He leaned against a brick building while villagers hurried past carrying barrels, hammering together wooden stalls, and stringing colorful banners.

“Not many, sir,” the squire said. “My parents weren’t learned folks and when they were murder—”

“Oh, here we go again. If this ends with one of your childhood life lessons, I’m leaving.” Dale watched two men wrestle a wagon piled high with pumpkins into the square. “What’s with all the commotion today?”

“It’s the carnival, sir. I thought you knew?”

Dale’s eyes widened. “The Fleur de Floomp?”

“Yes, the Fleur de Floomp.”

“I love the Fleur de Floomp. Haven’t missed one in years.”

“Weren’t you escorted out of the last one?”

“Eh, a minor incident with a duck vendor. Still counts.”

*****

By nightfall, the village square had transformed. Lanterns cast warm pools of light across rows of painted stalls. Fiddlers played while children darted between merchants carrying toy swords. Roasting meat, cinnamon cakes, and wood smoke filled the air.

“I’m giddy, squire,” Dale said. “The carnival makes me feel alive. Tell me, do you have anything that brings you such joy?”

“Well, actually when I was si—”

“Ah! The duck stall. Come along.”

“Fresh duck here! Fresh duck!” the vendor cried.

Dale stepped forward. “One duck.”

The vendor reached for the first bird on the spit.

“Halt.”

The vendor paused.

Dale pointed to the back of the spit. “That one.”

“They’re all the same, sir.”

“This is either your first Fleur de Floomp or you’ve confused me with a tourist who fell off the turnip cart.”

The merchant stared. “Dale, I’ve worked this stall for twelve years. You were engaged to my sister.”

Dale squinted. “Ah, yes. Mark, is it?”

“Steven.”

“Right. Must be the soot and duck fat. She doing well?”

“Married a miller. Two kids. Quite happy.”

Dale leaned toward the squire. “Oof. A miller? Talk about a downgrade.”

“Poor girl,” the squire said.

Dale pointed. “Well, I’m sure things will turn around for her soon. Or not. Either way. Duck. Back row. Plumper the better.”

The vendor shook his head and handed Dale the duck.

Dale inspected it from every angle before taking a satisfied bite. “Mmm. Very rich. Well done, Mark.”

*****

They pivoted away, wandering deeper into the Fleur de Floomp. Laughter spilled from the ale tents. Every few yards a barker tried to tempt the crowd with a prize.

“Strike the bell and win a tunic!”

“Topple the cups for a silver goblet!”

“Test your strength!”

They rounded the next corner when a booming voice emerged. “Step right up to the Rings of Fortune! Attempt a shot even Robin Hood himself couldn’t pull off!”

Dale stopped abruptly, the squire bumping into him. “What did he say?”

“Rings of fortune?”

“Not that,” Dale said. “You there, carnival peasant. What’s this about Robin Hood?”

The man placed two hands on the booth table. “The outlaw tried about an hour ago. Hit the first two, missed the third.”

Dale smiled. “At last, our hero is flawed. Hold my bird.” He thrust the half-eaten duck into the squire’s hand. “What are the rules?”

The man gestured toward three iron rings suspended from ropes. Each hung farther away than the last, the nearest a foot wide, the final hardly larger than a walnut. “Three arrows. Send one through each ring. Miss a shot and the game is over.”

Dale rolled his shoulder and nocked an arrow. The first ring he cleared with ease. “Ha! Take that gutter dog.”

The man looked confused. The squire dismissed it with a head shake.

The second arrow clipped the iron and sent the ring spinning, but counted.

The third arrow went wide, embedding itself in the back platform.

“Damn!” Dale shouted.

“I’m sure it was just the duck grease, sir,” the squire said.

“Yes, of course. That and the bent arrows from this charlatan.” Dale slammed another coin on the table. “Again.”

Hours later, the fiddlers were packing up and the lanterns had burned low. Dale was exhausted, and his coin purse held a single remaining copper.

The squire finally pulled him away from the game.

“You know perfectly well that last arrow went through,” Dale said. “It’s the shadows playing tricks on our eyes.”

“Certainly, sir.”

As they walked away, they passed a small tent. A sign read: Fortunes - One Copper. An old woman sat inside, beyond a curtain of beads. It caught Dale’s eye. “Well, squire. This day couldn’t get any worse. Let’s see what else fate has planned.”

Dale sat across from the woman and placed his final copper on the table. She took his hand and closed her eyes. Dale grimaced, then mouthed toward the squire, “Get me a wet towel.”

She spoke:

“He boasts of skill but misses the mark,
He squanders his coin till the square grows dark.
A proud, blind creature of foolish habit,
What am I, sir? A mule or a rabbit?”

Dale rolled his eyes. “Illuminating. And I thought you were bad at riddles, squire.”

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Dale still won’t.

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—Ricky C.

“Is it the Blue Banshee or Blue Banshee?” she asked, sliding the plate across the formica tabletop.

“It’s just Blue Banshee,” Blue Banshee said.

“Interesting. Because, you know, it’s The Flash. The Green Goblin.”

“Well nobody says, The Superman.”

She crossed her arms. “Fair point.”

He picked up a fry.

“You don’t take the mask off even when you eat?” she said.

“I do, just not in public places.”

She looked around the empty restaurant. A wobbly ceiling fan creaked overhead. “There’s nobody else in here.”

Blue Banshee looked up. “Did you miss the part about me being a prolific serial killer?”

“Fair again.” She nodded. “But you know, you could’ve just walked in without the mask on, never mentioned this whole Blue Banshee business, and I would’ve just thought you were some guy who really liked fish sandwiches at midnight.”

He let out a long breath. “I’m starting to find that everybody’s got an opinion, but nobody’s willing to swing the axe.”

“Maybe so, but all in good fun.” She pulled out her order pad. “I’ll let you get back to your supper. Any interest in our homemade pies?”

“What do you have?”

“Peach, cherry, blueberry.”

He thought for a moment. “I’ll try the cherry.”

“Good choice.” She smiled. “It’s to die for.”

Blue Banshee shook his head. “Really? Couldn’t help yourself?”

“What? No. Just a habit.” She turned toward the kitchen. “Be right back with your slice. Don’t lose your head.”

Blue Banshee dropped his fork.

A pale fog drifted across Lake Shikawa. It was 4:30 in the morning, and there wasn’t yet a hint of daylight beyond the trees. Four rowers eased their racing shell into the water.

“What’s the deal with the counselors? It’s not even five in the morning and we’re out here practicing?”

“Yeah, well, last year we finished third in the All-Region Camp Games.”

“So?”

“So apparently that’s unacceptable considering what our parents pay.”

Twenty feet downshore, the water rippled as something slipped silently beneath the surface.

The campers noticed nothing.

The shell drifted away from the dock.

“Nice and easy,” the lead rower called. “Let’s wake the lake up gently.”

The rowers dug their paddles into the water, making slow lazy strokes.

Swimming parallel to the craft, Blue Banshee moved silently through the water, his boot knife clenched in one hand.

The rowers paddled. He was gaining on them.

WHACK.

A paddle caught him square in the forehead.

Blue Banshee disappeared beneath the water.

The shell continued onward.

WHACK.

Another paddle found him.

“Man,” one of the campers said. “This lake’s really choppy.”

“Nah,” another replied. “Just kelp.”

“I didn’t think freshwater lakes had kelp.”

Blue Banshee resurfaced.

WHACK.

Immediately he caught a paddle across the bridge of his nose. Water poured through the eye holes of his mask.

He sputtered, swallowed a mouthful of lake water, and finally peeled away toward the shore.

A minute later he crawled onto the rocks, gasping for air. He rolled onto his back.

“Should’ve skipped the cherry pie.”

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—Ricky C.

Ding ding. Ding ding.

Nothing happened.

The girls inside the car strained to peer through the station’s foggy windows.

“Where is everyone? Does nobody work here?”

“I told you we should’ve just stopped in Pine Mason.”

“And I told you I wasn’t paying six dollars for gas.”

“Oh, what do you care, it just goes on your daddy’s credit card.”

