank.

“BINGO,” said George.

“We’re playing gin,” said Amy, who could be as sarcastic as her friends.

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“No. BINGO,” he repeated as Amy shrugged her boney little shoulders and Sam asked,

“Whatcha thinking?”

“Just BINGO.” repeated George.

“I hate BINGO,” said Amy.

“But lots of people play it. The clubroom is always full,” from Sam.

“I’m thinking,” continued George, “Let’s tell everyone that BINGO is now illegal. The state

banned it.”

“Why,” asked Amy?

“Who cares?” said Sam, now very interested in George’s idea. “Let’s make it sound official.

Shake them up. At least half of them.”

“It’s worth a try,” said George.

They made official looking signs on Sam’s laptop that read:

Effective immediately, BINGO has been declared illegal in New York State. There will be no more playing of that game in any Medicaid supported facility. All nursing homes, except hundred percent privately funded ones, are specifically banned from having BINGO on the premises.

The staff had never heard of such nonsense and tore the signs down signs as quickly as they could.

Some residents who were hooked on the game meekly accepted the ‘news’ and quietly sobbed

at their deprivation. The staff quickly set up the room and escorted players to seats, gave them cards

and markers, and kept reassuring them the game is on. It took a lot of convincing. But that wasn’t the

end of it because several residents had called family to complain and were beside themselves with

grief. So The Ethel & Jackson Cosgrove Assisted Living & Nursing Home director’s office began

receiving complaints from relatives. That spawned an internal investigation, along with questions to

state officials, who laughed, but nobody could discover a culprit.

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The three were surprised that this prank was good for three days of joy. When staff asked them

what they knew about the signs, each replied, “I don’t know, I don’t even play it.”

“What’s next?” Sam asked later in the week after things had cooled.

“First, why don’t we give ourselves a name?” questioned George.

“We need a name?” responded Amy.

“How about, Cadavers In Waiting?” Sam suggested.

“I like it,” from Amy.”

“Did I once say that,” muttered George?” adding, “It’ll be a secret name, like a secret society.”

“So be it,” stated Sam. “What’s our next prank?”

“Not so loud,” cautioned Amy. “We’ll talk later,” she whispered.

~~~

That afternoon, while playing Gin, they decided to capitalize on the holidays, almost two months

away. Amy started with, “Decorations will be going up so how about we announce that all holiday

glitz is forbidden?”

“Why?” asked George.

Amy knew. “There are so many religions that officials don’t want to offend anybody.”

They got that ball rolling and, regardless of the stupidity of the bogus holiday decoration-

prevention ruling, and, probably because of the purity of its BS, the fake rule was a smash hit.

Complaints fell on staff and management from all sides. Jews were as annoyed about no

Menorahs as Catholics were about no trees or song. There were demonstrations, thankfully peaceful, in

front of TE&JCAL&NH by a dozen denominations carrying signs in many languages all saying, in

essence, ‘We want our holidays back.’ Even atheists got into the act with a sign saying, “Winter is

drab, brighten it up.”

The ruckus made national news, and it took officials several days, including an announcement

from the governor, that there is no such ban on holiday décor.Alan Shils 0226/3029 081418 Page: 6

“That was better than expected,” George smiled to the others.

“We hit a nerve,” laughed Amy.

“What’s next,” asked Sam?

“Maybe we should give it a rest,” offered George.

“Yeah,” said Amy. There’s too much going on until January.

So the three took a ‘vacation’ and enjoyed the holiday festivities that never were in danger of

banishment.

~~~

By February, things were intolerably quiet. Since Thanksgiving, twelve dear old dears had expired so a

dozen new entries, each with signs of respiration and temperature hovering above ambient, filled the

void. It didn’t improve the boredom. PS: TE&JCAL&NH would have gladly kept the departed on ice

and cut staff levels, but stingy Medicaid doesn’t send a check for a stiff — unless fraud lives.

“I’m so bored I feel like a rock,” George complained.

“Second that,” said Amy.

“We need a real howler to kick off the year or it’s really going to get oppressive,” Sam added.

“And this year is at least one twelfth over,” George grumbled.

“Hey,” Sam perked up. “How about something for the ladies.”

“What? How do you separate the sexes?” asked Amy.

“We announce that a rape gang will be here to tune up the dames. Give ‘em a thrill”

“You lost it, buddy,” said George.

