Tag Archives: science fiction

May 20, 2012 · 10:31 pm

The Kibitzer and The Kidd, part 8

[Editor’s note: Parts 1 – 7 of The Kibitzer and the Kidd are available by clicking on “Kidd” or “Kibitzer” in the tag section. This is science fiction western with more than dollop of humor and satire.]

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The Kibitzer couldn’t help himself. The flames were everywhere. Smoke embraced the air and made it suffocating.

He didn’t believe in the devil or demons – other than the ones you create or marry into – but the unholiness of the air made him wonder if there wasn’t something otherworldly afoot.

Then there was the quote running through his head, the one where the fat comedian turns to the skinny one with the big chin and doofus grin, and says, “This is a fine mess you’ve gotten use into.”

At a time of impending death, one shouldn’t be thinking of comedy, especially when you couldn’t remember the names of the comedians, especially the one with big chin and the doofus grin.

He heard voices beyond the flames, or at least thought he did. One voice kept yelling over and over: “Swallow the lozenges!”

The Kibitzer wasn’t sure what to make of the voice. The fire was loud and crackling. He never realized how much noise a fire made. If there was a hell and there were people in it and it was composed of fire, the people would not be able to talk to each other. Would not be able to listen to their own thoughts.

He felt for the lozenges. They were in a paper sack in his shirt pocket, but they felt soft, like warmed candle wax. Not yet liquid, but would soon be.

A new wall of flames sprouted up around him, forcing him to run further into the stable.

“Trust the lozenges.”

It sounded like a woman’s voice.

He heard the whinnying of a horse. The Kibitzer glanced around. He thought he had freed all the animals, except himself.

“Trust the lozenges.”

This time the words came with an image. It was the comedian with the doofus grin. The fat comedian with the small bowler hat standing next to him was breathing fire at him, smoke spewing out of the comedian’s ears. But the skinny comedian kept the same big grin.

The lozenges felt very soft when he touched his pocket.

Flames were everywhere. The air was hot, smoky, and unbreathable. But he was still breathing. Sweat flowed off the end of his nose.

The Kibitzer reached for the lozenges. Nobody was going to rescue him. Not now. Not ever. Not even the Kidd.

He heard the whinny again. Louder this time. Followed by kicking.

He had the lozenges out. They were oozing out of their wax paper wrappers and onto his fingers. The liquid was warm, but he could not feel its warmth.

He brought his fingers up to his lips.

The wall in front of him exploded inward, toward him. A part of the wall hit him, knocking him backwards, toward the wall of flames.

He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t feel. He wasn’t sure he had swallowed. And as he started passing out, he heard the fat comedian say, “Well, Kibbey, this is another fine mess you’ve gotten us into.”

Except the comedian wasn’t talking to him, unless he was a … duacorn?

(To be continued.)

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April 3, 2012 · 10:24 pm

The Kibitzer and The Kidd, part 7

[Editor’s note: Parts 1 – 6 of The Kibitzer and the Kidd are available by clicking on “Kidd” or “Kibitzer” in the tag section. This is science fiction western with more than dollop of humor and satire.]

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Al Wayne handed the Cough Drop Kidd a hot toddy. They were in Wayne’s private office off the mezzanine in the saloon.

Given the scuffed look of the saloon, this office was opulent with upholstered seats and an intricately carved fireplace mantel. There was no fire in the fireplace, and the Kidd wondered if it worked. Wayne assured him that it did, but that he rarely used it because it was an inefficient way to heat and added to the carbon footprint.

Wayne handed the Kidd a copy of his book, Global Warning. The Kidd wasn’t quite sure what to do, a warm drink in one hand and a cold tome in the other.
He laid the book on a side table by the chair, He was almost certain he heard the table sigh and mutter, “Oh, no, not another one.”

“Drink up,” Wayne said, raising his own drink to his lips and taking a sip. “It’s not often we get a toddy drinker in this town. It’s good to have a little sophistication every now and then.”

The Kidd didn’t think of himself as a sophisticate, only somebody with a sore throat from coughing too much.

“What about what the Kibitzer said. Is it true?”

Wayne smiled.

“That Bonnie can whip up some mighty powerful cough drops. Sometimes a whiff of those apothecary fumes can make you say things you normally wouldn’t.”
“So, it’s not true?”

Wayne shrugged. “Many folk around here have claimed they’ve been struck by lightning and then resurrected some time later. I don’t put much stock in it myself.”

The smile on Wayne’s face didn’t ease the feeling of disquiet the Kidd felt rippling just under his skin. Particularly since it was at Wayne’s insistence that the Kibitzer had to sleep I the stable on the edge of town. Not that it was a large town, and a few of the buildings only had facades and nothing behind them. One or two had signs that read: “Coming soon,” but nothing else. At one point in their travels together, the Kidd had heard the Kibitzer use the term Potemkin Village and he wondered if this might be that. The name of this place was Potomac. But there was no river nearby.

“You haven’t touched your toddy.”

The Kidd quickly took a sip. It was tepid now, but still tasted amazingly good. He took a second, long sip.

“Now, I have a question for you, Mr. Kidd.”

Kidd smiled. He rarely heard anybody call him Mr. Kidd. Kidd or hey you was more likely. For the moment, he couldn’t remember what the Kibitzer called him. Probably nothing he wanted to repeat.

Kidd wasn’t his real name, at least not the real name his parents gave him. But he abandoned that name shortly after he abandoned them.

“My question is in your travels have you heard anyone mention or met anyone by the name of John Gore?”

At that moment, the floor-faced man barged into the room. He spotted The Kidd and curled his lip.

