[stylist] CK fantasy response

[Eve Sanchez]

hahahaha   I always get a laugh from your stories. Good one. Eve

On Mon, Apr 22, 2013 at 1:44 PM, Chris Kuell <ckuell at comcast.net> wrote:

> Greetings,
>
> Fantasy really isn't my thing, but here's an attempt anyway. All comments
> and suggestions are welcomed.
>
>
>
>
> Unexpected Guest
>
>
>
> By Chris Kuell
>
>
>
>
>
> The last I remembered, the Yankees were two runs down, but those bastards
> are always coming back in the ninth, so you never know. The ringing of the
> doorbell jounced me from the reverie of my recliner. "What the hell --" I
> muttered, trying to get a fix on my surroundings. The television was
> nothing but fuzz and static, so the ball game must be over.
>
> After another ring, I managed to get up and make my way to the front hall.
> I flipped on the lights and opened the door.
>
> An attractive woman wearing a conservative blue business suit stood on the
> porch, hands clasped behind her back, giving me a nice view of a pearl
> necklace and a fabulous bust line. Not completely deaf to all Maria used to
> nag me about, I raised my focus up to the woman's face. She had a pleasant,
> Carolina-girl look. Soft, shoulder-length curly hair, clear blue eyes and
> the friendly type of smile you see so often when traveling in that part of
> the country.
>
> "Hello?" I said.
>
> "Hello. Are you Mr. Kuell?" Her tone was official.
>
> "Are you a lawyer?" I asked, my hand on the door, ready to slam. "Are you
> serving me papers? Did my ex-wife send you? Because I'm up to date with the
> payments-I've got receipts."
>
> "No, I'm not a lawyer," she said.
>
> "Are you a Mormon, then?" This produced the tiniest hint of a smile.
>
> "No, I'm not a Mormon, either."
>
> "That's good," I said. "Then, how can I help you at this hour?" I glanced
> at my watch, 9:45. That couldn't be right. The game was over; it had to be
> one or two in the morning.
>
> "I need you to come with me," she said.
>
> I chuckled. It had been a long time, way too long, since I had been
> anywhere with a pretty woman.
>
> "Normally, I'd take you up on an offer like that in a snap. But, perhaps
> for now, you could just tell me who you are and what you want?"
>
> "My name is Lucy, and I'm here to escort you to the hereafter," she said.
>
> Now, there's a conversation stopper. My innate cynicism took over and I
> glanced up and down the street. All the houses were dark and unnaturally
> quiet. Not a light to be seen, nor a dog to be heard.
>
> "No offense, but you seem a little old for a sorority girl." I searched
> for the carload of drunken college kids, but the neighborhood was vacant
> and still.
>
> In her airport customs agent tone, she said, "Mr. Kuell, you need to come
> with me."
>
> Whoever she was, she was good. Not a hint of a smile, a chuckle, nothing.
> Maybe she was a psycho, or an escaped mental patient, which wouldn't be
> good at all.
>
> "Listen, Lucy, or whoever you are. It's late and I'm tired and going to
> bed. You're welcome to join me, but I'm afraid I'm going to have to pass on
> going out tonight." I paused, then finished my thought. "Besides, I think
> you've got the wrong guy. I'm only forty-two years old, and still quite
> alive."
>
> "I'm afraid not, Mr. Kuell. You're dead."
>
> "Okay, Lucy, believe that if you will. This dead guy has a full bladder,
> though, so I guess I'll just say good night-"
>
> "Tell me," she asked, were you drinking tonight, Mr. Kuell?"
>
> "I had a couple of highballs while I was watching the game. No law against
> that, is there?" Actually I'd had five, but that was none of her damn
> business.
>
> "Did you also take a prescription painkiller?"
>
> "I took a couple of oxys. They're legit, I got 'em for my back."
>
> "Did you read the label that warns against taking the medication with
> alcohol?"
>
> "I've got a friend," I explained. "He's studying to be a pharmacist. He
> says those labels don't mean anything."
>
> She scowled, and then continued. "Were you smoking this evening while
> drinking and on a strong narcotic, Mr. Kuell?"
>
>  "I've been trying to quit, but, you know. I can't yell at the Yankees
> without a butt in my mouth. It's just not the same."
>
> "Congratulations. You have now officially quit." She smiled briefly as she
> delivered that line. Then she was back in Perry Mason mode.
>
> "Do you remember falling asleep this evening?"
>
> "Aw, shit," I muttered. "Did I do that again? The ex used to rag on me
> about how I was gonna burn down the house someday."
>
> Wait a second. Did I just talk about myself in the past tense? Lucy
> stepped towards me and put out a hand.
>
> "Take my hand," she said softly. Irresistibly.
>
> I took it, the warmth instantly comforting, safe as a lover's touch. She
> waved her other hand before us and swiped away my house. In its place was
> the recently burned-out rubble of an ex-house. No walls, no TV, no comfy
> leather recliner. Just ash, soot, and charred remnants of a life that used
> to be.
>
> She swiped her arm back and my house magically returned. At least the
> image of it, I think. This was a lot to absorb. I did drink the five
> highballs and I'm no Einstein.
>
> She looked at me, still holding my hand, and said, "It's time to go."
>
> I walked with her down the steps, out to the sidewalk and towards . . .
> I'm not sure where. As the night closed in on us, the dark murkiness
> sifting upward, I asked Lucy one final question.
>
> "Do you know who won the game?"
>
>
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