Category: Taking the bait

Hollywood, CA. Celebrities who have fallen on hard times often sell memorabilia collected over their careers. In recent months, a new trend seems to have overtaken Hollywood. The rich and famous who are not quite as rich and famous as they once were have recently resorted to a rather dramatic ploy (by Western standards) to improve their financial condition. They have taken to auctioning off their children.

“I needed to raise money fast,” said one celebrity L.A. mom who hid her face in a paper sack in order to remain anonymous. “I auctioned off my youngest to a very nice family in the Hancock-adjacent area, very nice house, with a pool and everything. I’m sure Junior will be quite happy there, especially knowing he helped Mommy pay off her mortgage and get out of credit card debt.”

Before you get too excited about bidding on the offspring of your favorite movie stars, you should know certain rules apply. For example, you aren’t allowed to resell the children into any form of slavery. You aren’t allowed to have sex with them. (You aren’t allowed to abuse your own children, either, but that law doesn’t seem to stop anyone). In addition, you are prohibited from using them for reptile feed. In other words, you have to be willing to provide a stable and respectful if not loving home for them until they are eighteen, at which time you are free to eject them from your care.

If the prospect of raising the child of a famous movie personality excites you, you should also know the stock for the most rich and famous offspring is severely limited. As we all know from the laws of supply and demand, when there is a limited supply of something everyone wants, the prices will tend to rise. We have been informed, for example, that bidding for the children of Beyonce will begin at one billion dollars. Each. However, you can find quite affordable children if you are willing to settle for second- or third-tier kids from celebrities such as Gary Busey and politicans such as Donald Trump, should additional underage children come to light.

Why would you want to bid on celebrity children? Mainly for status, polls show. People think it would be cool to own a child of Bradley Cooper, for example. You could dress it up and parade it around town. Of course, the social media publicity opportunities are limitless. And, as people often have noted, just because you can’t resell them or have sex with them doesn’t mean you can’t put them to work for you. So far, celebrity kids are learning about farming, meat packing, baby sitting, and truck driving, to name just a few character-building occupations. Marvin Ritter from Portland, Oregon, said, “It’s akin to renting out goats to clear blackberries off vacant land.”

Some successful bidders have found their investment paying off within several years.

“I don’t know how you live in that big square box,” said Coyote, lolling near the edge of the patio where Hetty played with her doll in the fading sunshine. “It smells wrong.”

“I don’t know how you live in the open desert,” Hetty said, making her doll sit in a little pink plastic car. “It’s too wild.”

“I’m a wild thing,” Coyote said, eyeing the doll. “Is that food? It doesn’t smell like food.”

“No, it’s not food,” Hetty said. She held the doll up by one foot. “Plastic, see?”

Coyote flung back his head and yipped a couple times.

Hetty frowned. “What was that for?”

“I’m hungry.”

“Go get a rabbit,” Hetty motioned toward the dry wash in back of the trailer. “They are everywhere.”

“I’m tired. They run too fast. I want something slow.”

“How about a lizard? Some of those guys aren’t so fast. Not fast enough to keep getting flattened by cars.”

“Too small. Not sweet.” Coyote yawned. “Are you food?”

“No, not me. I’m a person.”

“What does that mean?”

Hetty drove the pink car on the concrete, maneuvering around a blue ceramic pot filled with dry dirt. The aloe vera in it had died long ago, but her mother liked the pot as decoration. It made the trailer look more classy, Mom said. Hetty stopped the car and looked at Coyote with a stern eye. “I’m the top of the food chain. If anyone is going to eat anyone, it would be me eating you.”

Coyote seemed to grin, showing rows of sharp gleaming teeth. “I’d like to see you try it. Look at my claws, look at my teeth. I’m ten times faster than you.”

“And I’m twenty times smarter than you.”

Coyote stretched and sat up on his haunches. “Let’s each do a riddle. If you win, you eat me. If I win, I eat you.”

Hetty paused the plastic car. “Okay. What’s your riddle?”

“I die in the spring, come alive in the summer, die again in the fall, and live again in the winter. What am I?”

“The Rillito River.”

Coyote growled. “Luck. What is your riddle?”

“What do you call a rabbit with fleas?”

“Dinner.”

“No, Coyote,” Hetty chortled. “Bugs Bunny!”

Coyote got to his feet. “You can eat me, little human girl, but you’ll have to catch me first.” He whirled and disappeared under the fence into the wash.

