"Into Darkness"

Yet another true tale of  la vie de la bohème by Dan Leo

Illustrations and additional dialogue by rhoda penmarq, exclusively for quinnmartinmarq™ productions

This episode brought to you by the Husky Boy™ Tobacco Co.

"Nine out of ten doctors surveyed have found that Husky Boy's patented new 'Benzo-Tip™' filter provides as much energy as one standard 'regular' coffee!" – Horace P. Sternwall, author of the new "Johnny Legato" mystery, A Dame is to Blame 

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How far away was that faint glow of light? It was impossible to say, but there was nothing else to do but to walk toward it. What was the alternative? There was none. "I think," said Addison, "that the thing to do is to try to find a stairway." "Yes, I suppose so," said Milford, in the darkness. "It seems we're in some sort of basement." "Yes, so it seems." "But if we reach that light up ahead we should probably find a way out of here." "So one might presume," said Milford. "Well, don't you think that's a reasonable presumption?" said Addison.  "Yes, it's reasonable," said Milford. "I mean, don't all basements have stairways?" "I don't know," said Milford. "I am hardly an expert on basements." "You mean there might not be a stairway?" "I don't know," said Milford. "What if this basement is only accessible by elevator?" "I hadn't thought of that," said Addison. "But I'll tell you one thing," said Milford, "I'm not getting back in that elevator we just got out of." "No, that was rather –" Addison paused, "disconcerting." They kept walking, the tips of their cigarettes providing their only immediate illumination. The glow of faint light in the distance gradually formed the shape of a doorway, and after several minutes during which neither Addison or Milford said a word, each for their own reasons (fear, and the fear of saying something fearful, or something boring or stupid, or simultaneously fearful, boring, and stupid) they reached what was indeed a doorway, without a door. Addison stepped through first, Milford followed him, and they found themselves in yet another hallway, this one with walls of unpainted brick. Above them hung the source of the light they had seen, a bare bulb hanging from a high ceiling, and the corridor ran otherwise unlighted to the right and to the left. "Which way now?" said Addison.  Both directions seemed to lead only to darkness. "I don't know," said Milford.  "Some sort of ancient impulse deep within me suggests that we should go to the right." "In that case we should probably go to the left," said Milford. "Ha ha, that dry Milford wit," said Addison. "You're the one with the alleged wit," said Milford. "One thing I have never been accused of is possessing wit." "Ah, but moi, j'accuse, mon ami!" said Addison, dapperly tapping the ash of what was left of his Chesterfield to the floor. "Addison," said Milford, after a slight pause, "may I ask you one small favor?" "Anything, old chap." "Oh, never mind." "No, please, ask away!" "I was going to ask you to stop speaking French." "Oh, pardonnez-moi, mon vieux." "Ha ha." "No, but if it bothers you, I'll stop, I promise." "Oh, never mind, I don't care, really." "Vraiment?" "Yes," said Milford. "Who am I to ask you not to speak odd phrases in French?" "Well," said Addison, "at the risk of waxing sentimental, I like to think you're my friend. And that I am your friend. And so if it is in my power to be even slightly less annoying, it would be my pleasure to attempt to do so." Milford bit off a sigh before it could fully achieve itself. "Okay," he said. "You mean, okay that I think of myself as your friend?" "Yes," said Milford, looking away. "You know, mon pote, I've never really had a friend," said Addison. "Have you?" "I think you already know the answer to that," said Milford. "Oh, I've had acquaintances," said Addison. "My classmates at school and college, who always seemed to be in cliques that I was banned from. And, during the war, my co-workers on the assembly line at the parachute factory, to whom I would say hello, and receive a curt nod in response, if that. And now of course, the fellow tipplers who frequent my local caravansary, Bob's Bowery Bar, but who always seem to have trouble staying awake when I attempt to converse with them. But a friend? Someone who does more than tolerate my presence?" "Okay," said Milford. "I get it." His Husky Boy had burnt down to a nubbin, and he let it fall to the floor. Almost seeming to commit an act of solidarity, Addison also dropped his cigarette. "I'm so glad," said Addison. "What?" "I said I'm so glad." "Glad about what?" "That we have become friends." "Oh," said Milford. "Yes." It occurred to him that it might possibly be a fire hazard just to toss their cigarette butts to the floor, and so, just to be on the safe side, he ground out his own discarded butt with the sole of his workman's brogan, and then stepped over and put his foot on Addison's still-burning dog end as well. Never being one to take much notice of anything outside the confines of his own skull, he now belatedly observed that the flooring seemed to be made of ancient bricks, and so there probably had been no great danger of a conflagration. No matter, what was done was done. He became aware that Addison had said something. "Don't you agree?" said Addison. "About what?" said Milford. "About what I just said." "Do you mind repeating it?" "Don't you agree, and again at the risk of waxing sentimental," said Addison, who had long ago grown used to people drifting off while he talked, "that it feels good to have a friend, at long last." "Oh, right," said Milford.  "Not to wax sentimental." "No, of course not." "Damon and Pythias. Don Quixote and Sancho Panza. Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer." "Right." "Holmes and Watson." "Yeah," said Milford. "Friends," said Addison. "After all the lonely years. After a lifetime of –" "But you know why we've never had any friends," interrupted Milford. "Is that a question?" said Addison. "More a statement of fact," said Milford. "Oh," said Addison. "Yes," said Milford. "Because we are, both," said Addison, "I confess I hesitate to say it –" "We're both douchebags," said Milford. "Yes," said Addison. "Might as well call a spade a spade." "And a douchebag a douchebag," said Milford. "Which still leaves us with the question," said Addison. "Why we exist, or persist in existing?" said Milford. "Well, that," said Addison, "but actually, on a perhaps more prosaic plane, I meant we are left with the question of which way to go, right or left?" "You choose," said Milford. "Well, as I said previously, my deepest impulse, or intuition if you will, tells me we should go to the right." "Okay then," said Milford. "So, then," said Addison, "to the left then?" "Yes," said Milford, after only the slightest of pauses. And the two friends headed down the dim hall to the left, toward the darkness, gradually entering into the darkness, which had no seeming end, and when they had walked in darkness a further minute, as if communicating telepathically, they stopped as one and brought out their cigarettes. Milford lighted them both up with his Ronson, their faces pale in the small light, which he extinguished with a click, and then on they walked, once again the tips of their cigarettes providing their only illumination.

