“You see, sir, there was a power breakdown and the transmitter at Droitwich, which serves this area, went off the air...”
Soliloquy
by Marty Brill
He held life — and sudden death — in his strong fingers. Today he would show the world his power.
You see, I’m very powerful! Yes, I certainly am! I’m probably the strongest man on this earth! My dear mother taught me never to lie, so I am merely stating the honest facts. I hate liars, you see. I like a man to be what he really is and to do what he really can do. When a man lies to me, I get angry — oh yes, very angry!
“I want to take his head in my two hands and squeeze it, just keep right on squeezing if until I feel it giving in! Oh, I could do it, all right! I could squeeze that head until it was squashed into — well, into mush! I could do it, because I’m very powerful, you see!
“I’m not just boasting.
“No, I’m telling you all of this merely because I wish to remain a truthful man at all times. Also, I’m warning you. Yes, when I get angry, I simply forget how powerful I am. I don’t realize what I’m doing, when I get angry. And, when a man lies to me I get angry, very angry. I hate liars, you see.
“Now, that man on the bus. I knew he was staring at me! I was watching him carefully out of the corner of my eye. He was staring at me all right! Now, I don’t believe that a man ought to stare at other people. I get very angry when a man stares at me. So, I got right up and slapped that stupid man!
“And then that stupid man started screaming! So, I told him that he ought not to have stared at me! And he kept right on screaming! Then he hollered that he had not been staring at me! He lied, you see. And, I hate liars! And, his lying screams were hurting my ears.
“So, I put my hand over his mouth and squeezed that stupid man’s head. Then, the head — well, his head gave way, and, everyone was screaming. Then those policemen came; and, well — you know all the rest of it.
“I just wanted to tell you the Whole truth. Now, those policemen have been lying to me! They’ve been lying about that chair, Father!
“Yes, I know that it’s really the electric chair! Those policemen have lied to me about it, but I know what it is, all right! And, I am getting very angry about it all! I hate liars, you see. So, I’m going to fool them! I’m not going to let them know how angry I am about their lies! No, Father, I’m going to lead them on!
“I’m going to let them take me and strap me into that chair! I’m going to sit there, listening to all their lies, getting angrier and angrier, until they think they’ve got me all strapped and bound! But, they don’t know how powerful I am, you see! So, then I’m going to tear those straps right off! I’m going to tear their stupid straps into little shreds!
“Then I’m going to get those lying policemen! I’m going to get their heads in my two hands and squeeze them! Just keep right on squeezing them until — well, you know!
“I can do it, when I’m really very angry. That’s because I’m very powerful, you see!
“Just watch. I can take your head like this and...”
The Cure
by Carroll Mayers
My wife was a born matchmaker. But that was before she made her last rendezvous — with bullets and blood in the night.
It’s generally conceded that most women — wives especially — are inveterate matchmakers at heart. Certainly my bride Julie was no exception.
In the fourteen months since our marriage, our social contacts had gradually resolved into relationships with our own set, neglecting former associates as yet unattached, but every so often I’d have occasion to present, to Julie an eligible bachelor.
At such instances she would immediately flick through her mental file of ladies in waiting with, the surety of a high-speed computer, considering, rejecting, selecting, plotting a subsequent confrontation.
I’d just about given up trying to dissuade her, as had, indeed, her detective lieutenant brother. Fortunately, for him, Ed Talbot had been happily wed for some eight years.
All of which isn’t to suggest I wasn’t at least partially responsible for the frenetic events of that crisp October evening. I was. I took Bill Ashton home to dinner.
But it was Julie’s penchant for romantic promotion that really sparked the fuse.
It all started when I got back to town — I commute to Capitol City — and found my car wouldn’t be ready for another half hour. I’d left it at the garage that morning for a motor tune-up, but they were short-handed and had run into some trouble with the fuel pump. Whatever, to kill the time I visited a nearby bar — and ran into Ashton.
Bill Ashton and I had known each other in high school, but we’d never been particularly close friends. Ashton had been the complete extrovert, brash, self-confident. From high school we’d gone on to different colleges, and while we’d both made the usual periodic returns home, we hadn’t sought each other out.
After college, we’d settled into our respective careers — his, I’d heard, was public relations. I’d stayed on in town, subsequently marrying Julie; Ashton had sought a more cosmopolitan base. I hadn’t seen him for some years.
From the foregoing, you’ll likely believe there was no special reason for me to extend a dinner invitation, and you’re right. In point of fact, the suggestion wasn’t even in my mind when I first recognized Ashton, finishing a martini at the far end of the bar.
“Hi, fellow,” I said, taking an adjacent stool and holding out my hand. “Good to see you back.”
“Hello, Paul.” His smile was ready, his grip firm. “It’s just for the day; a personal matter. I’m catching the ten-ten express.”
I motioned the barkeep, indicating a refill for Ashton, a duplicate for myself. “Too bad you couldn’t stay over.”
His smile held.
“I suppose it is,” he agreed, “but in my business they keep you running.”
Patronizing? To a degree, yes. Knowing Ashton, though, I tried to ignore a mild spurt of irritation. “Public relations, isn’t it?”
“That’s right.”
“Things really humming, eh?”
“Couldn’t be better.” He savored his drink. “What about you?”
“I’m in production control with Standard Ceramics,” I told him. I couldn’t help adding, “Doing pretty well.”
“Married?”
“Yes,” I said, “for over a year.”
“Anyone I know?”
“I think so. Julie Talbot. Her brother Ed’s on the police force.”
Ashton nodded, gaze a bit sardonic.
“It figures,” he told me.
“Eh?”
“You, married. I always pegged you for the domestic bit.”
My irritation burgeoned a mite.
“You’re not?” I countered.
“Nuh-uh. No time.”
I shook my head. “When the right girl comes along, you’ll make time.”
He drained his glass.
“Don’t bet on it,” he assured me. “A lone rider goes farthest.”
In sober truth, I suppose my unwitting dinner invitation was triggered at that point. At any event, I was abruptly conscious of an overwhelming desire to show Bill Ashton just how far I’d come: a nice suburban home, a pretty wife, our sundry acquisitions — in short, all the evidence of my ‘success.’
“You’re a cynic,” I remarked pleasantly, “but I won’t argue with you. You haven’t eaten?”
“No.”
“All right, then. Come on out to the house, meet Julie again and have dinner.”