A third girl in the backseat leaned forward. “She’s got you there, Cindi. Now, just hit the horn. This place gives me the creeps.”

“Okay. Okay,” Cindi said.

BEEEEEEEEEEEEP. BEEEEEEEP.

Nothing again.

Behind an ice chest, a dark figure flinched.

BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP.

The figure slinked further back into hiding, nearly dropping the axe he was holding. The girls hadn’t noticed.

Inside the shop, a toilet flushed.

“Comin’,” a voice called.

A man stepped out of the back restroom, drying his hands on a paper towel. He clipped the dangling strap to the bib of his overalls and made his way outside.

The girls exchanged nervous glances as he approached.

“Oh my God,” one whispered. “He looks like the Crypt Keeper’s grandfather.”

“Be nice. He might show you his good tooth.”

Edgar stopped beside the driver’s window.

“Evenin’.”

“Could you fill it up, please?”

“What’s that?”

“Fill. It. Up.”

The girls laughed at Cindi’s over-annunciation.

Edgar nodded.

Cindi stuck her credit card out the window.

“Cash only, darlin’. Can’t you read the sign?” Edgar pointed toward the front door.

CASH ONLY AFTER 7PM - CARD READER DIES

Cindi stared at it. “Ew. How does a card reader die?”

“Usually around supper time.”

She rolled her eyes. “Not what I asked.” Then turned back to the group. “Do any of you have cash?”

Both shook their heads.

“I’m sorry, sir. We don’t have any cash. Could we like mail you some money? We’re just heading up to Camp Shikawa. I promise we’ll do it as soon as we get there.”

“Camp what?”

“Camp shi-ka-wa,” Cindi repeated.

The girls giggled.

Edgar scratched his head. “The summer camp?”

“Yes.”

“Fancy place, I hear. Bunch of rich folks sending their kids to do fencing and eat barbecue on real plates.”

The dark figure slowly leaned around the corner, knocking a rusted coffee can off the ice machine.

CLANG.

He jumped back, startled.

The girls’ eyes darted toward the sound.

“What was that?”

Edgar looked past the car. “Didn’t hear nothin’.”

“There’s a shocker,” the girl from the backseat whispered.

“Lot of wildlife round here. Probably a raccoon. They’re always messing with my dumpsters.”

“Right,” Cindi said. “Anyway, can we like get going?”

“Ehh, why not? I’m sure you’re good for it.”

“Really? Thanks bunches, sir.”

Edgar flashed a grin. “Not like you could outrun me if you skipped paying.”

“A potted plant could outrun him,” one of the girls said.

They all stifled a laugh as Edgar filled the tank.

After taking down the address, the girls went on their way. Edgar watched the taillights disappear.

“Nice girls.”

He bent down to pick up a discarded lottery ticket. When he straightened, a towering man stood ten feet away blocking his path inside.

Edgar jumped. “Cheese and cork you’re a big fella, ain’t ya?“

The man just tilted his head slightly.

Edgar shifted where he stood. “Don’t tell me you don’t have cash either. I’m just bout empty of freebies tonight.”

The giant took a step forward off the curb. Edgar eyed the axe that glimmered in the moonlight.

“You from the tree trimmers or something?”

“You can call me the Blue Banshee. And consider yourself—”

Edgar cut in. “Blue Bedsheet?”

“Banshee.”

“Band cheese?”

Blue Banshee’s shoulders slumped. “BAN. SHEE.”

“What tree company are you with again?”

“I’m not with any tree company. I’m Blue Banshee. And tonight marks the debut of the most ravenous and horrifying axe murderer the world has ever known. There will be stories told by campfires for generations on what I’ve—”

“Why aren’t you wearing any blue?”

“It’s more of a mindset than anything. Also wardrobe hasn’t been my first priority.” His tone shifted quickly, clenching the axe and moving a step closer. “Listen, I don’t have to explain my dealings to some codger.”

“No it’s Edgar. Not Rodger.”

Blue Banshee tightened his grip on the axe. “Listen carefully, Edgar. I have spared your life this evening for one reason only. You unknowingly revealed the location of those girls. I am headed to Camp Shikawa. By sunrise, Blue Banshee’s reign of terror shall begin.”

Edgar nodded. “Alright. Well if you’re planning on murdering those campers you better get a move on. Camp Shikawa’s a good two-day trek through the woods.”

“I wasn’t planning on hiking. I’ve got a Hyundai Sonata.”

Edgar looked him up and down. “Doesn’t seem very murderous.”

Blue Banshee scuffed his boot over some gravel.

“Is it blue?” Edgar asked.

“It’s maroon.”

“Maroon?”

“I think they call it Royal Cabernet.”

“Sheesh.”

“But it’s the most fearsome shade you’ve ever seen. It’s like the color of… Of.”

“Blood?” Edgar offered.

“Yes, Edgar. Blood! And it’s severely neglected. I rarely rotate the tires.”

“Okay then. Best of luck, Mr. Bedsheet.”

Blue Banshee let the axe head rest on the ground, then turned and marched toward the forest.

After a few steps he stopped.

“It’s a 2017.”

“What’s that?”

“The Sonata. A 2017.”

“Hope it’s paid off.”

“Mostly,” Blue Banshee said and disappeared into darkness.

“Nice fella.”

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—Ricky C.

Trailer

Line Throwers - Trailer

Previous Installments

Line Throwers 1 - Morning Assignments

Line Throwers 2 - Aspen of the Lowlands

Barrett entered Stonehouse 3 before most of the crew arrived. He was nursing a hangover from celebrating yesterday’s rescue of an accountant who’d drifted down the wrong side of Eastbank Bend. He pulled the hood up on his sleeveless sweatshirt and dropped into a chair next to Skip at a small card table in the corner. Skip, his number two and in similar condition, was picking at a breakfast burrito.

“That got outta hand yesterday, bro,” Skip said. He sniffed a refried bean and curled his nose. “I should’ve quit drinking even before that accountant showed up at the Cliff Jumper and started buying rounds.”

Barrett rested his forehead on the table. “Same. But he was so happy to be alive it felt rude not to take advantage of him.”

“Oh, you have to. Someone else’s dollar? I’m ordering Jägerbombs until they throw me outta there.”

“Which is exactly what happened, if I recall,” Barrett said.

“You know it.”

They both looked at each other and high fived.

“Stonehouse Slings!” Skip said.

The crack echoed through the briefing room, causing both men to wince.

Just then the sarge came power-walking in, smoothie in hand. “Man do I love the smell of the river in the morning.” He took his sunglasses off. “By god, boys, you look like hell.”

“Thank you, Sarge,” Skip said.

“That wasn’t a compliment.” He studied them for a moment. “Lemme guess. Too much celebrating over the accountant?”

Neither answered.

“I get it, boys, I do.” Sarge set the smoothie on the podium. “I’ve been there. Make a headline save. Drinks are flowing. Everybody started chanting Eastbank Bend’s undefeated. Then the out-of-town wallet shows up and buys a round. That’s tradition.”

Barrett nodded.

“But you’re also Harbor Marshal.”

Barrett’s smile faded.

“The younger throwers watch what you do. If you’re gonna be the face of Stonehouse 3, you gotta know when to call it.”

“Fair.”

“And Skip, I got no expectations for you.”

“Thank you, Sarge.”

“Again, not a compliment.”

Sarge grabbed a stack of flyers from the podium. “So instead of throwing line today, since you’re both so obviously under the weather, guess what? Recruiting season starts this week.”

Barrett groaned.

“Don’t give me that. You’re both on flyer duty. Cover downtown. Restaurant Row. The Marina District. And the trailer parks. Every bulletin board, coffee shop, and public restroom.”

“Come on, Sarge. You just said I’m the face of Stonehouse 3. Shouldn’t the face be doing something chiller?”

“Yeah. And the face’s assistant. Doing equally chiller?” Skip said.

“Good thing you two are better at rescues than grammar,” the sarge said. “And no. Non-negotiable. Consider yourselves head talent scouts.”

Barrett huffed. “How about we ditch the trailer parks? A skink hasn’t made the cut as a line thrower in more than ten years.”