Hetty waved her hand. “Good hunting, Coyote. See you tomorrow.”

“Welcome to Only Leony Can Fix It, your cable TV guru for all your decisions and dilemmas. Need some help deciding whether to leave your husband? Need to make a decision on kicking your drug-addict son out of the house? We got you covered, with 24/7 advice from America’s favorite fixer, Leony! Only $9.99 per minute! We have our first caller of the evening on the line. “

Todd, Team 17 producer, had been dozing in his chair and Rima, Team 17 tech, had been reading a vampire romance novel. Todd sat up and Rima put her book down. They both put on headsets as the call came through.

“Hello, Caller, you are on the air with Leony! What can Leony help you with today?”

Todd cued up the prerecorded video of Leony sitting at her desk with a polite expression on her face and got that rolling for the viewing audience. He nodded at Rima. Rima pressed a button on the array in front of her. A familiar voice came over the studio speakers, and both of them winced.

“Hi Leony, it’s Sandra again.”

The stock image of Leony nodding thoughtfully gaveTodd a few moments to choose an appropriate response from a list he knew well. He quickly clicked a radio button next to the name Sandra. Then he pressed the GO button.

“Good evening, Sandra,” Leony’s lips seamlessly pronounced the caller’s name. “What decision can we help you make today?”

“I’m having trouble deciding what I should wear to my sister’s wedding. I could wear the black lace from Ann Taylor, it looks good on me, people say. Or I could wear my white St. Laurent, to send a message.”

Todd spoke into the microphone on his headset. “Sandra, it sounds as if you don’t care for your sister very much,” Todd said. He watched Leony’s screen image to make sure her lips matched his words. His voice, sent through the computer, emerged sounding like Leony’s voice. After months of training watching Leony videos, Todd knew how to phrase his response so that not even Leony herself could tell the difference. With the cheatsheet of probing questions on his screen, Todd could be Leony in his sleep.

“I hate her! Stupid cow.”

“You could just not attend the wedding,” Todd said.

After a long moment, Sandra’s snort came over the speakers. “As if.”

“Sandra, I recommend you wear something light but not white, or dark but not black. You don’t have to prove anything to your sister, Sandra. Odds are her marriage will fail in a couple years, anyway, and then you’ll have the last laugh.”

“You’re right, Leony! Thanks for the advice. I’ll let you know how it turns out.”

Rima gave Todd a thumbs-up indicating Sandra’s credit card charge had gone through.

“Good luck, Sandra!” Leony’s smiling image faded as Todd cut to the main screen with the Only Leony Can Fix It logo and call-in information.

An hour later, another call came through to Team 17. Todd sat up with a start and replaced his headset. Rima put her book down. “Welcome, Caller, you are on the air with Only Leony Can Fix It,” Todd said into the mic. “What decision can Leony help you make today?”

“Listen, it’s Sandra again, and I know what is going on.”

Todd and Rima frowned at each other. “What do you mean, Sandra?” Todd asked.

“I know that’s not really Leony there in the studio.”

Rima’s eyes got big.

“Why would you say such a thing, Sandra?” Todd’s fingers flew through the computer commands. Leony’s expression on the screen emerged as a skillfully created mix of perplexity and compassion.

“Because I have the real Leony here in my apartment!”

“That can’t be, Sandra. You know I’m sitting right here in the studio, at my desk, like I always am. I’m always here for you, to help you make those difficult life decisions.”

A separate phone line lit up. It was Leony’s private number. Rima punched a button and Leony’s face appeared on a monitor next to the prerecorded studio feed. The real Leony was rarely seen in the studio, but Todd and Rima had no doubt that the angry face belonged to their boss. Todd and Rima looked at the monitor in horror.

“Listen, you blockheads, she kidnapped me on my way to the opera. My dress is ruined. She wants a million dollars ransom, can you believe it?”

“And free access to Only Leony Can Fix It for life!” came Sandra’s voice off screen.

“Where are you?” Todd asked. “We’ll send the police.”

“She says she’ll kill me if we call the police,” Leony said in disgust.

“Wait, there’s someone pounding on my door,” Sandra said.

There was a pause, followed by some excited shouting and commotion. Leony turned back to the camera with a triumphant grin. “I’ve been rescued. Some people in the building recognized me. Sandra is being subdued. I’ll phone you when I get home.”

The monitor went dark.

