Fiction Fix

Fiction Fix

by Alexis Kypridemos

Copyright © 2012-2015 Alexis Kypridemos

Cover by Katrina Joyner

Fiction-fix.com

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite e-book retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Contents

Deal Breaker

Honor Among Thieves

Survival of the Fittest

A Horrible Secret

Bagel

Black's Anatomy

Pandora

Whodunit

Leo

One Too Many

Cop Car

Hole in One

Occupational Hazard

Chinese Whispers

Silly Buggers

Silent but Deadly

The Ledge

The Pourne Identity

Invasion

Bullseye

The Terror of the French Resistance

Cop Killer

Jumper

Munchies

Safari to Egaleo

Intrusion

Tipster

Crescendo

Up to Speed

Cortex

Time Warp

Manual Override

Who Dares Wins

The License

The Visitor

Shop Till You Drop

No Way Out

Enterprise

Woof

In Transit

Live Hard

Whacko

Hug a Tree

Record Breaker

Onwards and Upwards

The Tribunal

Work Is Its Own Reward

Offside

Bonus Micro Fiction Stories

Deal Breaker

The insurance salesman seemed too young to be an insurance salesman to Harlan. They sat across from each other in Harlan's dark, quiet living room. The man was trying to sell Harlan some insurance. Harlan sat there silently, listening. He felt tired. The salesman's words weren't helping. Harlan was growing impatient. But he said nothing.

The salesman continued his pitch undeterred by Harlan's obvious boredom. He was at least twenty years younger than Harlan. Stronger, better dressed. Harlan paid no mind to the words coming out of the man's mouth. He just let his voice drone on while he studied him. To Harlan the salesman was nothing more than a young boy parading around in his father’s suit. The boy’s deep, charming tone of voice and sporty little tie only made it easier for Harlan to hate him.

The boy's voice was just a little too loud for the room they sat in. Harlan figured the boy must have found that this generally worked for him. It projected authority. It suggested he knew what he was talking about. That he could be trusted.

As the boy droned on, Harlan sized him up. It was his favorite thing to do with people. Especially those who made the mistake of invading his home. It seemed to Harlan that the boy had gained too much confidence from whatever past success with this pitch he was reciting at Harlan. The boy obviously had it memorized from saying it many times. Harlan decided the boy had gained faith in his pitch just because it had worked for him in the past. He was still young enough to think life was that easy.

The boy must have convinced himself at some point that success lay in delivering his pitch like a poem or a piece of music. It wasn't the meaning of the words that got to the suckers. It was the sound and rhythm of the words. Especially if they were delivered by a face like his, a face that tried hard to look friendly and trustworthy. That's what got the suckers to sign the papers. Like anyone else getting talked at, Harlan wasn't listening to the words but the rhythm of the words. The difference between him and the suckers was that he hated the rhythm.

Harlan's gaze began to drift. He'd held the boy's eyes for all this time, but boredom and fatigue got the better of him. The boy sensed he was losing his victim. His salesman's instincts kicked in immediately.

Could I use your bathroom, please? the boy asked, maintaining his rhythm and tone of voice. This had to be a favorite trick of his. Get the sucker to do something for him. A display of power.

Harlan studied the boy, not answering him. He let the silence linger.

When Harlan felt the boy's discomfort become almost palpable, he said, Do you need to go to the bathroom? It was the first thing he'd said to the boy since he first mumbled hello and reluctantly agreed to hear him out. Harlan's voice was soft with a hint of bitterness. He spoke slowly. But he could see in the boy's eyes that his voice commanded a whole lot more attention from the boy than the boy's voice commanded from him.

No, I was just asking, the boy said, in his same rigid tone, but just a little faster. A little too fast, maybe. He hadn't snapped back at Harlan, but he almost had. Harlan was starting to enjoy himself.

In that case, no, Harlan replied, his tone just as even as the boy's. But softer, slower. In control. Harlan found the boy's blank, puzzled expression immensely satisfying. But he didn't let on as much. The boy probably thought he was still in control. He didn’t seem to realize that by looking into his eyes, Harlan had the cheat sheet to his mind.

You don't want me to use your bathroom? the boy asked. Always the same tone. The mechanical consistency was eerie. Just a little too loud, on purpose. The boy seemed confident he could make Harlan feel embarrassed. Make Harlan surrender just a little. Let him use the bathroom. Make Harlan apologize, maybe with a gesture, like offering a glass of water or cup of coffee. He knew that if he got Harlan to do any of these things, he'd have made a major breakthrough, would be that much closer to the kill. He didn't know Harlan.

No, Harlan repeated, his tone even as ever, this time with a small shake of the head. The fake charm on the boy's face lost a shade of its brightness. It was replaced by a trace of anger. His eyebrows came together slightly, and the left corner of his jaw twitched a couple of times. Harlan found this very entertaining. He kept his own expression blank. He gave away no emotion except boredom.