“Another non-negotiable. Riverborn is a community. We take care of our own, no matter which side of the river your rump rests.”

Barrett and Skip grabbed the flyers and trekked off, the click-clack of flip-flops carrying in their wake.

Sarge watched them go. “Ten years,” he muttered. “Let’s see if we can change that.”

Johnny was throwing stones into the hole of a life preserver hanging from a chain-link fence. He was aiming for the center diamond. The trailer park pool was mostly empty. A ten-year old in swimmies had just grabbed his mother’s purse and dived into the shallow end. She didn’t notice, too engrossed in a cigarette.

Lipsticks and compacts began floating toward the diving board. As head lifeguard, Johnny considered whether familial purse theft fell under his jurisdiction.

A few pennies drifted to the bottom.

He decided the situation would mostly resolve itself, then tossed another stone. The rock sailed over the pool and through the center of the life preserver.

“Did you hear what I said, Johnny?” Grace called from behind the concession stand counter.

“Huh? Oh. What was that?”

“I said, what’d you want to get into tonight? I know they were doing half-priced chili boats at The Mountie. Figured we could head down there and split one.”

Before Johnny could respond, a soft-top Jeep came speeding into the lot. Out popped two familiar faces.

“Well, well, well,” Barrett said, walking with Skip through the pool entrance. “Head Skink of the underworld.”

Johnny let out a sigh. “What are you doing here, Barrett?”

“Honestly? No idea.” Barrett glanced around the pool. “For reasons nobody can explain, Sarge has a soft spot for this place and thinks we might find a body capable of throwing line. But all I can see is a flip phone about to float into the skimmer and a pool that’s one dead possum away from being condemned.”

Skip pointed toward the water. “I don’t know. Looks kinda nice.”

“Can it, Skip,” Barrett said.

“Yeah, can it, Skip,” Johnny said.

Barrett shoved past Johnny, then leaned on the counter. “You mind if we hang a few of these on your chicken tender shack here, Grace?”

“Have at it,” Grace said, then went back to stocking the hot dog buns.

Barrett handed a few flyers to Skip, who began stapling them to the sides of the concession stand.

“I’ll also take a Cherry Laffy Taffy. But only if it’s the ones with the sprinkle crunchies on em,” Barrett said.

“I think we got some in the back,” Grace replied, then left to check.

Barrett turned back around to Johnny. “So, you planning on trying out this year?”

Johnny shrugged. “Maybe.”

Barrett laughed. “That’d be something.”

The two stared at each other for a moment. Then a ringtone sounded from the pool filter. Nobody moved.

Buzz. Buzz.

The mother sat up from her plastic recliner, looking for her phone.

Her purse was now floating upside down in the deep end.

“TYLER!”

The kid immediately started running.

His mother lunged after him, caught her flip-flop on the lounge chair, and windmilled directly into the pool.

Tyler cleared the fence and disappeared between two trailers.

The woman surfaced, cigarette damp but preserved.

Barrett shook his head. “This place is a wasteland.” He headed for the exit. “Well, I’ll leave you to it, Chief. Looks like you’ve got a cleanup in aisle two.”

“Yeah. Grab a mop, skink,” Skip added before following Barrett out to the Jeep.

Johnny watched the soft-top speed out of the gravel lot. The mother was treading water, trying to fish her purse from the bottom with a leaf rake. He looked down at one of the flyers Skip had left behind.

RIVERBORN LINE THROWERS - THE COUNTY NEEDS MORE HEROES - ARE YOU READY?

The woman disappeared beneath the surface.

Johnny sighed and headed for the life preserver.

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—Ricky C.

Cover photo credit -

Dale approached the building, sidestepping a pile of dung. A fly circled his head.

Buzzzzzzzz.

He removed his hat and swatted it away. “Shoo you insipid beast,” Dale said. “Squire will be hearing about this.”

He mimicked the squire’s voice in a whining tone. “Meet at my house. I need to show you something.”

Another fly buzzed past.

“First and last time.”

He approached the entrance and appraised the building, then knocked.

The squire answered. “Sir, welcome. Come in. Come in.”

Dale entered the building and immediately covered his nose. “Good heavens, squire. You live in a stable?”

“It’s technically attached to the stable.”

“A horse can see you while you sleep.”

“Only if he’s facing this direction.” The squire waved a hand. “Come have a seat, can I offer you a drink?”

“Not with dysentery going around,” Dale said. “Remind me again why you couldn’t have met me at my home?”

“My mixing pot is far too heavy to carry across the village.”

Dale nodded and looked around the room, unenthused. There was a small cot in the corner. Hay covering the dirt floor. A pot boiling over a freestanding fire.

“Before we address whatever concern this is, you’ve been my squire how long now? Year? Year and a half?”

“Eight years, sir.”

“Hmm. That’s strange. I can recall a squire named Jerry a few years ago.”

“That was me, sir.”

“That explains very little,” Dale said. “Anyway. Quick question. Are these considered common living arrangements for a squire?”

“Actually, they’re quite modest, sir. Many don’t even have an overlooking horse.”

“Astonishing. I had my suspicions I was overpaying you. This confirms it.”

“You aren’t paying me at all, sir.”

“Nor should I. How embarrassing for me. A squire who can’t lift a pot across a village.” Dale took a seat at the wooden table. “Let’s get on with it. I’ll be flying Bartholomew later, and you know peregrine falcons get impatient.”

“Of course.” The squire filled a vial from the simmering pot. “This, you’ll love. I call it the Three Days Rest. A sleeping potion.”

Dale studied the vial. “How’s it work? You invite them over and share your life story?”

“Not quite, sir.” The squire set a small wooden box on the table, containing a mouse.

Dale peeked inside. “I’m hoping that’s not your breakfast.”

The squire shook his head. “No. It’s tomorrow’s.”

Dale recoiled.

“Watch this, though,” the squire said. He squeezed a small droplet onto the mouse, which immediately fell asleep.

Dale nodded, smiling. “Not bad, squire.”

“I thought you’d like it. And even more, it’s incredibly practical.”

“Practical?”

“It means useful. Like how a soup bowl’s round.”

“The potion, you clodpoll.”

“Ah yes.” The squire reached beneath the table and produced an arrow with the head removed. In its place was a small bundle of felt wrapped around the end.

“Dip the felt in the potion. Then all you need is a bit of exposed skin. An arm. A leg. The neck. A graze should do it.”

Dale’s eyes widened. “At speed?”

“Ideally.”

“Ingenious.” Dale stood. “Perhaps we need to test it on a larger… subject.”

The horse neighed. Dale looked in its direction.

“I believe your neighbor just volunteered.”

“I’d rather not. He’s quite large. I’m not sure I could drag him back into the stable.”

“You really need to lift more iron,” Dale said. “Let’s shoot out the front door then, I’m sure I can find some dolt in the distance to practice on. Perhaps that miserly baker. He always overseeds the tea-cakes.”

They stepped into the doorway.

“There,” Dale said, pointing across the village. The baker was unloading flour from a wagon. “Marvelous timing.”

Dale took aim. The horse neighed behind him, and a fly buzzed into Dale’s ear.

“AH!”

Dale flailed. The bowstring snapped forward. The felt-tipped arrow shot upward, struck the stable overhang, and ricocheted behind him.

Thud.

“Where’d it go?” Dale asked.

No answer.

He turned. The squire was sprawled on the floor.

Dale sighed. “Could you be more dramatic?”

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—Ricky C.

“Back it up, back it up,” he said.

The applicant swung the wheel hard, clipping the edge of the dock as he settled into the designated space between two buoys.

“Well,” the applicant asked. “How’d I do?”

Henry looked down at his notes written in charcoal. “Capsized a boat, sending a fisherman into the wharf. Hit the dock. And scared a seagull with the lantern.”

“Excellent.”

“You also hit The Salty Mermaid bar,” Henry said.

“Only the corner.”

“Application denied.” Henry tossed the charcoal into the sea and walked down the gangplank.

His assistant, Anne, offered a hand to help him bridge the gap. “He show promise?”

“I’ve seen better instincts crawling on the end of a wooden lice comb.”

