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Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Introduction
| Murder and Mayhem at Cherry Creek Introduction |
Sometimes refered to as the Lost Improv, "Murder and Mayhem at Cherry Creek," was the first improvisation writing project to be planned rather than springing out of the whole cloth insanity of the old Poetry Workshop at the now defunct MsN Groups. As near as we can recall, these episodes date from 2004.
Blind Pete conceived of it and set it up at a web site all its own and then invited writers in rather like a spider hanging an Open for Business sign on its web. Unfortunately, Pete lost his long battle with his sight and went blind before the improv ran its course. Without him, the writers lost interest and the story line ground to a halt. Most people forgot it even existed.
We stumbled upon it during the migration from MsN Groups to our new home here at Multiply. It's been in packing cases down in the basement. Just recently, an old nag was in the basement and barked her shins on the crates. She started nagging us to open up the boxes and exhibit the work. What she was doing in the basement without the lights on has not been revealed and we have thought it best not to ask.
Blind Pete's idea was to have his character, The Judge (who hadn't yet appeared in these episodes), be revealed as the evil mastermind behind all the murder and mayhem. Before he could be brought to justice, however, The Judge would die when the steering wheel came off his Lincoln Town Car on a steep and winding mountain road. The final scene was to be Cadlin in his and Scotty's automotive garage. He would reach into his pocket and toss onto the workbench a nut of the type that secures the steering wheel in a Lincoln Town Car. Thus would the tragic murder of Scotty's wife and others be avenged.
Fini.
1: Dangerous Waters, by Pete
| Murder and Mayhem at Cherry Creek Episode 1 |
Dangerous Waters
Judd Hanson had been thinking about it all morning. He was in a state of excited anticipation that was difficult to hide. The man seemed to glow as if lit by some inner fire. The arrival of the plain brown paper package at breakfast had set him alight. He’d been anxiously awaiting it for three weeks, ever since he’d replied to the advert in the Anglers Gazette and Bait Guide Monthly. This was the premier publication for all that was cutting-edge and sexy in the angling world, if it wasn’t in the Anglers Gazette then it just wasn’t worth knowing, and no serious, self-respecting angler, would read anything less.
Judd was the same every year. Normally a relaxed and placid man, as the fishing season approached he would grow tense, like some main spring being over-wound and waiting to snap. The townsfolk were used to this. You would be talking to Judd one minute and then he’d get that fiery look in his eyes, and you knew he was gone. Not bodily, but his spirit would already be out on that lake, rod in hand, eyes scanning the surface for the slightest ripple from his nemesis. In fact with a smile and a slightly tongue in cheek wink, the good old boys of the town would tell strangers the many tales of Judd and his twenty-year battle with that now almost mythical creature of the deep. This was a battle of epic proportions, fought by titans. Forget the classics: Ulysses, Homer, the Trojan Wars, and Moby Dick. This was much bigger. This was the stuff of Country and Western songs, a modern legend in the making, waged by two opponents who neither gave nor expected any quarter.
On one side of this mighty conflict you had Judd, lean and weathered like old leather from his many years of exposure to the elements. Almost rock like in his composure, he’d spent half his life patiently waiting for his enemy to make that one fatal mistake. Never once faltering in his belief that he could master this challenge. Weaker men had broken under such enormous strain, but not Judd. In fact, Judd was about the most ornery critter God had ever seen fit to put into all of creation, which was just as well since he seemingly faced the very spawn of hell.
There had been tales of Old Methuselah way back when Judd was just a boy. The mere mention of the name was enough to induce a church-like silence. The tales were told in a tone of reverence or fear, which are pretty much the same. And what tales they were. Heroic tales of man against nature at it’s fiercest. If they’d been only half true then this catfish was something beyond just a fish. It was half alligator, half demon and pure evil cunning the likes of which few men have ever dared face, or cared to.
