An Impossible Occurence
This is in tribute to my guru writer, Stephen King. I have been a serious fan of his for many years now, and not just because he writes horror fiction. He is, in my own eyes, mind, heart, and soul, a master storyteller, and writer, and while perhaps I do sound like a critic on his liner notes of his books, I speak my own feelings. I have tasted Dean Koontz, and while Koontz sometimes hits and misses with me, King has an unnerving ability to unveil the subject of death in all its reality, even though its means may not always be so "real". I suppose, in summary, I do believe that Stephen King is trying to say that mankind is the greatest horror of all, and not the imaginary "boogeyman" that lives in the closet. Thank you, SK.
Just five weeks into the police force, twenty-two year old cop Chris Jennings remained in his cruiser at the intersection of Main and Forsyth, when the call came in through the CB radio. "Dispatch to Jennings, Dispatch to Jennings, do you read me?"
Chris pressed down on the radio button, and affirmed. "Yes, I read you. What is it, Marge?"
"You're needed out at the Blue Ribbon Laundry, on Main and Whitley. Over and out."
"Over and out." Jennings took a quick puff of his cigarette, a tall sip of his coffee, and placed the car into D. The Blue Ribbon Laundry, Fayette's one laundromat, was twelve blocks away. Can't wait to see what goober situation this turns out to be, thought he, as the car pulled onto a very empty Main, and within minutes, the blue and white cruiser pulled into the Blue Ribbon's parking lot. Unlocking his seat belt, grabbing his foam cup of coffee, Chris, a novice vulpine who had just finished academy less than two months ago, had had a rather easy time so far, catching speeders, and arresting a few drunken civilians that were found scrounging around the small Maine town. It was July, after all, and the homeless were hot, but some had to bend the rules, and drink wherever . .
Entering the Blue Ribbon Laundry, the first thing Chris Jennings felt was what he later explained to the mental health psychiatrist at Chestnut Field as "cold death". He had never been inside the place before, and yet, the steel grey, mechanical, suffering aroma of the laundromat, coupled with the large gathering of BRL workers, other policemen and officers, and then, the boss, a small, quivering mouse, no taller than three-foot seven, weighing not even eighty pounds who approached him with caution, gave him serious willies.
"What's happened here?" came the first sounds from the newborn cop. "Someone died?"
Anthony Nougat, forty-one, his mouse tail between his skinny legs, quivering, stood a fair distance away. "Died. Died? Jesus . . .
"My name is Anthony, been head manager here fifteen years, and, and . . ." with a Tourette's-like shake of his tiny head, his short gray hair standing on rigid end, continued, "I've never seen anything like this before. Could not even dream of this happening. Impossible. Impossible."
The older mouse's body grew paler as they made their way deeper inside the small, darkish laundromat. It resembled Philadelphia cream cheese, and his green eyes looked like plump olives sticking out of the thick, gooey substance. "I can't go back there again . . . I'm sorry. I'm so sorry!" wailed the overwhelmed creature, and almost passed out on a white plastic chair with an inward curved back up against a washer.
"I'll go," muttered Chris Jennings. No doubt Mr. Nougat was overreacting to whatever had happened. This place looked weird, though, thought Chris, and as he turned a last right towards the end of the place, he saw it, he saw what was called to the regulars here as the mangler, although the real full name was the SE-6C3 Speed Ironer and Folder.
The crazy, long machine was ridiculous in its size; it looked evil to Jennings from the very start. Its' sinister bulkiness, and sleek design, crafted, it had first appeared, intent on destruction rather than domestic convenience. As Chris walked down the fifty-foot army green length of the machine, its rollers screaming an unholy fury, he thought nothing too wrong about the scene. More or less, a short circuit. The goddamn thing won't shut off, it'll blow, it'll fucking bl---
Freddy Lapel had once been a beautiful twenty-five year old skunkette, engaged to Mr. Samuel Ready, who was also a resident of Fayette. Freddy had not been a beauty queen, by any means, but now, but now . . .