“At least he knocked that fisherman into the water.”

“Always the optimist, my dear.” Henry gave a wide grin. “How are we looking this morning?”

“Line’s steady as ever. Lot of interest in pirating, though. Haven’t seen many privateering forms come through.”

“It’s that damn Blackbeard effect. All of a sudden everyone wants to walk around like a salt-cured fire-eater. It’s uncouth.”

“Can’t blame them,” Anne said. “Less oversight. Less regulation. More take home treasure.”

“Yes, yes. But they tell me I’m supposed to be issuing more privateering licenses. Apparently government-sanctioned piracy lacks appeal.”

Anne stopped him as they walked, taking his hand. “I know. But what do we say?”

Henry shook his head. “A barnacle-crusted hull still carries the gold.”

“That’s right,” Anne said.

“When the ghost fog settles thick and blind, ye be the lighthouse that guides me home.”

Anne smiled. “That’s beautiful, Henry. Now get back to the booth. The line’s backing up and in this heat they’re starting to smell like the wrong side of a catfish.”

They shared an embrace and returned to the licensing booth at the start of the dock. A makeshift sign overhead read:

OFFICE OF PIRACY AND PRIVATEERING

NO CUTLASS BEYOND THIS POINT

Henry pulled a sardine from his pocket and flipped it to a pelican perched atop a heavy table. The bird snatched it from the air and resumed guarding the applications. “Who’s a good boy, Peggy?” The bird cooed as the next applicant approached.

Henry looked up, underwhelmed. “Pirate or privateer?”

“Pirate,” the man said.

“Aye, have you considered privateering? Perfectly legal and has dental.”

“Don’t have many teeth, sir.”

“Also vision,” Henry said.

“Just the one eye.”

“And we’ll try and keep it that way… At half the premiums.”

“I don’t know. I’m more of an off-the-books plunderer.”

“Yeah, you and everyone else in the sea.” Henry lifted the form. “Alright, name?”

“Wick Stool,” the man said.

“Middle initial?” Henry asked.

“Is that relevant?”

Henry smacked his lips. “It is.”

“Middle initial’s R.”

Henry began writing. “Wick R. Stool.” He stopped. “Wicker Stool? Application denied.”

“Damn it!” The man threw his hat to the ground and trudged off.

Henry turned to Anne. “Imagine sailing the high seas alongside Wicker Stool?”

“Oof. One strong wind and he’d end up in a sunroom,” Anne said.

“Aye. A rattan nightmare,” Henry replied. “Next!”

Ahoy!

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—Ricky C.

His wife was overpaying for pilates somewhere near the marina. The twins were zip lining upriver at an adventure course. Walter himself spent the better part of two hours at the hotel bar, The Sterling Basin, enjoying river-forward bourbon cocktails. Walter didn’t know what it meant, but the bartender gave a little shoulder shimmy while shaking the mixer, which he took as chemistry and kept ordering.

But now his stomach was calling. He hopped off the stool and threw an extra twenty onto the bar. She slid the money away and gave him a wink.

“Still got it,” Walter whispered to himself before heading outside.

Next to the bar sat a walk-up kiosk for The Pluck & Tot, the best fried chicken in the county. He ordered an extra-large bucket with steak fries, the perfect accompaniment to slosh downriver.

Walter approached the street’s rental launch. “This is livin’,” he whispered to himself.

The teenage dock attendant looked concerned. That, or his eyes were blinded from the SPF 70 Walter shellacked across his chest, visible through an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt. Walter paid extra for a premium tube and a parking space near their hotel. It came with cupholders and a slip-resistant coating. He still managed to almost capsize trying to settle in. He slid the kid a fiver for holding his chicken bucket.

“Whoa—okay. Okay. We’re good,” Walter announced and pushed off. The current caught him almost immediately. At first, the ride was perfect. Riverborn drifted around him in postcard fragments.

Tourists waved from rooftop bars overlooking the water. Paddleboards wandered between tour boats near the ferry crossing. College kids cannonballed from an old stone bridge while shoppers carried boutique bags along Restaurant Row.

Walter raised a chicken thigh toward the sky. “This is why people work hard. The Aspen of the lowlands.” He made a mental note to look into buying a rental condo before Riverborn turned into one of those places people ruin by discovering.

A few bends later, the river widened, and the buildings thinned. The current sharpened up. Walter floated past weathered bait shops, old fishing docks, and a handful of warning signs. Up ahead, the river split.

Most tourists stayed left, where the current slowed near Restaurant Row and drifted lazily beneath the patio district. Eastbank Bend went right. Faster water. Narrower channels. More rocks and brush lines, catering to the more action-oriented seafarer. Walter, however, was busy watching a sunburned woman in a neon bikini shotgun a hard seltzer from a paddleboard. By the time he looked forward again, the current had already claimed him.

Walter squinted at some signs through his sunglasses. “Hmm.”

ENTERING EASTBANK BEND
INCREASING SPEEDS
KEEP LIMBS INSIDE

Then the tube accelerated. The fried chicken basket bounced, sending a fry into the river. “Damn.” Water splashed onto the lid of his lemonade. He wondered if any made it past the lid hole. The current pulled him faster toward a narrow stretch where the river curved around a cluster of low hanging brush. People along the shoreline began to notice.

A waitress carrying cocktails froze mid-step. Someone on the dock stood up. A tourist whispered, “He’s in the wrong spot.”

Walter attempted to paddle with one hand, getting nowhere. He pulled off a Croc to use as a makeshift oar. It did nothing. Now he was spinning. Slowly at first, then faster. The tube clipped a warning buoy and ricocheted sideways toward some underbrush.

That’s when a whistle blew. Every head turned. And standing atop the Eastbank platform was Stonehouse 3’s own Barrett Westbrook. Sunglasses, tank top, and practice rope dangling around his shoulders like a gunslinger holster.

He strutted down the platform steps and onto a rescue skiff while tourists gathered along the railing to watch.

Walter’s tube spun again. “My chicken bucket!” he yelled.

Skip, Barrett’s number two, glided the skiff into place. Barrett twirled the rope once. Twice. A completely unnecessary third time and then launched it. The line whipped through the air in a perfect arc before snapping tight around a handle on Walter’s tube.

The crowd erupted.

Walter’s tube stopped spiraling. Barrett gave the rope a tug and anchored him to the skiff, then coasted to the calm shoreline.

“Easy now,” he called. “Eastbank bites hard after lunch, hombre.”

The dockside crowd applauded as Barrett jumped ashore and offered a hand to Walter.

He looked up in awe. A single wet chicken skin fell off his shorts as he got up. “You saved my life.”

“We throw line,” Barrett said. “Around here… it’s the same thing.”

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—Ricky C.

The Line Throwers shuffled into the Stonehouse 3 briefing room, the sound of folding chairs scraping across the floor competed with the squeaking of wet sandals. The cinderblock walls were covered with county rescue maps, sun-bleached current charts, and framed photographs of legendary saves stretching back nearly forty years. Several staffers were unwrapping breakfast burritos.

“Now listen up,” the sarge said in a tone that drew all eyes. “I need this to be known. You did a hell of a job last week.”

The group erupted in cheers and whoops.

He banged a miniature oar on the podium. “Yes! That’s right. Great week, and I wanna keep it that way. I want everyone to remain focused. We have one job and one job only. What is that?”

“Safe shores, clean throws,” the group said in unison.

“That’s right. Riverborn County is thriving. We’re making all the charts for top places to visit. People wanna be on that river, but they wanna be on that river and safe. We got tourists floating through Restaurant Row for brunch. Paddleboards clogging the docking lanes. Bachelorette parties drifting past the marina, screaming country songs. Folks hop in tubes upriver and end up downtown three margaritas later. That river runs through this whole county. Shops, hotels, bars, rentals. Riverborn goes where that current goes. So let’s keep it that way.”

The unit answered with a series of sharp whistles and scattered applause.

“Now assignments haven’t changed. I’ll say this, Barrett, no more reports coming in about you hotdogging it out there.”

Barrett grinned. “The people demand a show.”