Those heroic tales were what first drew a young Judd to the lake. Stepping out of the tree line he caught his first ever sight of its placid waters. It was an epiphany, a revelation. The sky was early morning pink merging into the deepest blue, with air so sharp, keen and cold that each breath hurt. The early morning mist drifted in mystical, magical strands across a black, mirrored surface. He had stood drinking in the silence that first time, awed by the raw beauty of it all. It was like God had shown him the first day of creation. And at that intense moment, there had been movement, a powerful ripple that broke the glassy surface of the lake and the beast had revealed its menacing presence.
It was the impact of that first day that brought Judd back time and time again, year after year. But this time it would be different, and not the different that each succeeding year always promised. No, this year he had his Excalibur. Judd didn't even open his store that morning. His rod and tackle box were already packed inside his pickup. He cranked the engine, revved it up and back to an idle. He shifted into gear and headed out of town to meet his destiny. Fifteen minutes later he had parked and was making his way through the woods towards the lake.
This was the tricky part. Some five years earlier the federal Bureau of Land Management had annexed a large part of the forest including his lake and fenced it off. At first he’d been angered at this. He’d reckoned he’d been fishing here half his life and he wasn’t about to let no pen-pushing government bureaucrats tell him otherwise. But then he found that no one ever seemed to be there to bother him. He kinda liked the privacy.
Judd headed towards the bushes where some years earlier he had cut a hole through the fence. He was surprised to find his secret entrance had been disturbed. He hadn’t been here since the end of last years’ fishing season, but he knew he’d wired the hole back up, he always did. As he carefully made his way down to the lake he wondered if someone else was after Old Methuselah. But there was no one to be seen. Relieved, Judd sat down on the bank and began to rig his tackle.
Opening the tackle box, Judd removed the plain paper package, with a smile he slowly unwrapped the box. This was it this was his Excalibur. Opening the box Judd lifted the Acme Stealth 2002 mark 5 Catfish lure. He admired its glorious perfection of form. This was state of the art and as high tech as it gets. It was made of the composite materials and had a liquid filled centre. It was computer designed and ergonomically shaped to exacting standards. This thing had more sex appeal than any lure had a right to. Judd laughed to himself. That Old bastard Methuselah wasn’t going to know what hit him. It’s a wonder the damn fish didn’t just swim up to the shore, crawl up the bank and roll over dead.
Attaching the lure to its trace, he made his first cast out into the centre of the lake. Slowly he began to spool in. Judd knew that any minute his life’s ambition was going to be realised. Then it happened, right there on the first cast. The line tightened. Reacting immediately, Judd struck. Whipping his rod up, the line went taut, the rod bent and Judd knew he’d hooked a big one. He expected at any moment to hear the scream of the ratchet, and the battle for which he’d prepared half his life to begin. He knew this was it. It had to be Methuselah, but nothing happened. He lowered his rod and the line went slack. He gave it a moment just to be sure, but with a sinking feeling he knew he’d hooked some weeds or something, maybe an old tire. He jerked the rod a few times hoping to tear the lure free. Nothing. It was firmly hooked into whatever it was. Unwilling to cut it free and lose the lure, Judd began to haul on the line. He half expected it to part at any moment, as he pulled harder and harder. Just when he dared not pull any more he felt the object give a little. Slowly, Judd began to haul whatever it was towards the bank.
After some ten minutes of struggling a shape began to emerge through the murky water. Judd kept pulling. It was large and heavy, whatever it was. Then one moment he was staring intently, trying to make out what the hell the vaguely familiar shape was. Then the next he was dropping his rod and backing away eyes riveted to the now all too recognisable shape. He didn’t make it far before he turned, and his legs buckled, dropping to all fours, Judd vomited violently. The heavy shape that had been an unknown what, had just become a very dead and bloated unknown who?
2: Garagemen and Whoopers, by Cadlin
| Murder and Mayhem at Cherry Creek Episode 2 |
Garagemen and Whoopers
Judd Hansen tore away up the road like his beat-up old Studebaker pickup had forgot it was a tubercular antique. From the opposite direction came the sudden wail of a siren, which cut off as suddenly as it had started. Except for a noisy flock of egrets, all was quiet again. Then a moment later came a long plaintive wail. Then nothing. The quiet was pregnant with what might be coming next. What came was a long, climbing and descending moan of siren.