"Fancy Dans and Chancers"

Yet another cautionary tale of  la vie de la bohème by Dan Leo

Illustrations and additional dialogue by rhoda penmarq, exclusively for quinnmartinmarq™ productions

This episode brought to you by the Husky Boy™ Tobacco Co.

Forget all those creative writing courses and specious 'how to write a novel' articles and books! My advice to the aspiring young author of today is to brew a large pot of coffee (or tea), sit down at the typewriter, light up a Husky Boy Benzo-Tip™, and just 'let it rip'!" – Horace P. Sternwall, author of The Black Hole in the Blank Page: Musings and Meditations on the Craft of Writing

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"My story might be considered a sad one," said the little old man, "but aren't all stories sad in the end?" He had sat down on a stool in the back corner of the vibrating and whirring elevator, and he was filling his corncob pipe from a leather pouch. It occurred to Addison that the man was waiting for an answer to his question. "Do you mean," he said, "in the sense that every life ends in death?" "Smart young fella," said the old man. "What about you, sonny?" he said, pointing the mouthpiece of his pipe at Milford. "You a smart young fella also?" "If I were smart I wouldn't be trapped in this elevator," said Milford. "Which statement proves you're a smart young fella," said the little man. "Or at least not a braggadocious young fella." He stuffed the pouch back into his green and red elevator-operator's jacket, and then brought out a little box of Blue Tip kitchen matches. He took one out, struck it, and put the flame to his pipe, drawing slowly and deeply. "How much longer, by the way?" said Milford. "How much longer?" said the little man. "Yes," said Milford. "How much longer until we get to the next floor?" "Not too long," said the little man. "Where was I?" "You were going to tell us a story," said Addison. "A sad story." "Ah, yes," said the little man, and he puffed on his pipe. "Hey," said Milford. "Is that marijuana in that pipe?" "Sure is," said the little man. "You want a hit?" "No, thanks," said Milford, although he actually did want some. "Suit yourself," said the old guy, and he raised his eyebrows at Addison. "What about you, sir? It's good shit. Or at least not bad shit. You want a toke or two?" "No, thank you," said Addison, put off by the ancient slobber he noticed on the stem of the pipe. "I'll stick to my Chesterfield." The old man drew again on the pipe, and then slowly exhaled a great cloud of smoke. This smoke combined with that from Addison's Chesterfield and Milford's Husky Boy filled the small car with a thick grey haze. He coughed disturbingly for a full minute, then abruptly ceased, and began speaking again. "My story begins with two young fellas, gentlemens much like yourselves, one no longer young but the way he was going hardly fated ever to grow old, and one a bit younger but already old at heart. One of them's name was – what'd you say your name was?" he asked, looking at Addison. "I didn't say," said Addison, "but everyone calls me Addison, although in fact my name is –" "Let's call the older fella Addison then," said the old man. "And the younger chappy, well, we'll call him – pardon me," he looked through his thick horn rims at Milford, "I didn't catch your moniker, young fella." "Who, me?" said Milford. "What do they call you, if I may be so bold as to ask." "You mean besides douchebag?" "Yes, besides that, what do your friends call you?" "They call me asshole." The old man began coughing again, perhaps in hilarity. "Look," said Addison, "they call him Milford, okay?" "Milford it is then," said the old man, his coughing subsided. "So, my story concerns these two fellas, what did you say their names was?" "Milford and Addison," said Addison. "Addison and Milford?" "Yes," said Addison. "Right. Now, some people called these two fellas douchebags. Other people called 'em assholes. Some folks called them losers. Other folks just called them clowns. But they was just two fellas trying to make their way through life as painlessly as possible, no different from anybody else. 