“The people do not demand a show. The people demand being safe while traversing the river. No more flair.”

Barrett high-fived a few supporters.

“Rein it in, now, I’m serious. You throw line better than anybody. You’re good, you’re damn good, that’s why you’re on Eastbank bend. That’s why you’re on Stonehouse 3. That’s why Stonehouse 3 keeps the Eastbank bend because we have the top talent. You’re the head lifeguard and Harbor Marshal. We need you. But tone it back. You make good throws, clean throws, but you don’t need to add all the theatrics. If a guy comes downstream with his Crocs a wiggling heading for the underbrush on an inner tube, grab him, center him, and send him on his way. That’s it. You don’t need to make a production out of it. Loopdeloops. Back hands. Behind the back tosses. Just clean throws.” Sarge swung the oar to his shoulder. “Safety. We watch each other’s backs out there. Folks spend good money to drift through this county. Riverfront condos, bait shops, rooftop bars, mechanical bulls. Doesn’t matter if they’re sipping $18 cocktails downtown or shotgunin’ beers upriver in a tractor tire. Once they hit that current, they’re our responsibility.”

A few veterans pounded the table while Barrett spun a practice rope overhead. “Stonehouse slings!” somebody yelled from the back.

Sarge cleared his throat. “Just wanna make a few quick acknowledgements. Rebecca and Rochelle, those double line catches on that wayward pontoon. Well done, ladies. That made it up the chain quick.”

The group applauded. Rebecca and Rochelle stood and acknowledged them.

“Skip. Outstanding redirect work near Ferry Cut. Family of six came through tangled like kielbasa links. Could’ve been ugly.”

More applause followed.

“Lastly, Rodger. Quick response on that drifter trying to settle at the hibachi place. Textbook work.”

The sarge raised his whistle and gave it a soft blow. “Alright. To your post, Stonehouse 3. Rivers already moving. Clean throws on three. One, two, three.”

“Clean throws!”

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—Ricky C.

In a place where being a lifeguard meant more than just a summer job.
This is The Line Throwers of Riverborn County.

Line Throwers have it all. Admiration, prestige, killer tans. The selection process was as rigorous as Navy SEAL training, only wetter and with less clothes.

To Johnny, being a Line Thrower meant everything. But it wasn’t going to come easy. Especially for someone from his side of the creek.

Head Lifeguard: “You think you could become a Line Thrower just because your granddaddy was? You couldn’t polish a buoy with two hands and a dropped anchor, skink.”

From the creators of Wet Leave Limos and Plight of the Brown Belts, one boy risks everything.

Grace: “I don’t know why it’s even that important to you, Johnny. We need lifeguards right here, in our trailer park pool.”

Johnny: “You don’t get it, Grace. And I don’t know if you ever will.”

Grace: “Johnny, wait.”

This summer the current was about to change. Johnny wasn’t just chasing respect, he was chasing his legacy.

Head Lifeguard: “Again. Again! Clear that channel, plebe.”

Johnny: “I’m trying to prove I’m more than just a skink from the trailer park.”

Wise Old Guy: “That river don’t know your name. It don’t know your bloodline. That river only cares if you can throw.”

Bystander: “Send the line Johnny! That canoe’s driftin!”

Failure wasn’t an option. For this county… there are no second throws.

Wise Old Guy: “Say what you want about where he’s from, that boy’s got river instincts.”

This wasn’t just about lifeguarding anymore.

(Rapid cuts)
Whistles blowing
Everyone watching the current
Johnny dives heroically off a pontoon boat
A kayak flipping in slow motion
An old woman cheers

Head Lifeguard: “So what, he saved him. Still smells like discount sunblock.”

Line Throwers of Riverborn County—coming soon.

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See you soon,

— Ricky C.

*thanks to my neighbor Candy for providing the voiceover for Grace.

“I can’t help it, sir,” the squire said. “This wig is itchy.”

“Quit your bellyaching. You ruined the entire walk over with your whining, and I already gave you a pass on the false teeth.”

“I was getting splinters.”

Dale shook his head. “I swear I’ve seen a stronger constitution on a paper spittoon.”

A horse and cart came clomping by, they ducked for cover. Dale popped back up without his wig, which got caught on a branch.

The squire resurfaced. “Sir, your wig.”

Dale took it back angrily, put it on backwards, and stood for a moment sensing something was off. Then straightened it. He watched as the last of Robin Hood’s men left the bar.

“Alright, squire. Now’s our chance.”

They emerged from the bushes, swiping leaves and debris from their minstrel clothes, and walked toward the tavern.

“Sir,” the squire said, “I’m just not sure why we need to disguise ourselves as performers. We’re not that well known here, and I don’t even know how to play the lute.”

“Certainly not you, but the legend of Dale has been sung in these woods for years now. Remember that fifth runner-up in last fall’s archery competition. Would have been a first if that crow hadn’t begun spatting off. We wear the disguises, get the location of Sherwood Forest, and report it to the king. We’ll collect our bounty and be restored as the rightful heroes of this village. Well, me at least. You’ll remain a squire, but with better clothes.”

They entered the tavern.

“Good day,” Dale announced.

“Good day,” the squire echoed.

“Good day,” said a man with a limp.

“Good day,” Dale said.

“Good day,” the squire echoed.

“Good day,” said a man in an eyepatch.

“Good day,” Dale said. He turned to the squire and whispered, “Is this a tavern or an infirmary?” He edged his way over toward the fire. “We’re just a couple of entertainers in search of an audience.”

“Normal regular entertainers,” the squire said.

“If I may regale you with one of our latest poems,” Dale said. He pulled a piece of parchment from his purple and teal vest and swiped a few strands of wig hair off his face. Then cleared his throat:

The rancid fish roasted on the spit.
A feral possum eyed a juicy bit.

A smell so foul it could start a fire,
But not any worse than the smell of a squire.

Laughter burst out from the tavern. Dale took a slight bow, the wig almost flopping off. He slid it back in place, then they sidled up to the bar.

A large man with a beard cracked his neck beside him. “Great poem, Dale.”

“I’m afraid you have the wrong man,” Dale said. “I’m Gus. A minstrel. We’ve been looking for an audience. I hear the Merry Men enjoy some entertainment. Might I—”

The barkeep slid two ales down the counter. “Your usual, Dale?”

Dale stared at the cup, then picked it up and drank.

The squire leaned toward him. “Sir, I think our cover may be blown.”

Dale exhaled loudly. “I told you to wear the false teeth, you imbecile.”

Dale turned slowly. In the far corner, Robin Hood sat at a table with three men, all laughing. He glanced over at Dale with a pleasant expression, then went back to his conversation.

“We’re leaving,” Dale said.

“But, sir, the location.”

“Now.”

The squire chugged his drink and followed Dale outside. Dale ripped the vest off, yanked the wig from his head, and threw it into a water trough. It floated.”

“Same time next week?” the squire asked.

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See you soon,

— Ricky C.

If you’re interested in the first adventure of Dale and the squire, they can be found here:

“Yes, I’m sorry, sir. I think I just spotted Robin Hood entering the tavern.” The squire pulled a match from a small satchel attached to his belt. He attempted to spark it against the post beside him. The match skipped twice.

“Just give me that, you buffoon.” Dale yanked the match from the squire’s hand, spun him by the shoulder, and struck it cleanly against the back of his tunic. He lit a hand-rolled cigarette, took a long puff, and watched the smoke drift. Then he nocked an arrow, read the wind, and sent it clear over the tavern roof and into the forest.

“Spotted Robin Hood,” Dale said, mocking the squire’s voice. “Yeah, you and half the village. Oh, Robin Hood. He’s such a charmer. You know, I was the first to wear poulaines with tights. And I’ve got the real pointy ones too, you could pick a lock with these shoes.”

“I can recall you trying, sir.”

Dale spat a stream of tobacco into the watering trough beside him. A horse tied to the post gave him an awkward eye.

“Robin Hood starts wearing them, hands out a few coins and trinkets to the local dullards and now everyone’s lining up at the tannery to get a pair.”

The squire squinted as a group entered the tavern. “That had to have been Robin Hood. Friar Tuck just went inside.”