The sonic insults continued with each outburst sounding a little nearer. Moments later a brand spanking new patrol car came purring into view. The patrol car pulled over just where Judd's Studebaker had been a minute before. As the driver braked to a stop, the red and blue lights leapt to life, the siren started to wail. It was like a poor mans version of "Close encounters of the third kind," then it all stopped.
The passenger opened his door and climbed out to a new chorus of light and sound effects. He shut the door and all was quiet except for the deep, intimidating purr of the high performance engine under the hood. The driver open his door and stepped out. Show time again. He slammed his door and the show closed early.
"Scotty, wasn't that young Judd went tearin' up the road from here like he'd just remembered his wife got home yesterday?"
"I do believe it was, Cad," Scotty said. He scratched the back of his neck. His hands were dark with the more or less deep creviced and permanent stains of a mechanic. Both he and Cadlin were dressed in dark blue, oil stained coveralls. Cadlin had a red grease-rag hanging from a back pocket.
The boys' great-grandpas had been lawmen back when the town was young, same with their grandfathers. But their fathers left the deputing business and opened the Town’s first garage and used buggy lot. They figured they could make more money fixing the County's broken vehicles and equipment than its broken laws. Especially since they and their forebears were the primary breakers of both the laws and the County's property.
That first garage their fathers opened hadn't been much more than a half-built barn, but the city fathers of Cherry Creek immediately awarded them a civic improvement award. The then very young Ambrose Ewelle "Pumpkin" Faulk guaranteed them a large enough line of credit from his newly inherited bank to insure the garage would succeed. And also to insure they'd stay out of both his and the law's business.
"Sheriff Pat is expectin' to take delivery of this car come lunchtime," Scotty said as he resettled a small black welder's cap atop his head. "And I don't thinks he's gonna be too happy with all these lights and sirens popin' on and off ever' time he touches something."
"That's no problem," Cadlin answered. "Guess I shouldn't of cut off that switch and wired it on the back side of the battery ground." Cadlin stretched his long lanky frame. "Wonder what young Judd was in such a hurry about?"
"Probably thought the Sheriff was comin' to bust him for fishin' this here Federal pond," Scotty laughed.
"Hell," Cadlin coughed and spat. "Sheriff Pat uses Judd's secret hole behind the bushes his own self," Cadlin said. "Only person in the county that thinks that hole is a secret is Judd." Cadlin sniffed his nostrils clear, coughed the flam and spat. "Ain't nobody but a black sedan FBI cop mean enough to arrest a fella for fishin' where he's been fishin' since he was a kid."
Scotty's eyes lit up. "You reckon maybe he caught old Methuselah? Maybe that's why he was pourin' on the coal."
Cadlin looked at Scotty and grimaced. "Scotty, the only way anybody's ever gonna get that catfish is with a harpoon cannon. Why, just last week old Pumpkin Faulk hooked into it and then said goodbye to his five-hundred dollar fishin' rig."
"Yeah, that's right," Scotty nodded. "What made him think he needed a genuine, titanium cased, Garcia spinning reel is beyond me." Scotty smiled and added with a wink, "But we did make a good profit on that deal."
"Yes sir," Cadlin smiled. "Amazing what a little paint remover and some gun bluing can accomplish."
The boys looked out over the lake for a bit. Cadlin checked his pocket watch. Damn, he thought, don't dare to go fishin' now. "Come on Scotty," he barked. "We gotta get this car back to the shop and do some rewirin'."
They climbed inside to a chorus of lights and sound. Cadlin backed the car around and braked. The show lit up again. He shifted into drive and released the foot brake. The show closed. The cruiser slowly headed back down the road. A sweet, spicy scent drifted from the grass with the morning mist. An egret ran along the lakeshore, opened its wings and pulled itself into the deep blue sky. From down the road came the occasional fury of siren.