There was no more Freddy Lapel. What was left of her, a macabre diorama of bloody plastered bits and pieces of finger, fur, stomach lining, and other corpse, splayed on the windowless black wall, and the backside of large, industrial dryers to the right of the mangler's open, speeding rubber track, which was meant for folding large sheets, pants, shirts, and the like.
Miss Freddy Lapel was no large sheet, however. It was apparent that this beyond huge machine had not known the difference. What looked to be a piece of an eye, some grey matter, bone, and a foot wide puddle of brain, body fluid, and blood, lay at the end of the roaring, triumphant beast, seeming to taunt, to dare anyone to stop it.
Chris Jennings fought hard to keep his morning's egg sandwich inside his stomach, alongside the coffee. Managing to somehow do so, he turned around, passed the dryers, and series of washers, and folding tables, and found still Anthony Nougat sitting like a statue in the chair, his breathing a forced, almost unconscious thing.
"Mr. Nougat," pronounced Chris, in a crouched position, next to the still cream cheesy, harrowed manager. "What happened?" The little mouse turned his head right, and, for a few, long moments, seemed not to be aware of where he was, or of anything real. Then, he opened his mouth. "I wish to make this statement. So help me God, as my Creator, I tell the truth, and nothing but."
Pulling out a pen and pad, Jennings pulled a near identical orange plastic chair over to where Nougat sat, and commenced to get ready to scribe.
"Well, ever since Bonnie DeFranc cut her hand on that goddamned machine, she has been home for a week. It happens all the time around here, you know, workmans' comp, and all that bullshit. It happens, you know? Accidents, carelessness.
"Freddy Lapel had just been hired here, and was working the night shift strict, as she was needed at home, to take care of her siblings, right? However, I had no one else to fill the daytime position, and she was more than willing to make an adjustment.
"She had worked on the mangler before. She was trained, of course, not to go over the safety bar, but who would, anyways, right? And, and . . . and, if your hand gets caught beneath the safety bar, well, the emergency goes on, and everything stops. Supposed to, anyways."
The diminutive mouse's small eyes bled large tears, and continued to shake, as he confessed to what he had to bear witness to just an hour or so ago. According to him, Freddy had been placing a bed sheet inside the SE-6C3 when the feeder belt had "grabbed" the skunkette's arm, and just "pulled her in", apparent on "de-wrinkling her as well", according to Mr. Nougat.
"I've told enough, Officer Jennings. I'd like to go now, please," stammered the mouse, good and done with the unfortunate events of that day. "I think, well, I think I might have to shut down tomorrow. I don't know. I think all of my employees would second my wish."
"Yes," answered Chris, with a strange absence in his voice, as he peered over his right shoulder and looked upwards, sniffing at the bad scent that had always been there, of roasted fur, and sacrificed blood. "Yes, I think that's right."
*
Thirty minutes later, novice cop Chris Jennings laid in his own bed in 1 Apple Lane, in nearby Galliston. He tried to wrap his own thoughts around what he had seen with his own two eyes today, and still, despite what he had seen, could not believe this mess that now he was, somehow, responsible for, in a communal aspect. After all, he was now here to protect his people, he reminded himself, lying naked, his fire red, and cream-tipped bushy tail, glancing at his semi-erect cock. How the fuck am I going to sleep? thought he, as he attempted a futile masturbatory act, which began unsatisfactory, but soon built up to a groaning, thrashing affair, thinking of his voluptuous ex-girlfriend, Rebecca, in Chamberlain, and that gorgeous mouth of hers, how it used to suckle on his member like a mother's breast. That got him off, and dreamy dollops of sperm escaped his straining tool and splattered down everywhere, painting his face, chest, and officer pants. Panting, he lay back, and left to a horrible, nightmare-filled sleep, of which he would wake up later, remembering the "mouth" of the mangler gobbling his own fox body up, tearing his limbs and torso up, piece by piece, as he wailed in vain to nobody, to nothing.