Dale ignored him. “I’m the better archer. That’s well known. I could plink a corn kernel set on a fence post with a quart of beer in my belly and the sniffles.” He set another arrow, took aim at a wagon wheel in the center of the square, and fired. It flew flat, missed the spokes, and landed in the dirt. “Damn! Mosquito deflected it.”

“Assuredly, sir,” the squire said. “If we were going to hatch this plan, I’d say our window is getting shorter. Might I suggest we move over to the tavern?”

They slipped around the side of the building toward the back. A mass of cheers rang out from inside. Glasses clinking, stringed instruments picking up.

As they crept, Dale whispered, “You hear that? Likely paying the tosspot’s bar tabs. Takes from the rich and gives to the poor, my hindquarters.”

“Does he really pay bar bills?” the squire asked.

“Quiet. This is it.”

They reached the back of the tavern where a horse stood tied to a post. “Of course his horse is white. How typical. Let’s get this beast loose. See how he fares without it.”

“Do you think you can untie the knot, sir? I think it’s a clove hitch.”

Dale looked at him. “Does Little John have bad breath?”

“I can’t say. He’s so tall, I doubt breath can carry that far.”

“Just shut up and keep watch.”

Dale struggled with the knot. Yanking and fumbling. He began to sweat. A roar went up from inside, then voices spilled toward the front door.

“I think now is a good time, sir,” the squire said.

Dale pulled his knife and cut the rope. “Move,” he said to the horse. The horse stood. Dale waved and clapped his hands. “Shoo you oaf.” The horse blinked.

“Go on,” the squire whispered. “Shoo. Shoo.”

The horse sneezed in Dale’s face.

“Hey!” a voice called from the side of the tavern. “What are you two doing?”

They both panicked and took off. Dale’s extra pointy shoes caught a root, and he crashed into the squire. They hit the ground together. Dale’s bow snapped under him.

He looked down. “You’re paying for that.”

Consider subscribing. Dale wouldn’t.

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See you soon,

—Ricky C.

Volcanic Ash looked down at his leadership manual. It was sourced from the human world, but had solid principles that most top executives swore by:

Chapter 1 Summary - How to Nail the Intro - C.A.N.S.

• Connect: share something about the passage of time

• Anecdote: humanize with a story or hobby (use humor if setting permits)

• Nurture: provide calming validation

• Suggestion: offer steps for improvement (use a soft knife)

He shut the manual. This was the fifth consecutive year leading the event, yet he still felt some nerves.

As everyone found their seats, the lights dimmed slightly. Volcanic Ash self-illuminated, just enough to draw more eyes. “Showtime,” he whispered to himself, then flicked on his headset mic.

“Welcome everyone to the 2026 Supervillain Mid-Career Retirement Seminar.”

The applause was underwhelming. Volcanic Ash spun and launched a glob of scalding lava above the audience’s heads. Some of their hair singed.

The glob tore through the back wall.

An older couple from Iowa, returning to their room for their matching fanny packs, peered through the opening. A cyborg wolf in the back row turned and growled. They moved as fast as their New Balances and sock sandals could take them.

Back up front, Volcanic Ash grinned, feeling some nerves subside.

“As I said, welcome everyone.” The reception in the Motel 6 conference room warmed. “That’s better.”

“So,” Volcanic Ash continued, “I don’t know about you all, but I cannot believe it’s almost May. The year’s been flying by. Springtime. I’m a huge swimmer—not exactly a hot tub guy, for redundant reasons. I’ve got an Olympic-sized lap pool at home, and I tell you, when they removed the cover, the water level was lower than Camel Related Man’s IQ.”

A few respectful chuckles came from the crowd.

Camel Related Man spurted a wad of acid spit towards the front. It began melting through the carpet—which technically had been through worse.

Volcanic Ash waved his hands innocently. “I joke, Camel. You know we love you.”

“Before we move through the agenda, I just want to say, and I mean this from the bottom of my rubble, the fact that you’re here, that you’re thinking ahead, taking your mid-career seriously enough to plan? Well, that’s everything. You should all be proud and deserve a round of applause.”

Minimal followed, until Volcanic Ash began forming another lava glob.

“So, just a quick housekeeping note. Out of forty-six attendees last year, we only had eleven fill out the survey. I’m not calling anyone out, but feedback helps us improve. In theory anyway. It takes just three minutes and means a lot. If you need help with writing implements, I’m looking at you, the wormy fella in a fedora, just flag down an intern. That’s all.”

Volcanic Ash clicked to the next slide. “Alright. Breakout sessions are divided by room.”

He read off the screen:

He was interrupted by Yellowing Conch from the front row. “The Motel 6 doesn’t have an Ambassador Room.”

“Damn it, Conch,” Ash said. “We put a placard outside the front door of each entrance.”

Yellowing Conch sat back down, his massive wet tongue hit the floor.

Volcanic Ash glanced down at his lanyard. It still read 2028. He made a mental note to eviscerate his latest assistant.

“One more thing, please be respectful of other guests on your way to the breakouts. We don’t need another Toledo.”

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—Ricky C.

Chester sat on the carpet. Dog toy in mouth. Diligently awaiting the first official day of Got Bats.

“Well, Chester,” said Larry. “Seven months of planning has led to this. We’ve advertised. We’ve networked. Phone lines are ready to be flipped on. Time to solve the good people of southern Missouri’s bat problems.”

Chester licked his toenail for posterity.

Larry plugged in a long wire to connect the hotline. Fifteen minutes later, the phone rang.

Larry jumped off his stool. “This is it, Chester.”

He picked up the phone. “Hello, Got Bats. This is Larry speaking.”

An elderly voice came through the speaker. “Yes, Larry. Oh thank God you picked up. I’ve got bat problems.”

“Not to worry, ma’am. That’s what we’re here for. What kind of trouble are you having?” Larry said, sliding a notebook from his messenger bag.

“Oh, they’re everywhere, Larry. All over my house. The attic, my cupboards.”

“Your cupboards?”

“Everywhere. I’ve caught a few with those snap traps, but I still see their droppings.”

“You caught a bat with a snap trap?”

“Yes, I baited it with cheese and peanut butter like they say.”

“Ma’am, are you talking about mice? Do you have a mice problem?”

“Bats mice. What are you trying to prove? They’re both rodents.”

“Ma’am I apologize, we’re set up for bat control issues. You’ll have to call an exterminator.”

“Ah, help me, Larry. I see one now. It’s chasing my cat. Oh, it’s in my hair.”

Larry hung up and sighed. “False alarm, Chester. Just a prankster getting their jollies in.”

The phone rang again.

“Hello Got Bats. Larry speaking.”

The same elderly voice came through. “You’re not gonna believe this, Margaret. I just pranked that Got Bats fella. Anyway, I’ll tell you about it over bridge. Call me back if you get a chance.”

“Ma’am, this is Larry again from Got Bats. I think you accidentally called us.”

“Oh. Well thank God, Larry. The bat mice have begun dumping out all of my cereal boxes. I don’t know how I’ll cross into the kitchen without getting my socks dirty. The horror. The crunch. The crumbs.”

He cut her off and let out another sigh. “Don’t worry, Chester. Just a bit of a rocky start.”

Three hours passed. Chester finished a bone he’d been gnawing on. Shards were spread throughout the carpet. He began working on one of Larry’s shoes.

The phone rang.

“Got Bats. Larry here. How may we be of service?”

“Help, help there’s a duck on my back!”

“A duck?”

“Yes, its beak is wet. Oh, no. Plea—”

Larry hung up. “This is getting ridiculous.”

Another ring.

“Yes, Got Bats. Please tell me you’ve got a bat problem.”

“Ever since I moved to Gotham City, there’s been nothing but problems.”

Larry hung up and stared at the receiver.

“Maybe we just should have done that fishing podcast we talked about.”

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— Ricky C.

Gillman took a job at the cafe. It had been interesting.

Gillman entered the back office, where the manager, Mr. Wand, was waiting. Wand was a kind man. A bit of a boring optimist, who projected a sense that velcro shoes were a staple for the weekends. Still, there weren’t many offering positions to middle-aged swamp creatures with humidity requirements.