Well, may I ask why? the boy said. His tone was different. His ego had been bruised, and he sounded slightly indignant. His real humanity was seeping through his artificial persona. He played this note just a little too fast, too close to the upbeat, and the pitch was way off. The boy heard himself and cringed. Clearly he hadn't expected Harlan to just repeat his answer. It threw him off. His rhythm had started to fall out of sync before; now it was going completely out of time.

Don't want to, Harlan said indifferently.

The boy made a face. A non-verbal cue. Somebody at the training seminar must have told him that silence was the most important note. Mozart had said as much. The boy probably felt it was acceptable to demonstrate some frustration.

Before the boy spoke again, Harlan went on the attack. He said, I don't know you, I don't trust you, I'm not at all convinced you actually need to go in the first place. Adding some fuel to the fire would make things go faster. And Harlan really wanted to see this kid burn up.

The boy looked genuinely surprised. It was probably because Harlan had just spoken more words than all those he'd said since the boy first walked in. Until then Harlan had barely emoted at all. Now all of a sudden he'd openly expressed mistrust and even some hostility. Harlan wondered if the boy had ever encountered hostility so late in a pitch, and if he did, how often. Harlan had to imagine that fearful or aggressive clients probably showed their colors much sooner.

Sir, I think- the boy started. His tone was off, his fake grin sagged at the sides, tired. For the first time, he broke eye contact with Harlan, if only for a second. The boy was losing what footing he thought he had. He probably rationalized his fearful slip as him backing off a little. Extending the olive branch.

Harlan complimented himself on letting the boy in in the first place and sitting through his dull talk. Watching the little bastard squirm made it all worth it.

And don't talk louder than me, Harlan added. Same voice, same face, same speed. Quiet. Bored. Slow.

The boy's frown deepened.

Sir, he started again. He wasn't sure just what tone of voice he was using anymore. He was a mess.

And don't interrupt me neither, Harlan said. My house, my rules. And you give me the creeps. So get out. Harlan nodded once, curtly, at the door. On the inside, he tingled with excitement. This was the sacrifice play. If the boy left now, it would all be over. Harlan wouldn't get to finish what he'd started. Harlan always made this offer, and it was always genuine. Few took it. But still, it was a risk.

The boy stayed.

He held Harlan's gaze. He really did look incredulous. All this because he'd asked to go to the bathroom?

Listen, he said, but didn't continue. His energy was gone.

No, Harlan sighed, barely loud enough for the boy to hear him. Without moving from his seat, Harlan reached under a newspaper on the table next to his armchair. He took out his revolver. His hand came up slowly, smoothly. Harlan appreciated how surreal it must seem to the boy that a weapon could be in the warm, sleepy, safe living room.

Harlan held the gun at chest height and fired once without sighting. He got the boy just above the eyebrows, right in the middle of the forehead. Harlan bet it hurt, a lot. He hoped it was the sharpest pain the boy had ever felt in his life.

The boy coughed once gutturally and fell to the floor, face up. He was still alive but had lost control over his body. At least that's what Harlan hoped. But of course the best part to watch, the part Harlan savored was the boy's dawning realization, that apart from the literally head-splitting pain, he wasn't dead. The confusion on the boy's face was delightful. Confusion seemed to be a new emotion for him. An added bonus for Harlan. Shouldn't he be dead, he seemed to be thinking. He'd just been shot in the face. He couldn't know or guess, especially in the state he was in, that Harlan had shot him with a rubber non-lethal round.

Harlan stood, for the first time since letting the boy in. He lifted the cradle of his old fashioned telephone and dialed a number from memory. It picked up on the first ring.

Harlan spoke into the phone in a very different tone from the one he'd used with the boy. Louder. Authoritative. Clipped. Giving instructions, confident they would be obeyed. His real voice.

Who am I speaking to? Harlan asked. Margie? This is Harlan. I've got a live one. I want you to come pick it up. Yes. How long? Harlan paused for a second, thinking. OK. Fine. In the meantime, I'll get to work.

Harlan put the phone down. He turned around and leaned over the still dazed boy. Fear and panic, emotions just as new to him as confusion, were spreading all over his face, albeit in slow motion because of his weakened state. Harlan grinned.

He looked straight into the boy's widened, terrified eye before and said, You really shouldn't have asked to use the bathroom.

The End

###

Honor Among Thieves

The two men outside the bank inhaled the last of their cigarettes, dropped the butts on the ground, rubbed them out, put on their ski masks and walked to the entrance.

The leader, in the red ski mask, pressed the button on the door, the light above the handle turned green, and both men entered. The door locked automatically behind them. Through the glass of the door in front of them, they could see the bank's interior, clerks and clients, and in the back, the safe.