“You have flipped,” said Amy, “but I like it.”

“You like it!” George was amazed. “You like rape, Aim? Have you gone as bonkers as Sam?”

“No. I’m not bonkers and, no, I do not like rape. But the thought of rape, at any age, gets

women all agitated, in a bad way. It’s a very bad fear-based excitement. But, excitement nonetheless.”

“And excitement is what we’re about,” Sam reminded them.Alan Shils 0226/3029 081418 Page: 7

“We are, but... rape... I mean...” George wasn’t buying the idea.

“Nobody will be raped you nitwit,” Amy told George. “It’s a joke.”

“No joke to the women,” said George.

“We can’t put that in writing.” Sam is a retired lawyer. “BINGO signs are fine but I wouldn’t

leave a written trail about rape.”

Amy said, “We’ll use word of mouth.”

“I still think you two have lost it, but if you want a rape joke, fine.”

After lunch they came up behind as many women as they could and quietly told them that very

soon, a bunch of young, strong men would arrive to rape all the women they could. It was nice to see

the old bodies suddenly jolt in surprise, defiance, and fear. The word ‘rape’ has a magical connotation.

Bad magic; but magic. The women began to scatter, as slow-quick as could, and hide, as if, should

there be a real rape-onslaught, their rooms would offer protection. But facts don’t matter. It’s all about

belief.

Before the staff recognized the abnormal behavior, one woman was seen rolling her chair ever

faster toward the stairway and before anyone could get halfway to her, she clattered down fourteen

steps as gravity, helped by hard concrete, tangled her broken bones within the twisted chair. Her head

busted, she rapidly expired. They found a note pinned to her blouse that read, “No rape again.”

An investigation, including the police, couldn’t find evidence of foul play so all concluded she

was under a false sense of reality aided by a horrid memory of a past attack and Alzheimer’s

approaching like a runaway train. Officials closed the case quicker than the sadness wore off.

But our fun loving trio was rattled and decided that this unintended consequence was too much