“Gillman, welcome. May I call you Gill?” Mr. Wand stood and shut the door behind them—not waiting for a response to the informality. He offered a chair. “How is everything going? Feel like you’re adjusting well?”

Gillman sat. There was a squish. “No complaints.”

“Good good. Here’s the scoop. I don’t want to take up much of your time. The team loves ya. They really do. It’s just.”

Gillman’s tongue began to pulse, eyes darting around the room following a fly. Wand attempted to steer him back with his head.

“It’s just that,” Wand said, regaining eye contact. “There’s been some comments.”

“Comments?”

“Anonymous. We have a suggestions box. I’m a bit old school in that way.” Wand grabbed a stack of cards from his desk and set his reading glasses on his nose. “Let’s see. Pushes slime infused drinks too aggressively.”

“People love slime,” Gillman said.

“Perhaps. Eating flies in front of customers.” Wand looked up from his glasses. “We’ve already seen that trend here today. What else? Smells like a sewer. That one, I actually wrote.”

Gillman let out a sigh.

“I know, I know, Gill. Swamp creatures have different hygiene regimens. Here’s the deal. I brought you on thinking that we’d be the first and only Dutch Bros with a real cryptid. And trust me, we saw an initial spike in interest that will get us through the post-holiday financial tightening.”

“Which holiday?”

“Flag Day. Arboretum. Whatever. Point is, you started off strong. But reality has set in and either you’ve gotta tighten it up or maybe we try you on drive through.”

Gillman burst to his feet. “This is outrageous.” He smacked the fly mid-air and swallowed it down.

Wand waited.

“If you work drive-through, I’ll give you a $5 weekly bonus and let you stay after hours to catch as many mice as you’d like.”

“Deal.”

Gillman shook his hand. There was a squelch. His first promotion.

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The year is 1997. Impulse and indecision brought us to this moment. Everyone had rehearsed their lines on the drive over. My brother, short-tempered and eleven, was to say nothing. I was to act innocent.

This was a return.

The family approached the red-counter. A tired woman in a vest slid off her stool. Behind her sat a rusted wire shopping cart, littered with open box dishes, bent nerf arrows, and a popcorn maker. They were negotiation casualties, despite her years of training. You can’t win them all.

Vest lady: How may I help you?

Mom: Yes, I’d like to return this.

Vest lady: Do you have your receipt?

Mom: I do.

She removed the paper from a file folder and slid it across the counter. We always kept receipts.

Vest lady: Okay, so what seems to be the problem?

Mom: We no longer need it.

Vest lady: You no longer need it?

Mom: That’s correct.

Vest lady: That’s a tad unusual, don’t you think?

Mom: You know how it is, a quick purchase. Realized ours was still fine. So I’m bringing it back.

Vest lady: I don’t actually.

She turned the box over, inspecting the corners.

Vest lady: Oh, it looks like the seal is broken on this tape. Did you open it?

Mom: I think my husband might have opened it. But we no longer need it.

Vest lady: Well that changes the calculus a little bit. Did you try it? Does it work?

She opened the box now, pulling the contents onto the operating table.

Mom: No, he didn’t.

Vest lady: There’s crumbs in it.

Mom: Those are factory crumbs probably.

Vest lady: Factory crumbs? I’ve seen plastic shards in a unit like this, but these are food particles.

All of us sweating now.

Vest lady: Listen, ma’am. I’ve seen a lot of toasters come and go. Let me pose a theory. You purchased this toaster. Perhaps you tried it. Maybe your husband bought one too. Miscommunication on your end. Maybe you liked the speed on the other one. But this is Kmart, okay. We have a certain reputation of honesty and transparency. This has been used. We’re not in the business of letting you test-drive electronics, then pawning them off onto other buyers. Now might I suggest you remove this from my counter and grab a slice of Little Cesar’s on the way out.

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See you soon,

— Ricky C.

I was talking to a squid. He was feeling down, mostly about his name.

“I mean what is a squid anyway?” he said.

“Well… you sort of are,” I replied.

“Squid. It’s one sound. Like burp. It’s gross.”

“I think it’s kind of cool. Fun to say. Fun to read.”

“Please, what do you know? Kids don’t even recognize me. Always thinking I’m an octopus.”

He slid a shrimp across the table. “Any ideas? You’re the creative type. Help me out here.”

“What about a name change? Lean into the ten arms. Decapus, maybe?”

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.”

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See you soon,

— Ricky C.

My golf comedy Bluecut Rills is out today.

It’s about two brothers trying to save a public golf course from a developer with a bad attitude and poor taste in blazers.

If you like Caddyshack or are just a fan of golf hijinks set in small mountain towns (I know, a rather eclectic taste), here’s the link:

Amazon - Bluecut Rills

Minks, questionable swamp-adjacent golf conditions, fog machines. It’s got it all.

Thanks for reading.

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See you soon,

— Ricky C.

I’ve always loved oblivious comedic villains—Judge Smails in Caddyshack, Tony Perkins in Heavyweights. Fred was my attempt to create one.

Here’s a scene from the first chapter where he shares his vision.

Fred Falloon, local real estate developer and guardian of unchecked sprawl, sat perched on a barstool that looked like it had been stolen from a saloon-themed amusement park. His pinky ring clinked against the rim of his glass as he swirled a double Scotch. He wore a white blazer with embroidered flamingos flying skyward, as if they were trying to escape his poor taste.

The nicest hotel in Bluecut Rills promised “rustic refinement” and mostly delivered, right up until you found The Water Hazard, the dive bar tacked onto its backside. It was quiet, private, and had the sort of wear-and-tear that kept people with networking agendas away. Maybe that’s why Fred liked it, though he’d never admit he was a regular.

He sniffed. “Smells like Windex and wet naps in here. You must have a date.”

The bartender, a part-time wedding DJ named Dennis who insisted on being called Denali, as confirmed by his Sharpie-marked name tag, just nodded. Experience taught him that Fred’s comments were rarely meant for anyone but himself.

“Denali, let me ask you something. You ever play golf?”

Denali was polishing a martini glass with a threadbare rag, stained and frayed from years behind the bar. “I work here, man. What do you think?”

“Exactly,” Fred said, pointing a knuckle at him. “Exactly. You’re not burdened by the lies of the game. You don’t pretend that walking five miles in ugly pants chasing a tiny ball makes you better than anyone else. That’s real freedom.”

He took a long sip, grimaced, and continued. “Me though? I’m a prisoner to it. Because golf, golf is how you get to the soul of a man. You can’t lie on a scorecard. Well, you can, but it’s a spiritual lie. And I don’t trust spiritual liars.”

Fred shifted on his stool and looked past Denali. He stared through the bar’s smeared window at the town beyond. Its flickering neon signs, the weathered shingle roofs, the outline of Bluecut Rills Golf Club, just past the tree line. A smug grin crept across his face. He could practically feel his bank account growing.

“You know the thing about those Wicksell boys?” Fred said. “They’re like rust. Not dangerous right away. But leave ‘em alone long enough, and they’ll ruin good metal. That real estate is a gold mine, and those turds are squandering it.”

He swirled his drink and scoffed. “It was supposed to be my year. Senior year. All the scouts were watching me. Then he shows up as a freshman, and breaks every damn record I set before my spikes were even dry. I was the name at that school. Then Knut saunters in, swing like a poet, attitude like a happy hour meatball. Please. I’ve seen better motions in a toddler’s birthday piñata line.”

He jabbed a thumb at his chest. “I had to grind for everything. He breezed through, smug and naturally better at the one thing I cared about.”

Fred took another sip, then clinked the glass suggestively toward Denali. After a few awkward moments between the two men staring at each other, Denali obliged with a top-off.

“Knut thinks he’s some kind of folk hero, walking around barefoot quoting bumper stickers and Fred Flintstone—next thing you know, he’ll be pedaling a giant stone wheel. And Arnie? Come on. That man probably tries to itemize paperclips. He’s a spreadsheet away from a nervous breakdown.”