'Ceptin' one fateful night they walked into the wrong bar. A bar full of douchebags. And the douchebags in this bar, they didn't want these two fellas, what was they names?" "Addison and Milford," said Addison. "The douchebags in this bar didn't want to let Addison and Milford leave, ever. They wanted 'em to stay there, for all eternity, two douchebags in a bar full of douchebags, till the end of time." "Okay, look, sir," said Milford. "We already know this story." "You should," said the old man. "It's your story, ain't it?" "Yes, it's our story, and we know we're assholes, and losers, and douchebags, okay?" "So you don't want to hear the rest of the story?" "No," said Milford. "It's bad enough having to live our story without having to hear someone else tell it." The old man puffed on his pipe, and then he addressed Addison. "You feel this way too?" "Yes," said Addison. "If I am to be quite honest, I would just as soon get on to the next chapter without knowing what's in it." "You might not like the next chapter," said the old man. "I don't care," said Addison. "What about you, sonny?" said the old man, to Milford. "I just want to get out of this elevator," said Milford. "Oh, okay," said the old man. "Leave me here then. All alone in my ellyvator." Suddenly the elevator car lurched, and with a dithering bang it seemed to stop its descent. "What was that?" said Milford. "Ellyvator reached the floor," said the old man, and indeed the car slowly ceased vibrating and whirring. "Oh, thank God," said Milford. "I reckon you two fellas want to get out now," said the old man. "Yes," said Addison. "Yes!" said Milford. "I ain't finished my story yet," said the old man. "Look, we're sorry," said Milford, "but we have to go." "Sorry?" "Yes," said Addison. "We're sorry, but we really do have to go." "Got some place important to go," said the old man. "Well, maybe not important," said Addison, "but still –" "You wants to go." "Yes." "Leave me here, all alone like." "Well, it's just –" "Just what?" "We have some ladies who are waiting for us," said Addison. "Ladies waiting for yez?" "Sort of, yes," said Addison. "They good looking?" "Yes, they are rather, I think," said Addison. "Wouldn't you say so, Milford?" "What?" said Milford. "Wouldn't you say the ladies who are waiting for us are good looking?" "Better looking than we deserve," said Milford. "Well, that's different," said the old man. "Don't want to keep them good looking ladies waiting. They just might get tired of waiting and strike up with some fancy Dans and chancers." "Um," said Addison. "Lots of fancy Dans and chancers out there," said the old fellow. "Uh," said Milford. "Guess youse better go then," said the old fellow. "Don't worry about me. I'll be all right." "Okay, then," said Addison. "Maybe next time," said the old man. "Next time?" said Addison. "Yes, sir, maybe next time I'll tell you the rest of my story." "Sure, next time," said Addison.  "If there is a next time," said the old man. "I wonder, sir," said Milford, "can you open the doors now?" "Open the doors?" "Yes," said Milford. "Open the doors. So we can get out." The old man heaved a long rattling sigh. "Are you all right?" asked Addison. "Sure," said the old man. "Nothing wrong with me." "Well, then, at the risk of sounding annoyingly repetitive, could you open the doors for us? Or should we just open the doors ourselves?" "No, no," said the old man. "It's my job. Besides, you don't turn the handles just the right way they won't open, then you'll be stuck in here. You gotta turn the handles and push in simultaneous like and then pull 'em and jiggle 'em just the right way, you got to know how to do it, it takes good old fashioned American know-how to open them doors." "So could you open them for us?" said Milford. "Certainly," said the old man. Addison and Milford stood there, but the old man continued to sit on his stool, smoking his pipe. "Sir?" said Milford. "Yes, sonny?" "Can you open the doors, please?" "What? Oh, sure." He sprang to his feet with surprising agility, given his apparent great age. He went to the expandable iron gate, pulled on its handle and opened it, and then pulled the handle on the outside door and opened that, revealing what looked like the vast dark reaches of outer space. He turned and faced our two heroes.  "You wanted to leave, go on and leave. Oh, and that next chapter of my story?" He paused, seeming to expect a response. "Yes?" said Addison. "Welcome to it," said the old man. Addison and Milford looked at each other, but stepped bravely out into the darkness. They turned and watched as the old man shut the elevator door, and then they heard the car lurch and bang and then apparently begin its slow and vibrating ascent. The only illumination visible was that emanating from the tips of our two friends' cigarettes.  "Now what?" said Milford. "On to the next chapter," said Addison.  There was a hint of vague pale light somewhere ahead in the darkness, and Addison and Milford set forth slowly toward it.