and they better quit.

~~~

A couple of weeks after that unfortunate lady banged and clanged to her death, Amy was found on the

floor by her bed. Her brittle little hips were both shattered, but that was secondary to the stroke that Alan Shils 0226/3029 081418 Page: 8

destroyed her once agile brain. She fell to the floor either while trying to get help or due to a spasm

that propelled her there.

George and Sam still played gin but not frequently and the game turned flat. Sam no longer

tried to win. George was never as enthusiastic as the other two when he played for the simple joy of

kibitzing and comradeship, and wasn’t that really the whole point of the game for all three?

A month later Sam was taken to the hospital due to difficulty breathing, and two days later he

never returned to the land of the living.

George moped around with minimal appetite and no interest in anything. Staff put a suicide

watch on him, but after a couple of weeks that chore wore thin and they began to ignore him. He

produced only a few semi-useless words but only if spoken to. His enviable wardrobe was reduced to a

shabby hospital gown, where ‘gown’ is an insult to a cheap Halloween ghost costume.

One afternoon he noticed the medication cart’s door was open and the nursing station deserted.

He thought, must be one hell-of-an emergency for the staff not to secure it. Perhaps the cruelest thing

for George was that he could still think. He shuffled to it and inspected its contents. One label was

familiar from antiquity. He had only occasionally used that drug. He grabbed the bottle, went to his

room, sat on the edge of his bed, swallowed forty-seven of the tiny white pills, drank some water,

established his epitaph, and lay down, though not “beside still waters,” because his final images were a

nightmare of boulders in a frightful battle. Would Freud speak for dreams from extinguishing neurons?

At dinner check, staff found George still holding the empty bottle of Zolpidem Tartrate 5MG.

One such generic Ambien usually provides a good a night’s sleep, but downing all 435MG may kill the

proverbial horse.

Everybody assumed the note found in George’s mouth meant, ‘It’s time to die.’ Technically,

they were correct, but nobody knew the true meaning of the small shaky-font printing that said, “This

Cadaver In Waiting shall wait no longer.”

~ end ~Alan Shils 0226/3029 081418 Page: 9

Next

Alan Shils 0226/3029 081418 Page: 10

Haste Makes Wasteby

Alan Shils3029 073118 1,596

Around sunrise, Carl shuffled to his barn to milk his six cows. After decades, he could do the chore blindfolded,

but, sleepy eyes partly open, along with the zipper on his denims, he prepared by washing the milk bucket and

his hands. He wet a clean rag with an antibiotic and set the milk stool down by Emmy’s side, she being a ‘lefty’

and large for her breed but actually dumber than the average cow. But she’s a good producer with a calm

personality. He positioned himself to wipe down the udder and teats and soon he would bend to do a visual

inspection. Carl was taught to make sure there was no inflammation, oozing or dirty straw sticking around.

Hygiene is important.

But he became perplexed. He froze. Where are the teats? He bent for a closer look. The udder was

normal but — no teats. That’s impossible. He got off the milk stool and lay down on his back to better inspect.

Everything looked good except — no teats.

Emmy appeared to be fine in every other respect. She stood there good naturedly, in no obvious pain or

other distress, just waiting for her morning milking. The other five cows also seemed fine but, as he could now

clearly see by the dawn’s early light, none of them had any teats. Carl sat on the barn’s floor too stunned to

move for several minutes.

~*~

Sheriff Dan Branson had a late night. His brother’s birthday party was a blast. Didn’t get to bed until near two,

and he wasn’t happy about being awakened before six by Carl saying his cows’ teats are gone.

“Carl,” Branson growled, “shouldn’t you be calling the Bernum instead of me?”

“This is no vet problem, Dan. All six of my cows are just fine — except that their teats are gone! The

udders are there. And they look healthy. All the cows look good except goddamnit, Dan, their teats are gone!

You do know what a teat is, don’t you? You have seen a cow, haven’t you?” Then he realized how silly that

Alan Shils 0226/3029 081418 Page: 11

sounded because Dan’s father and grandfather had a big dairy ranch, and Dan had learned animal husbandry

from his toddler time. “It’s a theft. Get over here right now and find them.”

Dan chose to ignore the comment about his knowledge of dairy animals and thought, Find them? I bet I

can still milk a cow. But milk a cow with no teats?

“Carl, where do you think they could have gone? Out for a walk?”

“Don’t be sarcastic Dan. Get over here.”

“You just woke me up, and being as far from town as you are, it will take me over hour to get there.”

“Just get here.”

“Don’t you be rushing me, Carl, ya-hear? And you should still call Doc Bernum. Ya-hear?”

“I hear. I’ll call Bernum. Just git over here. Quick.”

~*~

By now the sheriff was sitting on the edge of his bed and scratching when his wife, Marguerite, asked, through a

mouth that desperately needed a toothbrush, “Who and why was that?”

How do I phrase this answer, Dan wondered, so he simply said, “Carl Devlin, out by Potter Creek, just

reported that somebody stole his cows’ teats.”

Margie, is a practical, down to earth gal, likewise having grown up on a dairy farm, two towns away,

and decided to give her lover some advice. “We both drank too much. You had a bad dream. Go back to sleep.”

She almost added that he should pay some attention to her tits, but she let that idea slide for now.

“If I don’t have a look, Carl will wake the whole town.”