3: Abbey Hits Town, by Cat
| Murder and Mayhem at Cherry Creek Episode 3 |
Abbey Hits Town
“This land is your land, this land is my land”, Abbey was half humming, half singing to herself with her head stuck inside the new Professional Chef freezer. Well, not quite new. Abbey had saved six months for the giant ice maiden and purchased it second hand from one township over. It’s first home, the City Market, had sold out to a chain conglomerate, with spiffy new appliances to go along with the exuberant new prices. With one hand holding the door from clanging shut on her, Abbey stopped her pounding rendition of Woody Guthrie, to puzzle over the slabs of frozen pork fat.
“How strange,” She murmured to herself. “I could have sworn I had more packages than that.” Lifting up the white butcher paper covered blocks, she peeked underneath a few, as if somehow they might have stuck together as one. “Next delivery,” she commented to herself, “I need to write things down. This dang memory bank of mine keeps making withdrawals without recording them.”
The breakfast special every day this week was Francis Bacon Frittata. It was a recipe she’d discovered quite by accident when she found her postage stamp summer garden was capable of a farm load of zucchini. She noticed even that mongrel of Scotty’s could no longer be persuaded to eat the leftover zucchini muffins. Somehow the verdant vegetable seemed to be overlooked as the dreaded summer squash when she fluffed them into her original egg creation.
“From California to Maine and Thailand.” Abbey was notorious for forgetting the correct lyrics and continuing in her own vein. Since retiring from the school system, the woman had never been more content. The former instructor had stumbled upon Cherry Creek at dusk one September when she’d taken the wrong turn on the highway, heading back to Boston from Crater Lake. Abbey could still feel the dry heat of that late Indian summer. She’d pretty much pedaled herself into town when her faithful Beetle stuck in third gear in the middle of road bordered by barbed wire, dust and panic. It was luck she’d inherited from her Irish Grandmother that brought her to Fat Sally’s truck stop and introduced her to those two mechanics.
She had spent many sleepless nights debating about spending her retirement fund and entering into debt to purchase Fat Sally’s. Truth was, without the help of Cadlin and Scotty, she might never had made the plunge. But now she knew it was the right decision. She spent more mornings waking with a smile on her face than the familiar dread in her heart. She’d found a way to practice her cooking skills and stay close to her beloved books all in the same place.
In a former life, Christopher use to tell her to hurry up and learn the culinary skills and quit all the blasted practicing. She smiled as she glanced at the old Elgin, a tenth anniversary present from her departed husband. No one ever knew if the man had died or simply departed. Abbey preferred to leaving them guessing. For the more persistent big rig vagabonds, she’d usually make up some story of his demise. The stories entertained her, and kept the local wondering as well. Anyone familiar with the old Hitchcock Magazines on the back shelves would have recognized her tales immediately.
Five-Fifteen. It was a rare morning when Judd didn’t sneak past the wooden porch and steal the current edition of the True Grit, always returning it by afternoon, neatly folded and stuffed under a couple old copies of National Geographic. Probably hoping she’d think it had been there all the time. She was on to him, but no harm done, so she let him carry on with his ruse.
Abbey headed toward the front counter to prepare the morning specialty brew- Bronte Brule. She heard Cadlin and Scotty arguing loudly near the front door and rattling the lock. They knew darn well she didn’t open the front door a minute before five-thirty. If they’d just bother to walk around to the delivery entrance, she’d usually let them sneak in and help themselves to the regular coffee. That seemed to suit them anyway. Though Scotty would often try one of the literary café’s new flavors, usually just to pacify Abbey and appear grateful, Cadlin steadfastly refused to even sample it. That man would be content to drink Valvoline, if just the right temperature.
Well, this morning they could either come around back or wait until she was read to flip the OPEN sign.
4: Robbie Comes to Town, by Free
| Murder and Mayhem at Cherry Creek Episode 4 |
Robbie Comes To Town
Robbie was baptized, Roberta Lee Tyler, the 6th child of 8 born to Juanita and Robert Tyler. Robbie got lost in the bunch and very often totally forgotten about. When dinnertime came, no one did a head count so she missed quite a few meals. Perhaps this was why she was so small. By the age of seven, she had learned how to be invisible. It came in handy when she wanted to get the scoop on one of her siblings. She imagined all sorts of things and often played out entire plays inside her head.