“Fire. There’s fire down at the livery.” He said it breathlessly, but not in a good breathless way.

The Kibitzer, the Kidd thought.

“Save my horses. My prize Walkers,” Wayne said.

Wayne was at the door, shoving the floor-faced man out in front of him.

The Kidd put down his toddy on the book and headed for the door.

“Don’t forget your book,” the table said.

The Kidd hesitated.

“Take it, fool,” the table said.

The Kidd snatched it from under the toddy. The cup tipped over and smashed against the floor. Breaking china and escaping toddy skittered and splashed about.

“Oh, Mr. Wayne’s going to be mad. That’s not eco-friendly.”

The Kidd didn’t hear the table. He was down the stairs and almost to the saloon’s swinging front doors when two dark figures stepped in front of him, blocking his way. The Kidd tried going around them, but they would have none of it.

(To be continued…)

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March 11, 2012 · 12:10 am

The Kibitzer and The Kidd, part 6

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It wasn’t fair. Not only did he have a nickname he didn’t like – Kibbey – but he was also sleeping in the stable with the horses. Horse and hay, flatulence and flies, though it seemed odd that there were so many flies at night. He wondered if a fly got zapped by lightning, would it be resurrected.

Even the popcorn they delivered to him was stale and a little soggy from the humidity it picked up from the air. He had a bag of his own, but it had started raining again, so he couldn’t pop it outside. He looked around to see if the blacksmith’s workshop was part of the stables or nearby.

There was not a blacksmith’s forge, so he was on his own to create a fire.

He understood that the Kidd was the hero, having shot the pistol out of the floor-faced man’s hand. He knew that kibitzers were not easily or fully accepted into society. They were witnesses and scribes, and they reported to an authority most didn’t know about or understand. He certainly wasn’t sure why he had been selected. His family were not kibitzers. Nor any of his friends. And when they came in the middle of the night and told him he was selected, they did not give him a chance to say goodbye to his wife and two sons. Only a short note, quickly scribbled. It read: I’ve been selected. Don’t wait up.

He wasn’t sure how long ago that was, what his wife was like now, if his sons even remembered him.

The Kibitzer piled some hay in one area of mostly dirt. It was turning cold. He’d need the fire for more than popcorn.

Popcorn was his only solace. Bags of it turned up at the oddest times in the oddest places. He took it as a sign he was doing a good job.

He kept a book of matches dry and buried deep in a saddle bag. They were hard to get and he usually sparked a fire with a piece of flint and a piece of steel he carried; but they were both wet from rain. He was also too tired to try.

He added a piece of dried horse manure to the hay pile.

He found the matches, walked back to the pile of straw and dried other things and selected one from the box.

It was then somebody, head draped in a hood, stepped into the stable and tossed a torch on a larger pile of hay nearby. As the man left, he said, “Don’t wait up.”

At least that’s what the Kibitzer thought he said. The words were muffled by the hood. The words stunned him. By the time the Kibitzer recovered, the fire had spread to other parts of the stable, and the culprit was gone, and the Kibitzer was trapped.

(To be continued.)

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February 18, 2012 · 3:12 pm

The Kibitzer and The Kidd, part 5

[Editor’s note: Parts 1 – 4 on the blog. You can click on “Kibitzer or Kidd in the Tags below to reach he previous entries. I am working to make this a monthly feature on the blog. Hope you enjoy this science fiction western with a dash or two of humor set in a quirky time and place: not quite and not quite there.]

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The Kibitzer didn’t know what to make of the situation when he stumbled though the swinging saloon doors and everybody was staring at him. Normally, he was the one doing the staring.

Rain dripped off his hat and clothes.

He smiled. No one smiled back, not even the Kidd. As he stepped the rest of the way into the saloon, he heard a voice say, “Donut go there.”

He looked down at the floor, certain that’s where it came from. But how could the floor speak?

“Did you get them?” the Kidd asked.

“Wipe your feet,” the robust saloon woman said.

The Kibitzer pointed outside. He made a slash like lightning, raised his knee, and then spread his arms wide.

“Speak. You know I don’t read pantomime.”

“Maybe I can help,” Al Wayne said. “He probably saw one of our fair citizens zapped by lightning who then got up and walked away. The first time somebody witnesses it, it tends to leave them at a loss for words.”

The Kibitzer pointed at Wayne and nodded.

“I talk about it in my book, Global Warning. Though I’m not quite sure what the raised knee means.”

The Kibitzer turned slightly red.

The saloon doors swung open again. This time Bonnie came through, carrying a bag. She, too, dripped rain on the floor, but the Kibitzer didn’t hear anything from the floor, or what he thought was the floor, as she approached.

“You forgot these.” She held them out toward him holding the bag between her finger and thumb as if trying to be ladylike or as if what was inside was as foul as fresh dog poop.

The Kibitzer nodded toward the Kidd.

Bonnie didn’t move.

The Kibitzer nodded again. He wasn’t sure why he wasn’t speaking. He had been able to after she kneed him. Was the big guy with the bent sheriff’s star on his chest right? Was it the excitement of seeing somebody zapped by lightning, then being told he would rise from the dead, then begin to see the dead stir as he ran across the wide street of mud that left him, the Kibitzer dumbfounded? He had witnessed many things, even eaten some bad popcorn while witnesses them, but he had never been at a loss for words – until now.

“Don’t worry, Kibbey, I won’t knee you again.”

Kibbey? No one called him Kibbey!

The entire room broke out in laughter. Even the big guy with the bent star chuckled.

Nobody told Bonnie to wipe her feet.

(To Be Continued…)

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