A pre-recorded female voice said to the two men, Please look up to your left. The men turned their heads and stared into the security camera. The light on the second door turned green.

The men pushed through the second door and into the bank. They pulled out their bulky revolvers and pointed them at the cashier.

Okay, the leader said, clearing his throat. Uh, this is a stick-up? The cashier, the clerks and the clients waiting in line stared patiently at the two robbers.

The cashier and clients pointed to a small sign stuck on the glass divider on the counter and read it aloud, in unison, The bank is monitored by close circuit television. The safe locks with a time lock.

The leader turned to his assistant, in the orange mask, and said, Bummer. They lowered their guns.

Uh, you wouldn't happen to know where there'd be a bank around here without a time whatever? the leader asked the cashier. She smiled and rose from her seat behind the counter. Of course, she said, and led them outside.

Outside, on the pavement, the cashier gave the robbers, still masked and armed, directions.

Take the third left, and you should see it right in front of you, she said, pointing down the street.

Thank you, the robbers said, waving their handguns in gratitude as they moved on.

Fifteen minutes later, the robbers pushed through the door of the next bank, which had not yet installed a safety entrance. Once again, clients and clerks stared at the two masked, gun-toting men.

Okay, the leader said. Open up the safe, and make it fast, 'cause we're boiling with these things on. He pointed the barrel of his gun at his mask.

A regulation bank clerk, about thirty, anemic, with short, slightly thinning hair, and a shirt and tie which did not exactly fit him, stepped in front of the robbers, his fingers intertwined in front of him as if in prayer.

I regret to inform you, he said, that you are late. The last consignment of cash was just picked up by the armored car.

The leader robber lowered his gun and grunted, Oh, nuts.

Would you care for some lemonade? Orange juice? the clerk asked.

The robbers and the clerk sat at a tin table in the small yard behind the bank, sipping lemonade. The robbers had lifted their masks over their heads to enjoy the cool breeze. By way of conversation, the leader asked, This bank thing, you do alright, huh?

Oh, yes, the clerk said, we charge eight and a half percent interest on mortgages-

The leader nudged his assistant. And they call us thieves!

The End

###

Survival of the Fittest

Caveman Socrates Leatherrock sniffed the jungle air. His prey was close. He treaded lightly, making almost no sound at all. He followed the scent. The prey couldn't be more than three feet away now. Silently, he took an arrow from his quiver and threaded it through his bow.

Because of the dense growth of the jungle, Leatherrock couldn't see the prey even though he could smell it. But it was so close, he decided to stand up from his crouched stance, at risk of giving his position away. He did so and immediately spotted his prey, in front and to the left, lying scared at the foot of a tree. Leatherrock released the arrow from his bow.

Paf!

The arrow punctured the wrapping paper on both sides of the hot dog.

Leatherrock approached his dead prey and removed the arrow. He put it back into is quiver, as he was an environmentally conscious primate. He picked up the skewered hot dog and took the first bite. He spat it out.

Coleslaw! Again! How many times do I have to tell them? He sighed, wore his bow over his shoulder, and walked on home, taking a second bite from the hot dog. What the hell, he muttered, It's edible.

After the semi-successful hunt, Leatherrock returned home to his cave. He took off his bow and quiver and rested them against the carved rock wall before sitting cross-legged on the ground. He took his reading glasses from inside his animal hide vest and switched on his laptop. The Internet connection took its sweet time. He swatted the computer a couple of times.

Broadband my ass, he sighed.

Finally the computer connected to his home page, the Neanderthaal Today e-zine. He clicked the link to an article about G.R.U.N.T., the organization for Neanderthaal rights. The article began, Neanderthaals are not dead. They have adapted and live among us. They even take positions of government. A picture of a recent President followed.

Excuse me, said a voice, catching Leatherrock off guard. He took off his glasses and looked up.

A young man stood in the sun outside Leatherrock's cave, sweating in his business suit.

Are you Mr. Socrates Leatherock? the young man asked, reading the name off an official-looking paper.

That depends, Leatherrock said. Who's asking?

I'm with the Inland Revenue Service, the young man said. It has come to our attention that you did not file a tax return last year. Consequently you have been selected for an audit. The man never got to finish the sentence. Somewhere between 'Inland Revenue' and 'tax return' Leatherrock's instinct for self preservation kicked in, and with lightning speed he fired off an arrow. The young man fell to the ground.

Leatherrock threaded another arrow through the bow and carefully approached the taxman, checking to see if a second shot was needed. It wasn't.

Socrates? Leatherrock's wife called from inside the cave. Who was that?

Dinner.

The End

###

A Horrible Secret

Psychologist Dr. Manic sat at his desk, waiting for his