Odd and Odder: A Collection of Sensuality, Satire, and Suspense

Preface

Odd: (adjective) Unusual; peculiar or out of the ordinary.

The word ‘odd’ means nothing more than something that is not ordinary. So why is there a negativity associated with the word? Oddities are what make this world interesting.

Like the view through a fish-eye lens or a symphony played on steel drums, Odd & Odder is presented through a different perspective: through the eyes of two writers whose thoughts are anything but ordinary.

This collection of works ranges from heartfelt poetry to satire-laden suspense; passionate prose to gum-shoe mystery; and tidbits that can’t be categorized. But each piece has that twist or edge or style that makes it indisputably different from the norm.

Welcome to a story mind-meld of two authors who are not easily described, unless the word different is used as a zeugma.

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Stalker Boy

Who’s that boy behind the binoculars

Staring in my window?

He’s got fly jeans and Nike sneaks

All the while he’s stealing peeks

At me

When I swim in the pool at home

I know he’s there

‘Cause then he calls on the phone

And he says I know you’re alone

You see

He’s stalker boy

He’s always there

Everywhere

Watching me

From the tree

Or down the street

I’d like to meet

Stalker boy

His FUBU cap is really cool

He’s got it turned around

So it won’t bump into his night vision set

Even out in the rain he’s soaking wet

To see

When I’m in my room naked

I walk by the window

And don’t you know I flaunt it

Because I really want it

To be

Stalker boy

He’s always there

Everywhere

Watching me

From the tree

Or down the street

I’d like to meet

Stalker boy.

My friends say he’s a dork

That he needs a life

But I don’t mind that he’s there

I really think that he cares

For me

Front row at my concerts

He’s really always there

He writes he is my biggest fan

Wants to get me in his van

Show me

He’s stalker boy

He’s always there

Everywhere

Watching me

From the tree

Or down the street

I’d like to meet

Stalker boy.

Sometimes I see him

Out in the dark

The cops want to put him away

But I’d like him to stay

With me

No one can understand

What I see in this man

He’s stalker boy

He’s always there

Everywhere

Touch my hair

Say you care

I’m in love with

Stalker boy.

How I ache

For him to take

Me

Stalker boy 

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You Are Water

Water always finds a way.

Block it, stop it,

it flows away from obstacles

seeking other paths, and breaks through.

Mountains are made of stone,

but water wears them down,

moving them to change,

leaving the marks of water flows etched on their faces.

You are water.

Life stops without water.

Dehydration produces dementia.

A steady supply of water and the body function properly.

You are water.

Still in a bowl, it reflects reality

and the etherworld, if we have eyes to see.

You are the water my eyes weep

when I think of what love really means.

You are water.

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Supply Chain Management Made Interesting

Tom’s department had no intention of implementing netcentric real-time supply chain technology, even though his company, Viking Distribution, could save thousands of dollars each year. Bob, the CEO, kept thinking that if they were able to automate certain procedures, and form partnerships with their suppliers, they could get better performance from vendors because of improved visibility.

But Tom, the materials manager, did not agree. He wanted to continue with his paper-based system, which gave him control over Bob. No one could figure out his system, so this guaranteed him job security. It also doomed the company financially.

The stockholders took one look at the company’s latest financials and went into cardiac arrest. Orders to longstanding customers were slipping and stagnant inventory was multiplying. They demanded something be done.

But Bob knew Tom could not be reasoned with. And, as he was the president’s son, this posed a quandary. So he contacted the Russian mafia. His grandmother had made him borscht as a child so he knew there was some family linkage and perhaps they could help. His cousin, Vladmir Kavornicov said, I take care of dis for you, buddy.

The next Saturday, Tom was at his quaint, white picket fenced home in his suburban California neighborhood, lounging in his back yard. The sun smiled down on his sickly white skin and his PacSun surfer shorts. Suddenly, five AK47-shaped shadows fell across his spindly legs. He put down his martini and looked up nervously. Can I help you with something? he asked the men who were clad from head to toe in black.