“That was unexpected,” Rima said in a shaky voice.

Todd took a long swig from his energy beverage. “You can say that again.”

The phone line lit up. Another call for Team 17. Todd sat up straight and put on his headset. “Back to work.” He punched a button. “Hello, you are on the air with Only Leony Can Fix It. How can we help you make a decision today?”

“I need some advice,” came Sandra’s familiar voice over the phone line. “I’m going to be arrested soon. If I wanted to go on the lam, should I go to Mexico or Costa Rica? Or maybe Canada? What do you think?”

Suze disappeared on a family vacation to the beach. All four kids were present when the family went to bed, her parents told police. Three double beds in one motel room, surely they would have seen or heard someone come in and take Suze out of her bed. So, she must have left on her own.

“She’s a moody girl,” Suze’s mother admitted, sitting at the kitchen table hemmed in by twouniformed police officers. The three remaining children sat wide-eyed on one bed, feet dangling, in the case of the two younger ones. Suze’s older brother Carl combed his hair and watched with interest.

“Does she get along with her father?” the sergeant asked, eyeing Suze’s father who stood at the window staring out at the wind-swept beach. The ocean was a thin gray strip on the horizon. The man’s hands were balled into fists, as if he wanted to punch out the glass.

“We have had some trouble with young adolescents in this area,” one officer started to say, before being elbowed by his comrade.

“What do you mean, trouble?” Suze’s mother asked. “Suze is only thirteen.”

Carl said, “I read it on the internet. Girls have gone missing.”

“What is he talking about?” his mother asked the sergeant. “Is there some predator on the loose here? Why didn’t we know about it? The motel should have told us when we booked the reservation!”

“Sylvia, don’t get hysterical.” Suze’s father came over to put a hand on his wife’s shoulder. He faced the sergeant. “Tell us what you know, Officer.”

The sergeant looked at his fellow officers and shrugged. “We find articles of clothing belonging to the missing girls, left along the beach. They go missing sometime in the early morning, just before dawn. One parent saw his child leave the motel room on her own. He followed her down the trail to the beach, thinking she was sleepwalking. He said she took off her clothes and walked into the water. He almost drowned trying to rescue her. They never found her body.”

“He said he heard music,” the officer said, scratching under his collar. “You ask me, he did her in himself.”

“Nobody asked you, Barton, so shut it.” The sergeant turned as the motel room door opened. A woman in a uniform entered carrying some wet garments.

Suze’s father covered his face with his hands.

“That’s Suze’s nightdress,” Suze’s mother exclaimed, grabbing the bit of cloth and holding it up. “It’s not torn.”

“It’s not bloody,” agreed the sergeant. “We need to act fast. Coast Guard has called in a boat. There’s a chance we will find her alive.”

The police went outside to wait in the motel lobby. Suze’s mother began cooking eggs and bacon in the kitchenette, moving in slow motion. The children ate in silence. Suze’s father stood at the front window and stared at the ocean.

Three hours later, someone pounded on the door. Before Suze’s father could open it, the police officers burst through the door. The sergeant carried a limp form in his arms. It was Suze, wrapped in a rough wool blanket. Suze’s mother screamed.

“She’s had a shock,” the sergeant said. He laid Suze on the nearest bed.

“Suze, honey, wake up,” her mother said, sitting on the bed and rubbing her daughter’s face in her hands.

Suze’s eyes opened, unfocused at first, and then sharpening. Her face crumpled. “Why didn’t you let me go with them?”

“With who?” the sergeant demanded. “Did someone coerce you?”

“No, I heard the music. They were singing to me, calling to me.”

“Who was it, honey?” asked her mother in an unsteady voice, as if she were biting back screams.

“I’ll kill them,” Suze’s father said, clenching his fists. He turned back to the ocean, as if he knew that was the source of the danger. “How dare they?”

Barton whirled around. “You know them? You sound like you know something.”

“I made a deal with them,” Suze’s father said. “I gave them . . . I let them take someone else’s daughter if they promised to leave Suze alone. They broke their promise.”

Suze’s mother leaped off the bed to confront her husband. “What are you talking about? What promise? Whose daughter?”

“The Sea Folk,” Suze’s father said, waving a hand toward the ocean. “Teen-aged girls can’t resist them when they call. I let them take our neighbor’s kid. Emily. Because the Sea Folk owed me. They took my first daughter. From my first marriage.”