"Elevator"

Yet another true tale of  la vie de la bohème by Dan Leo

Illustrations and additional dialogue by rhoda penmarq, exclusively for quinnmartinmarq™ productions

This episode brought to you by the Husky Boy™ Tobacco Co.

"Whenever I feel a need for that extra little boost in my literary endeavors, I simply light up a Husky Boy King Size Benzo-Tip, and I am off into the stratosphere!" – Horace P. Sternwall, your host of The Husky Boy Benzo-Tip Radio Mystery Program

for previous story, click here

to begin series, click here

The two friends staggered and then stopped as one, panting and sweating. "Well!" said Addison, when after a minute he was able to say anything. "Yes," said Milford. "That was a close call." "Yes." "Bastards thought they had us," said Addison, "but we showed them." "Wait," said Milford. "Listen." Addison cocked his head and listened, and heard the sound of trampling feet and shouting from somewhere beyond a corner they had turned perhaps a hundred feet back. "Oh, dear," he said. "They're coming after us," said Milford. "Damn." "We're doomed," said Milford. "We were already doomed," said Addison. "Everyone is doomed." "You're dealing in semantics when we're about to be torn limb from limb by a mob of, of –" "Of douchebags?" "Yes," said Milford. "Well, there's nothing for it but to try to outrun them." "All right," said Milford, "but I'm already exhausted." "You're not exhausted until you fall to the floor, unable even to crawl another inch." "Yes, I suppose so." "So buck up, boyo, and let's go." The noise of the shouting and trampling was growing louder, and so Milford and Addison began running again, after a minute turning another corner, and two more minutes later and just at the point of collapse they came to the end of the corridor, where there was what seemed to be a door.  "A door," panted Milford, the sweat streaming down his face. "Yes, I see it," said Addison, sweating and panting equally. "Another door." "But there's no doorknob or handle," said Milford. "Yes, I see that too," said Addison. "Now we're really doomed," said Milford, as the shouting and trampling echoed louder from back down the hall. "There's a button there," said Addison gesturing toward what at least appeared to be a button to the side of the door. "Should we press it?" "Yes," said Milford, "for God's sake!" "There you go with that God business again," said Addison, but he pressed the button. The trampling, the thudding, the shouting grew louder still, and a voice rang out from down the hallway, yelling. "There they are!" "Let's get 'em!" came another voice. "Fuckin' douchebags!" opined another harsh voice. Milford and Addison both turned and looked back, and there coming around the far corner was the huge fat man called Big Daddy thudding along like a maddened rhino, and right beside him was that other nasty guy from the podium, and behind them came a whole pack of a dozen or more men, their fists raised, some of them wielding what looked like baseball bats and clubs and bicycle chains. "Oh, shit," said Milford. "Well, it was nice knowing you," said Addison. "I never thought it would end like this," said Milford. "Personally I always rather thought I'd die in a charity ward," said Addison, "but I liked to think I had at least ten more years, or five at least –" "Good evening, gentlemen," said a voice behind them. "Coming in?" The two friends turned and saw what looked like an elevator operator, uniformed in green and red and with a black-billed cap on his head, standing in what appeared to be a small elevator car. Quickly they tumbled inside. "Up or down, good sirs?" said the man, who was very tiny with thick horn-rimmed glasses and who looked to be eighty years old if he was a day. "It doesn't matter!" cried Milford. "Close the doors, please, and get us out of here!" "Got some guys chasing yez, hey?" "Yes!" said Milford, "now please, close the door!" "You got it, boss," said the little man, and he grabbed a handle and slid the outside door