Yes, you can, said the bald leader, removing his pair of black Oakley sunglasses to reveal his icy blue irises. His cohorts took up strategic positions circling Tom, blocking his sun in a Russian mafia eclipse.

If you know vhat’s good for you, you vill implement supply chain automation immediately. This will include warehouse management, transportation management, distribution management, and supplier visibility software. These packages must be real-time and have internet capabilities. You vill coordinate these with your supply chain partners on both vendor and customer levels. Do you understand me?

Come again dude? Tom asked.

No, if I have to come back here, there vill be consequences. Instantly, his men all turned and pointed their automatic weapons at his beloved parrot, Sparky, sitting on a perch next to his chair. Now do you understand me?

Polly wanna cracker? Sparky asked cheerfully.

Taken aback, the leader ordered, Waste the bird. We grill him over open fire.

No! Not Sparky! I’ll do anything!

Then ve’ve reached an understanding.

Yes, yes, Tom trembled.

Goote.

With that, all five men swooped over the picket fence and vanished into a black Land Rover.

Within a week, Tom had evaluated a number of supply chain software vendors and services. The studies proved that he could save countless thousands of dollars for the company. Although this was making Tom a hero within the company, and his job security was not seemingly threatened, he was disgruntled. Only the weekly arrival of photographs of parrots resembling his beloved Sparky being grilled over various hibachis, gas grills, and rotisseries, kept him on the straight and narrow.

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Life’s Irony

It will beat you down

Then pick you up

How can you drink from life

If you’re choking on the cup

Like dangling a carrot

Right before my eyes

But I can’t eat the cake

‘Cause it will show on my thighs

It will hold you back

Then tell you to run

How can you shoot the moon

If you don’t have a gun

Rodin’s Thinker before you

But you’re not allowed to touch

And the one you want to love

Can hurt you so much

Everyone you love’s in heaven

You just can’t win

You’re dying to be with them

But suicide’s a mortal sin

You sleep too much

You must be depressed

If you don’t sleep enough

You must be too stressed

Your brain’s in a blender

From society’s demands

You grind your teeth

And clench your hands

Be one of the group

Or you’ll never last

Being an individual

Will make you an outcast

But the most beautiful rose

Is the one that blooms alone

Away from the followers

Who crowd around the throne

With your thorns to protect

And the bees there to sting

In the end

It’s really you who’s king.

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Innocent Bystander

It wasn't his fault. The police, the fire department, his therapist, and his friends and family had all agreed; it wasn't his fault. He had been an innocent bystander.

That mattered little. He had been there. He had survived. The mere mention of the events that he'd witnessed caused a normal person to experience a spiritual shiver. They couldn't help it. Remembering the play that it had in the papers recalled their shock that it had happened in their town, in their community, next door.

Simply seeing him recalled the event. When he met a new friend, they would cringe when they learned his name.

No matter how innocent he was, he was guilty by association. He was not welcome because he had survived.

Sympathetic to the psychosis, he lived a solitary life. His withdrawal from society went unnoticed, with the grace of those who were glad to forget.

Months later, when his body was found in his house, people recalled how he had survived a tragedy. He was the lucky one. He was the innocent survivor.

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Spenser

In your eyes I find

The truest of true

The best of loyalty

I’m blessed with you

Your warmth, so soothing

You are always proving

So dedicated

Openly stated

For all to see

Your love for me

A heart so pure

Never existed elsewhere

Of that I’m sure

And how you care

Cannot be twisted

To fit society’s

Perverse nature

Your warmth is there

When I sleep, dream

Breathe the air

I’m on a stair

Way to reverie

I know you will

Always be...

Waiting, watching, caring

If you love something

Set it free

And you always

Come back to me

I know there

Will never be

Another you.

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Stefan Bengal: Code Name Turbo

Chapter One

Paris, November 1984

His hand massaged its way up her nylon-clad calf, thigh, and hip before the phone blurted a ringus interruptus.

Damn, he muttered.

Stefan, the blonde breathed. Don’t answer it.

He smirked. Might be important. He picked up the receiver. Yes.