Being a 'skinny thing', as her father would say, she found it very easy to slip in and out of a room with hardly a trace. By the time she was 11, no one noticed her at all. That's when the plan began formulating in her mind.
From some spare parts she'd found at the local junkyard, she began building her get-away car, well bike as it were. Johnny Jay, from next door helped her every afternoon after school. They spent hours-scrapping parts and building. She told him her plan to run away. But she called it, "Git away". Johnny never believed she'd really go. He just liked her a lot and thought she had a great imagination.
"Johnny", she would say, "I gotta have this done by summer. I got me a date with destiny."
"Yeah", he'd said laughing, " you're not goin' anywhere on this scrap heap."
"Just you wait and see J.J., she barked, flashing angry eyes his way, " I'll show you whose goin' where!"
"Where the heck ya goin' anyway? Johnny asked, "You aint got no money er nothin." He kicked an old pop can off the road, waiting for her to answer.
She turned a grease-smudged face towards him. "Don't you worry none Johnny, I got plans."
"Well, like I said RT, you ain't gonna get too far!"
When summer break came, she was well prepared for her trip. Johnny tied old coffee cans and soup cans all over the 'brand new', old bike. There was a place for everything, right down to her pen and pad. She rolled up a blanket and one small pillow into a tight bundle and strapped it to the back of the bike with old belts. Johnny found a moldy saddlebag from the barn out back. A little cleaning up and oiling and it would do nicely to put her clothing into. The bag was secured across the milk crates that were positioned one on each side of the tires. With everything in place, she had only to wait for the last day of school.
On the morning she was to leave, Johnny had agreed to meet her out at the barn where no one from their houses would see them. Barely light outside, they stood with hands on their hips looking at their masterpiece.
"Well J.J." she said, "Today's the day I begin my new life. When I get were I'm a goin, I'll send ya a letter OK?"
"Dang RT, I never thought you'd really leave. What you gonna tell yer folks?" he said sadly.
"Heck fire JJ, wouldn't matter what I said, they never hear me anyway!" she said frankly, reaching in her pocket bringing out a small stone she'd found down by the creek.
"Here JJ, this is for you. It's real special so don't be a loosin it or lettin ever body look at it." she said sternly."
Johnny looked hard at the stone in his hand noting how it sparkled in the early morning sun. "Are ya ever commin back RT?" He asked with sad eyes, rolling the stone around in his hand.
"Oh sure, I'll be back, just as soon as I make a name fer myself, I'll be back and tell you who I am. " She laughed feeling quite proud of herself.
She gave him a quick hug, and hopped on her get away bike.
"Bye JJ", she called, "don't ferget. Don't tell nobody!"
Johnny watched as she rode the rickety old bike down the dirt road towards the highway. He began to wonder if it was really happening. "Bye RT" he called. "Don't forget to come back."
Two weeks latter, she's folding up papers for her delivery route in the small town of Cherry Creek. This was the place she'd heard about a year earlier when she was eavesdropping on a conversation at the drug store while her parents argued over laxatives. A man clad in suit and tie was telling a pretty young woman about all the money he was gonna make "over there at Cherry Creek". He said "there wasn't a riper cherry in the country just waitin to be picked". Robbie thought to herself that day, "I love cherries."
She tucked her hair up under her hat and peddled into town. The town folk of Cherry Creek paid little attention to the scrawny kid wearing dirty dungarees and a baseball cap riding the strange bike, She just peddled down the street like she'd lived there forever, waving hi and smiling big. Odd thing was, people waved back.
She followed her nose to the scent of cooked food. God she was starved. After nearly 3 days of peddling and only a few candy bars and some peanut butter sandwiches, she would give anything for a real slab of meat.
"There it was", she thought, looking up at the neon sign, ' Fat Sally's'. She pulled to the back of the building and propped her bike up against the old wood walls. The screen door was open just a crack so she creeped in to have a peek. She couldn't believe her eyes. There on the stove was the biggest burger she'd ever seen in her whole life. Now the problem was how would she get the darn thing.