“Fine. You go play hide-n-seek with Carl’s cows’ teats but not mine. At least not now ‘cause I’m going

back to sleep.” She promptly rolled her back to Dan and didn’t wake up until eleven.

~*~

Dan had reluctantly washed and dressed and poked one of those plastic cups into that infernal,

overpriced, stupid machine that he told Margie he didn’t want but she bought it anyway, grumbling, “What the

hell happened to Nescafé?” when the phone rang. He muttered, “If that’s Carl again....”

“I just got three weird calls.”

He knew the voice. “Thanks for the, “Good morning, Dan. Sorry to call so early, Dan.”

Alan Shils 0226/3029 081418 Page: 12

“Okay. Sorry. But I just got three weird calls.”

“You said that. Were they about missing teats?”

“Huh? You got calls too!”

“One. From Carl Devlin.”

“I got his and from Jack Jenkins and Bill Possum. What the hell’s going on, Dan?”

“You’re asking me? You vet — me cop, remember? If a whole cow goes missing, call me. But if parts

of a cow are gone, call... oh... I dunno know... call you?”

“Dan, teats don’t just disappear. Whole cow, sure. Wanders off. Stolen. But not just her teats.”

“Therefore, as I said, call you.”

“Hey Dan. I’m too tired to argue. Tim Reynolds brought me a sick weaner last night and I was operating

until one. Didn’t get to sleep ‘til near two. Suppose we meet at Carl’s place... eight-thirty? I gotta get going and

check post-op Miss Piggy before I leave. Let’s see what those guys are so bent about. They can’t all be flat out

drunk. In fact, they all sounded sober.”

“Okay. See you there.”

~*~

Then, reports began coming in from ‘round the world. Missing teats. Ranges of dairy cows, goats, you name it;

if it provided milk, its lactation delivery devices were gone. And that included a lot of human teats. The US

Congress was in a blazing frenzy far beyond any FBI agent’s questioning could produce. World leaders were

reduced to blithering idiots, not that that took any great effort. Accusations were flying. Blame was leveled at

Communists, Moslems, Jews, Catholics and a lot of others including Martians, which wasn’t such a bad notion

except there are none. Who could be cornering the world market for teats? What world teat market?

Well, Earthlings, you haven’t seen anything yet, because...

~*~

Two-point-two light years away the general was puzzled and angry. He had 24,981,692 teats refrigerated aboard

his spacecraft but not one drop of milk from any of them. He took his exasperation out on his Chief Medical

Officer, “What the hell went wrong, doctor?”

“I have a theory sir.”

Alan Shils 0226/3029 081418 Page: 13

“Please, keep me in suspense. Our people are starving! We need to get them nourishment quickly, but

as of now, this mission has failed. What theory?”

“Remember when we harvested teats on... 3766-R? We got only teats, like now, but those worked. We

put basic nutrients in the top and milk came out the bottom. But these teats... they seem to need something else.

Perhaps they require what they are attached to. The thing, I suspect, that actually makes the milk. The teat just

seems to be a spigot. How did we make this mistake?”

“We? How did you make this mistake?”

“I knew no more than anyone else about how the milk apparatus worked on this G planet so don’t blame

me. And you were so quick to order the collection.” He realized it wasn’t a great idea to blame the boss, but

under these conditions, maybe he could share responsibility?

The captain was deep in thought but frowning. Thought was fine but when he mixed it with angry-face,

not good.

“So you wasted all this time and I have to trash twenty-five million teats because you didn’t get the

actual milk producing part?”

There goes blame sharing. “I’m afraid so, sir.”

Yet, the doctor figured, why not try again. I’m already in trouble so how bad can it get? “Sir?”

“What!”

“We may be able to use the teats we have. Our chefs are clever. Perhaps they can make a stew or

something and capture whatever useful proteins they contain.”

“And when that’s eaten, the food is gone. Nothing is sustained.”

“Sir, based on our success at the R Planet, we assumed that G worked the same way. That’s the problem

with an assumption. We should learn from history, just — maybe not everything.”

“No more theory. Prepare the crew to harvest new units consisting of the teats and the things they

require. I want a minimum of fifty million units. Complete units. Use the new, faster, Stealth Dissection and

Amnesia Collectors to work more quickly but this time, test an initial sample for functionality! Prove what

works before you do all of it!”

“Fifty million? How can we transport...?”

Alan Shils 0226/3029 081418 Page: 14

“I have inflatable tow-pods and transport is not your problem! You get me FUNCTIONAL teats, YOU

UNDERSTAND!”

“Immediately sir,” trembled the doctor who turned to leave for his lab.”

But the general hissed, “Who dismissed you? Attention!” He then pressed a button and ordered,

“Navigation. Immediately set course at-speed to 7175-G; position at the retrieval orbit.”

“Yes si-...”

“Tell me the arrival time.” He interrupted.

“Three-point-four-point-seven spins.”

“Repeat my order.”

Navigation did and the General stated, “Bridge out,” released the talk switch and, looking sharply at the

doctor stated, “Your preparation window is three-point-four-point-seven. Do it.”

“Yes sir.”

~*~

The Captain considered updating Command but decided not to because they’d only be more annoyed with him

than he is with his medical officer. But was it his fault? Everyone knew little about the G-creatures’ physiology

and morphology. He wanted more information but Command was in a hurry. Thus, so was I. The old haste

makes waste. So he stopped reaching for the Home Channel switch, concluding, better to return with a success

than make a shallow excuse for a delay.

~ end ~

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