Is this Monsieur Turbo?

Stefan squinted, then leaned back away from the woman sitting on his lap. Depends… who the hell are you?

Monsieur Turbo, this is Guy Gadbois, Minister of Foreign Affairs in Paris. I need your help, Monsieur. His thick French accent did not mask his trembling voice.

How badly?

Oui, they said you would say as such. Ten thousand Francs.

Where and when?

The Cathedral Notre Dame, tonight, at midnight.

Got it.

Stefan hung up and turned to face his date. Listen, uh… what’d you say your name was?

Bimini. She smiled.

Listen, Bimini, I’ve got to go. I’ll drop you at home, okay?

 Do you really have to go? She twirled her fingers in his short, brown hair.

Yes, I really do. His mind had already switched to cloak and dagger mode. And it was 11:30 p.m.

Even with the pout, there was still a vacant quality about her. Oh. Her shoulders sank.

We’ll do this again sometime Bimb… uh, Bimini.

She perked up. Okay!

Stefan rolled his green eyes as he helped Bimini with her coat. He then escorted her to the door.

Chapter Two

The mist rose from the Seine River in thick clumps, revealing little more than the gargoyles of Notre Dame. Stefan had been back in Paris for only a couple of months, yet word had spread of his return from the States. At six-foot-four, with olive skin and emerald green eyes, it was hard to stay unnoticed.

Stefan stood in the shadows, his trench coat hanging loosely over his tall frame. The grounds were still; he checked his watch. 12:02. Guy was late. Maybe it was a set-up. Stefan grew fidgety.

A sudden movement nearby drew his attention. A silver man-shaped shadow fell upon a shifting layer of fog. Stefan drew his gun. He could now see the man’s head, and quickly, quietly, put his semi-automatic up to it.

Move and you’re dead, Stefan whispered.

Are you Turbo? The man shuddered.

Who are you?

Guy Gadbois.

Were you followed?

No, I… don’t think so.

Okay. Stefan pulled a penlight from his pocket and shined it in Guy’s face. He knew, in this fog, that no one would see its light. All right, what’s the deal?

Monsieur Turbo…

Okay Guy, he interrupted, you really need to stop saying that. It was my secret code name… and if you keep using it, there won’t be anything secret about it.

Of course. He nodded nervously. We have a serious problem. As I’m sure you’ve heard, we are hosting an international peace conference here in Paris. The wife of the Soviet delegate – her diamond necklace has been stolen. We must recover it before the news leaks out and becomes an embarrassment for our security team… and an international incident.

I see.

Will you help us?

Why me? You have plenty of agents at your disposal.

But when you were with our Secret Police… they say you were the best.

That was then… this is now, and now I’m retired.

But Monsieur… we need outside help. We don’t know if there is an inside leak… and this must be rectified as quickly as possible.

Well… The money certainly seemed good to Stefan. Financial retirement planning had never made it on his to-do lists. Money wasn’t everything; in this instance, however, it was enough. I’ll need a list of suspects, people who knew about the necklace, all necessary details… and a fifty-percent retainer.

Of course, Monsieur.

Chapter Three

The next night, Stefan stood before a four story stone building on the Left Bank. He was again clad completely in black, but this time a stylish leather jacket kept him warm. It was a dark night; the moon hid behind thick, low-lying clouds. The building, too, was dark, and of this Stefan was glad. He had spent the day sifting through information provided by Gadbois. Only one name jumped out at him: Stelvio Garcia, free-lance terrorist/spy… the same Stelvio Garcia who had blown up Stefan’s car five years earlier. I really liked that car, he grumbled to himself.

He studied the building and drew up his plan. He would climb up to the third floor, then jimmy the terrace doors open. It wouldn’t be too hard to pull himself up the symmetrical balconies. What would be difficult was finding clues. Garcia was a thug, but he wasn’t a moron. Stefan knew this would be a risky endeavor, but how else could he get the evidence he needed?

Being a strong, virile man, Stefan easily pulled himself up the railings to the third floor. He was very surprised to find that the French doors had been left unlocked. Almost as if