He jabbed his thumb again. “I’ve got vision. Plans. Capital. Connections. I know how to take something broken and make it profitable. That’s what separates me from those two. I don’t get sentimental. I succeed. End of story.”

“Sure,” Denali said, in a way that meant nothing at all.

Fred kept going. “I mean, take a ride by the course sometime. You should see it.”

He hesitated, trying to picture how someone like Denali lived. Did they have cars? A kitchen? “Do people with name tags even get days off?”

Denali broke into a yawn that could also have been the beginning of a response, but was waved away by Fred.

“Eh, never mind. It’s a mud patch with flagsticks. I could have a five-diamond resort built on that land in six months. Rooftop hot tubs. Automated cocktail carts. No tipping. No talking. And of course cucumber towel service.”

He paused, waiting for affirmation. Denali shrugged.

Fred continued a while longer, fantasizing out loud about fairway condos and his name etched in stone above the clubhouse door. After draining his cup, he stood and flipped a $25 poker chip in Denali’s direction.

“In the biz, we call that a little seed money, dippy,” he said.

Denali watched the chip roll and tumble off the bar top. There wasn’t a casino within 50 miles of town. Unwilling to risk a further conversation with Fred Falloon, he went back to drying glasses.

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So that’s Fred. He gets worse.

See you soon,

— Ricky C.

Hank - Bluecut Rills Golf Club, Head Groundskeeper
Louie - Bluecut Rills Golf Club, Mechanic

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The moonlight washed the course in a soft glow. Caught between seasons, the air had turned cool. Crickets hummed steadily until a walkie crackled through the quiet.

“Mountain Clam, this is Barnacle. I’ve got three in my sights. Over,” Louie called into the radio. He inched forward on his stomach to get a better position through a thicket of chokecherry.

“Do not engage, still approaching from the East,” Hank said. “Also, what is this Barnacle claptrap? We agreed on Mop for you. How many times can I say, ‘no name changes mid-operative?’ Stick to the script. Over.”

“Relax, compadre. If I’ve learned one thing about geese, it’s that there is no script.”

Hank let out a low growl and clicked the receiver. “I should have requested overtime for tonight.”

“We’re getting paid for this?” Louie said.

Hank shook his head as he slipped his three-wheeled maintenance cart into neutral, cutting the engine noise while creeping slowly down the steep hill of the 16th Hole.

Tonight’s mission was to disrupt the family of geese who’d taken a liking to the greenside bunker of the long par-3. Hank had spent one too many mornings hosing down his rubber boots following a clash between bunker duty and the geese treating the sand trap like their personal porta-john.

Hank pulled over, then moved to the utility bed of the cart. He lowered the hatch and quietly lugged a dark box off the back. It had the shape of a small treasure chest, fitted with metal handles. A circular window the size of a quarter was positioned on top.

He clicked his radio, staring at two geese who popped their heads up from the bunker but appeared to fall back asleep. He whispered, “Have you tested this contraption?”

The walkie crackled. “Does a skunk test its spray? Does a porcupine question the point of its quills? It works.”

“Alright. Go over it again then.”

Louie sat upright in the bush, peering over the leaves. “It’s simple. You position the device near the top of the bunker. When clear, I’ll activate the porch pirate bait. It’ll spring, disorienting them in a cloud of fog. A window sensor picks up the haze, triggering the tent launch, carefully capturing them inside. Tomorrow, in your truck, we relocate the crew to Monarch Ridge, where they’ll have plush fairways and fluffy bunkers for nesting.”

Hank sighed. “And why didn’t we just set the device during the day so I could get some sleep?”

A pause.

Hank clicked the receiver. “Mop… Mop, you read me?” He bent his head around the cart to see if the geese moved. They didn’t stir. Hank sighed again. “What the hell did he say?” He pressed the walkie. “Barnucle, do you copy?”

“Sorry. Was opening a beef skinny with my teeth. That’s a no-go on daytime deployment. Scared of the dark. And it’s Barnacle.”

“You know most courses just use fake wolves or border collies. But alright. Positioning now.” Hank approached the lip of the bunker from an army crawl, dragging the device as he went. Upon reaching the crest, he settled it into position—the latch on the spring door facing toward the sand. “Positioned,” Hank whispered.

Fog from the nearby water hazard crept low across the green as Hank began to slink away.

Click. Whirr. BOOM.

A burst of compressed blue dye erupted from the device like a gender reveal gone wrong.

Hank disappeared into the plume, coughing.

The tent launched, clearing the bunker with the veracity of a t-shirt cannon and landing in the pond. The irrigation intake began making a heavy suck sound, slurping up the tent into the abyss.

One goose stood up, then re-nestled back in the bunker.

“Come in, Mountain Clam. Status of containment,” Louie said.

Hank wiped a hand across his cheek and spat blue to the grass, then engaged the radio. “Tell me the haze sensor wasn’t wired to the pirate bait.”

“Huh,” Louie said. “Come to think of it, it might have been.”

The irrigation line kept chugging before the clog ceased operations.

“Was that my good fishing net in there?” Hank said. “Thought you used a tent.”

“You can rest easy,” Louie said cheerfully. “Just onion bags I stitched together.”

Hank coughed and stared into the dark. “Skunks and quills.”

He pressed the radio button. “Let’s get back to the shed. I need your eyewash and a retirement plan.”

“Aye-aye,” Louie replied.

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See you soon,

— Ricky C.

Every day I’m told how to live better, sleep deeper, and eat differently. My great-grandma made it to 95 with barely any instructions.

Nobody ever told her a life hack. She didn’t know that the first drink of the day should not be coffee. I’m confident she never counted a step: “7,000 are required to cut heart disease by 30%.” She never switched to almond butter because technically peanut butter is a legume, which means it will slowly detonate your spleen.

When I think about her, there are a few things that stand out. She was married to a man named Raymond. I don’t know how they met. The standards for swiping right back then were living on the same street and whether the man could raise a barn. I’ve seen old pictures of Poppa Ray, as we called him. He didn’t look like much of a barn raiser, but it’s hard to spot muscles under long-sleeved button-ups—the only attire of the time. His brown slacks appeared to have a weight to them, so I’m sure his squat numbers were respectable.

I hope they were in love, though I remember my mom saying Poppa Ray wasn’t that nice to her. I can’t speculate what that meant. Perhaps he was rather cold, or perhaps he never took her to Chili’s on its grand opening. I’m not here to sully the man’s name, it’s not the point, what I’m saying is she lasted a long time.

Her house was filled with cuckoo clocks, and she’d watch daytime tabloid TV, then recount the insights she learned back to us. I can recall her telling the neighbor’s daughter not to marry a man who checks your underpants. It wasn’t sound logic, but she spoke. Isn’t that enough to suggest she cared? She owned a housecoat that she wore all year round. It had a quilted pattern and mustard color that thrived during sloppy barbecues.

Let’s walk through her normal day, in terms of information load. She’d awake to the coordinated blare of thirty-seven cuckoos manufactured in the Black Forest region of Germany. Maybe there would be a newspaper in her house, assuming old Ray allowed such progressive behavior as literacy.

When the husbands went off to work, she might have phoned another housewife, to collectively fantasize about what the interior of Chili’s was like. She probably sat on the porch to peel potatoes and work on a pie of unusual fruit origin. Rhubarb or some other vaguely vegetable root plant. Parsnip loaf with sprig of bland. All in, maybe she encountered five to ten messages.

My morning begins with the vibration of my phone, synced to my watch. I slap at the off button on both screens. Eventually one registers, usually the snooze, meaning the whole exercise will occur again in about eight minutes. From there, I scroll through my phone with shame. Making rounds between email, social media, and package deliveries.

As I make my coffee, I’ll watch a YouTube short—or three. I try to skip the ad by closing the app. Some days it works and I feel like I’ve stolen something. A similar cycle continues throughout the day, to a total approaching the thousands. If I had to guess, probably a level that could give the peanut a real run for rupturing spleens.

She made it to 95 and survived Poppa Ray. I’m still deciding about the efficacy of cold showers and safest non-legume spread.

See you soon,

—Ricky C.

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