As she began to work a plan out in her head a big fat cat brushed against her leg scarring the bejesus out of her. She jumped back, tripping and falling right into a 5-gallon can of lard. "Damn", she whispered to herself as she eased herself out, "this aint good."
She heard a womans laughter heading her way. She darted behind a rack full of old newspapers and magazines. Holding her breath she noticed the cat was meowing at her feet. She gave the cat a kick as gently as she could, but the cat seemed to like it so she kicked a little harder but it came back again and again. Afraid she was about to be found out she gave the cat one more swift kick. She couldn't believe her eyes. She'd kicked the cat right into the bucket of grease she'd just pulled herself out of. The cat scrambled out atop a bag of garbage scattering cans all over the floor.
"Hitchcock, what in tarnation are you doing? The woman shouted.
It was about that time that she leaned a little to heavy on the rickety old rack of papers. All of a sudden, she heard the woman let out a blood-curdling scream. When she opened her eyes, all she could see was legs, arms, and lips. She heard words come out of that woman's mouth she'd never heard before.
"Hey you!" the woman called, seeing Robbie turn to run. "What in blazons are you trying to do, kill me?"
Robbie ran through the kitchen grabbing the burger as she went. She never broke stride hitting the front door like a Brahma bull in a dog cage. Around the building, she ran to where she'd left her bike, and stopped dead in her small tracks.
Some old guy was kneeling down looking at her bike. He was dressed up in grungy coveralls that appeared to be as much garage grease as cloth.
"Hey, boy," the man smiled. "This here your bicycle?"
Robbie just stared, expecting any moment to feel that lady grab her from behind.
"These wheel bearing are way too loose," the man was saying. "Get yourself killed with wheel bearings this loose."
Just then, the back screen door flew open and the restaurant lady stepped out. "Scotty, you know that boy? You send him in here to destroy my kitchen and steal you a hamburger?"
The man she called Scotty looked quickly at Robbie and the squashed hamburger in her small hand. He looked up at the lady who was standing with her hands on her hips and fire in her eyes. He looked back at Robbie and gave a wink.
"Sure do, Miss Abbey," Scott drawled. "Something the matter?"
"Then perhaps you will not mind paying for that hamburger?"
"Well, can't say that I know the boy all that well," Scotty answered with a big smile leaking out onto his face. "Say boy," he said, "why don't you introduce yourself to Miss Abbey."
So, that is how Robbie came to Cherry Creek and met both Miss Abbey and Scotty in about the same moment. Miss Abbey asked Robbie to come back inside the kitchen. Scotty said he was taking her bike down the road to his garage and fix the wheel bearings.
"You come on by and get it just as soon as you and Miss Abbey finish up swapping lies," he grinned.
"Young man," Miss Abbey said as Robbie came back into the kitchen, "if you wanted a bite of food, why didn't you ask?"
Robbie looked at the woman real funny. She talked just like her teacher's back home did.
"I'm sorry ma'am, I just thought maybe you wouldn't miss one burger." She said, looking down.
"Well son, just you come on inside here and we'll have a little chit chat. Maybe see about working off that burger you stole. Or would you rather I call Deputy Beauregard?"
"Oh no ma'am" she said looking at the woman with her saddest eyes, "I can work real good."
That was how her new life began in cherry Creek. It was a day she would never forget.
Robbie waited for a few days before telling Ms Abbey that she was a girl. She figured it might pay off to let the woman think she was a boy. All she needed was to be put in one of those frilly dresses and be sprayed down with that fancy perfume. Ms Abbey did insist that she take a tub bath.
From that moment on, Ms Abbey and Robbie had an agreement of sorts. Ms Abbey would give her leftovers from breakfast, lunch and dinner. In exchange, Robbie would do some chores around the place. Only problem was Ms Abbey seemed to think Robbie needed more 'education'. Robbie liked to read so it wasn't so bad, and besides she got to read all the new mysteries that came in by post. But her favorite read was the local newspaper.
After Robbie had settled in to her new home, Ms Abbey talked to the owner of the local newspaper about giving Robbie a job. The early morning paper delivery was her first real job at age 12.
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