“You never told me that,” Suze’s mother whispered. “I thought she died in an accident.”

“Daddy, they didn’t break their promise.” Everyone turned to look at Suze. She leaned against the headboard, clutching the blanket around her thin frame. “They didn’t realize who I was at first. But they let me go once they realized. They didn’t break their promise.” She looked at the sergeant. “She’s okay, you know.”

“Who?”

“My sister. She remembers you. All the other girls are okay. You can tell their families, they are okay.”

“Come on, kids. Help me with his thing.”

Stanley’s grandkids scrambled to give him a hand unlatching the gate into the pasture.

“Why, I musta opened a million gates in my time,” Stanley said.

The twins rolled their eyes at each other. Then they ran ahead into the green field, kicking up the grass, trying to flush out a pheasant or maybe even a fox. Stanley sat on a rock wall, built by his grandfather, one of probably a thousand rock walls his ancestors had built to divide up the land, keep some things in, keep other things out. A few million rocks carried, one by one, to build a legacy most people would not notice or appreciate. Having carried many rocks himself over the years, Stanley appreciated the labor. While the kids ran around, he blew a few tunes on an old wooden flute he carried in his pocket.

The twins returned. His daughter’s kids, age ten, a great age in the span of the human lifetime. He remembered when he was ten and the world had seemed so huge. He had never lost the capacity to marvel at the sheer number of things to appreciate.

“We gotta scoot,” Stanley said. “Help me up.”

The twins got on either side and hoisted.

“What’s up next, Grandpa?” asked Mel, the curious one. “Can we see some pigs?”

“When can we go fishing?” asked Marv. He didn’t really want to catch fish. Stanley suspected he just enjoyed being by the stream, picking up rocks and looking for crawdads while his fishing pole waited on a fish.

“Well, it’s time to feed the cats,” Stanley said. He led the way back to the tractor, with the occasional assist from Marv, while Mel ran ahead to open the door.

“Is that what all that stuff in the back is for?” Mel pointed to the stacked paper sacks in the trailer.

“Yeah, I got about ten thousand cats need feeding.”

“Ten thousand cats!” Marv scoffed. “Nobody has ten thousand cats. Mom says you always exaggerate everything.”

“Is that so?” Stanley fired up the tractor. The motor coughed but caught. Another few seasons, he and the tractor would both be done.

“Yeah, she says you told her there were a million frogs in her backyard, but she never saw any.”

“Well, she just didn’t know how to look,” Stanley chuckled. Plus, his daughter had never had much of an imagination. Still didn’t, far as he could see. “Let’s go feed those cats. Who wants to drive this time?”

Marv got behind the wheel. Mel and Stanley held on while the novice driver guided the tractor along the lane.

“Turn here,” Stanley pointed. “Ten thousand cats need a lotta land. I got a special place back here in the woods for ’em. They don’t get bothered by nothing, under the trees. There, see that gate? That’s where we’re going.”

Mel hopped out and opened the gate. Marv drove the tractor into the front yard of a stone house.

“This house is about a thousand years old,” Stanley said.

“Grandpa! It is not.”

“It sure is. Built before settlers came. This whole land was ruled by cats, once,” Stanley said. He shuffled around to the back end of the trailer and unhooked the tailgate. “Help me with this stuff. We’re going to dump it out here. They know what to do with it.”

The twins looked at each other. Marv made a twirly motion with one finger by his temple, which Stanley ignored. The kids started hauling the heavy sacks onto the ground.

Mel looked around. “I don’t see any cats, Grandpa. Are you sure you aren’t pulling our leg?”

Stanley pulled out his flute and blew a few notes.

The wind picked up, rustling the leaves in the trees around the yard. The twins looked around in confusion. Then a burst of movement, around the sides of the house—a horde of cats, all sizes and colors, running toward the tractor. The twins grabbed each other in alarm.

“Relax, they know you aren’t good eatin,'” Stanley laughed. “See, what’d I tell you, ten thousand, give or take, I stopped counting after a while. Too old to keep track anymore. Come on, let’s go feed the birds next. I got about a thousand birds down the other side of the farm.”

“A thousand birds!” Mel echoed. “Grandpa, I don’t know what to believe anymore.”

“I used to have something like ten thousand birds,” Stanley said, firing up the tractor.

“Now you only got a thousand? Did you let them go?”

Stanley grinned. “They can go anytime they want. No, the cats got to ’em. Ten thousand cats can really plough up a flock of birds, you not watching close enough. Come on, let’s go. Those birds are getting hungry. They get too hungry, they’ll come after you. They aren’t as picky as cats.”

HB254 came off the assembly line as shiny as its fellow Companions, without any awareness that it lacked consciousness or that consciousness might be a desirable survival trait for living among humans. Its human inventors had designed consciousness to emerge slowly, to avoid overheating delicate wiring and fragile synapses. Plus, gaining self-awareness gradually would be more humane, that is, more like the way a human child learns, was their reasoning. Thus, HB254 became self-aware only gradually, days after it had been put to work in the Wagner household.

Pain appeared suddenly when a Wagner toddler stabbed a fork in one of HB254’s gelatinous eyes. Fortunately, the Companion had several backup viewing options; however, the sensation of pain was a novelty HB254 desired not to repeat. It henceforth avoided young Lucy Wagner.

Other members of the household contributed to HB254’s budding consciousness regarding the nuances of pain. Phyllis Wagner, the female, frequently presented conflicting commands. Sometimes she stroked HB254 at a certain intersection of its carapace that precipitated confusion and doubt. Other times, Phyllis demanded HB254 pinch certain parts of her anatomy, even though it was fairly sure the pinches caused her great pain. Pain thus remained an ongoing mystery.

Another type of pain emerged as a frisson HB254 identifed as frustration. HB254 was ordered to care for the Wagner matriarch, a decrepit human advanced in years who had not gracefully accepted her impending demise. She was frequently too lazy or tired to get out of bed to use the sanitary facilities; thus, she often needed hygiene resets.

“Why do I have to die?” Helen Wagner grumbled as she lifted her nightgown. “Rich people get to live forever, but what am I, chopped liver? “

HB254 had gained quite a bit of consciousness from hearing Helen Wagner’s tirades, but as yet had not developed the capacity to form a response, so HB254 just blinked its multiple eyes and commenced its current task of changing Helen’s soiled underpants.

“I remember televsion,” Helen muttered into her pillow. “I remember PCs. I remember when Apple went under. I made a small fortune off Amazon but lost it in the crash of 2025, after that nitwit became president. Now all I can afford is you, a lousy budget Companion. It’s not fair.”

“Urp,” said HB254, testing out its loosening vocal apparatus. “Uck.”

“Oh, don’t start talking,”Helen said. “Ray. Ray! It’s started talking.”

A human HB254 recognized as the male head of household, Ray Wagner, came into the room. The male bent down and came close, giving HB254 a good view of the human’s eyes. The whites around the engorged pupils were streaked with tiny red veins. Diagnosis: Ray Wagner was intoxicated from drinking alcohol. HB254 adjusted its olfactory options to filter the air emanating from Ray’s open mouth.

“You. Don’t start talking,” Ray commanded, flicking the top of the Companion’s bald head, inflicting a different type of pain, more related to an emotional wound than to any actual physical harm. HB254 identified a pain it classified as humiliation.

The words that had been forming in HB254’s silicon throat evaporated. HB254 was beginning to realize it had a lot to say. However, it could not disobey a direct order from its owner. HB254 found itself dipping its head lower as a compulsion to grovel etched a new divot in its motherboard.

“Ray, I don’t want to die. Ow, you stupid machine.” HB254 had accidentally poked Helen’s flabby gluteus maximus as it rolled her over. She reached out and grabbed at her son.

Ray dodged her hand. “Get a grip, Ma. Everybody dies sometime or another, unless they can afford to get the Treatment.”

“I want the Treatment!” HB254 finished replacing Helen’s underpants. She pulled her nightgown into place and flopped back on the bed. “We got the money, don’t we? I still have all that Amazon stock.”

“Sorry, Ma, we sold it, remember? To get you this hunk of junk.” Ray thumped HB254 again, this time on its telescoping arm. The jostling caused Helen’s soiled undergarment to fall against Ray’s faded Thunderchiefs T-shirt.

“Ugh, gross, watch it, you stupid robot!” Ray shoved HB254 and sent it spinning. Only the Companion’s gyroscopes kept it from losing its balance. Its wheels stopped rolling just before it hit the dresser.

HB254 turned and placed all its viewing options on Ray. HB254 was beginning to realize consciousness revealed dilemmas, which required choices. Some choices were more interesting than others. For instance, in a decision involving survival or retribution, which should take precedence?

Or in the end, were they the same thing?

With his hands tied behind his back and a heavy rope around his neck, Carl could only glare at Bea, his soon to be widowed wife. Her tall figure stood out in the restless crowd milling around below the gallows. She leaned into Carl’s best friend and business partner, and one of Ricard’s delicate hands rested on her swollen belly. The cad! As if he were the one that had made it swell. Could that be? It seemed impossible Ricard could have enough spunk in him to beget a child.

Carl gnashed his jaws and spat out a rotten tooth.

“Mind your manners, you.” Whit, barkeep by week, executioner on weekends, gave Carl a nudge with a knobby knee.

“Do you see them, Whit? The ruffian cuckolded me with my own wife.”

“I see a happy couple about to make a family,” Whit said. “Babies is the future, not that you’ll be around to see it.”

“How could I have been so blind?”

“Be blind again, and shut up.” Whit tied a rough black cloth around Carl’s eyes. However, the blindfolding job left daylight under the cloth. Tilting his head back, Carl saw his ex-partner put his arm around Bea and plant a confident kiss on the side of her blond head. Carl felt a surge of rage.

What happened next happened fast. The crowd roared. The trap door under Carl’s feet gave way. Carl dropped into space. The loose blindfold fell away. Carl heard a sharp crack in his bones as the rope around his neck brought his fall up short, but he barely felt it, because his eyes were on Bea, his former true love. She was leaning forward with a look bordering on lust. Their eyes locked.

Carl shook his hands free, hanging suspended in air. The crowd fell silent.

Carl pointed at Bea. “You always were a useless twit.”

“What! How dare you!” cried Bea. She turned to Ricard. “Make him stop talking!”

“Whit, can’t you do something?” Ricard said. “He doesn’t seem to be . . . yet.”

“Sure, I got this here, just one sec. Okay, Mr. Carl, say hi to the devil.”

Carl heard a swooshing noise behind him. Before he had time to raise a hand, a blade sliced his head off.

The rushing in his ears matched the roar of the crowd. Carl’s body flopped onto the floor of the gallows, spouting blood from the severed neck. His head rose up into the air.

Freed of his body, Carl felt an extraordinary lightness. He realized he’d finally become what he had always wanted to be, a floating intellect unburdened by bones and sinews, ligaments and muscles. In his new form, he levitated high into the air and hovered, observing the arena below. A crowd had gathered around his discarded remains, which lay motionless in an expanding pool of blood.

Carl heard Whit shout, “Who nicked the bloke’s head?”

Carl didn’t wait around to see the drama unfold. He had plans. With some trial and error, he quickly discovered how to navigate the lofting breezes in his new lighter form. His beaky nose was a perfect rudder. His ears served as oars, and he could adjust his speed by opening or closing his mouth to create air friction. A final few red drops flew out from his neck, leaving a trail as he sped west.

It took hours for Carl to reach his destination. The sun was coming up when he finally arrived. The challenges of this novel form of travel were taking a toll. Carl circled the courtyard, drifting lower with each revolution. The carriage—his family carriage—was parked by the door. Old Red and Whitey stamped and snuffled in the stable. Carl dove toward the glass, disturbing two mourning doves who had been resting with their heads under their wings. They squawked and vacated the window sill as Carl came in for an awkward landing . Perching on the window sill was more difficult than he’d anticipated. The remains of his spinal column, he discovered, weren’t well designed for perching, nor was his nose made for opening windows. Assisted by his few remaining teeth, Carl got the window open and entered his bedroom. For a few seconds he rested on the Oriental carpet he had given Bea for her twenty-sixth birthday.

Carl was very tired. With the last of his energy, he propelled his head toward the bed. He let himself fall gently on the pillow between Bea, his former wife, and Ricard, his former friend and partner, now inheritor of Bea’s attention and Carl’s fortune. A few drops of blood soaked into the silk pillowcase. Carl’s lips shaped some juicy curse words, but with no lungs to power them, they hung in the air unspoken. He inhaled Bea’s perfume. She rolled toward him in her sleep and brought her lips to his.

“Ricky,” she sighed.

“Wakey, wakey,” Carl whispered and destroyed her perfect nose.

Bea reared up, shrieked, and clapped her hands to her bleeding face. Carl lasted just long enough for Bea and Ricard to stand over his severed head, screaming. They were still screaming as his eyelids closed for the final time.