shut. Inside that door was an expandable iron gate, and he also pulled that shut, and just in time, because they could now hear the sounds of pounding on the outside of the door, and shouting, and a chorus of voices blending as one with shouted words. "Douchebags! Motherfuckers! Open that fucking elevator up!" "Wow," said the little man, turning to our two sweating and panting friends, "them is some pissed-off individuals. What the heck did you two fellers do to 'em?" "I threw a lit cigarette butt into the eye of one of them," said Addison. "Why'd you do that?" "Because he was threatening to trap us in a barroom full of douchebags for all eternity." "Well, then," said the little man, "I can't say as I blame ya, then." The pounding on the door and the angry shouting from outside continued unabated. The little man turned toward the door and now he shouted. "Hey, you bums! Stop pounding on that door! You're gonna break it!" "Fuck you!" yelled a voice that sounded to Addison and Milford like the podium guy, and the pounding and shouting continued. "Look, sir," said Milford, "can you please get this elevator moving before they break the door in?" "They ain't gonna break that door in," said the little man. "That's a solid steel door you're looking at there." "But you just said that they could break the door," said Milford. "Yeah," said the little man. "Sure, they might break it, like maybe break the mechanism or something, call for a repair job, but they ain't gonna break it in, unless maybe they got a sledge hammer or something." Suddenly a loud metal clanging sound resounded from the door. "What was that?" whined Milford. "Sounded like a goddam sledge hammer," said the little man. "Or maybe a fireman's axe. I don't know. Do I look like Superman, like I got X-ray vision?" The metallic pounding continued. "Please, sir," said Milford, "can you please get this thing moving?" "Sure," said the little man. "That's all you had to say." "Please," said Milford. "'Please'," said the little old man, "it's the magic word, ain't it?" There was a large handle attached to the wall near the front of the car, and he put his hand on it. "Up or down, gents?" "It doesn't matter," said Milford. "I got to know," said the man. "Okay," said Addison. "Take us down then, please." "Down it is," said the little man, and he pulled on the handle, the car whirred and lurched, and then seemed very slowly to descend as the pounding and shouting continued from outside. "How far ya want to go down?" said the little man. "Just one floor, I suppose," said Addison. "One floor it is then," said the man. They could still hear the shouting and the pounding, as the car whirred and vibrated. "Is this thing even moving?" said Milford. "It's moving, but it moves slow," said the elevator man. "It's a slow ellyvator. You got to be patient with this old baby, but you give it enough time, and she'll get you where you want to go, yes sir. Perhaps you gentlemen would like to hear a little story to pass the time." "To pass the time?" said Milford. "How long is it going to take to go down one floor?" "Not too long, but like I say, this ol' ellyvator's slow, and it's a long ways down to the next floor down." "Oh, my God," said Milford. "Why didn't you tell us it was a long way down to the next floor?" "You didn't ask, sonny. Now if'n you want we can go back up, and go past the floor you was on to the next floor up above that, we can do that if you want." "And how long will that take?" said Addison. "Not too long."  "Will it take longer to go up to that floor than it will to get to the floor below?" "I reckon about the same," said the little man, "give or take five minutes thereabouts." "Oh, Christ," said Milford. "Just say the word," said the little man, "and I'll reverse direction. It don't make no never mind to me." "Okay, fine," said Milford. "Just keep going down then." "So you fellers want to hear my story?" "Sure," said Addison. "Tell us your story." "All righty, then," said the little old man. He took a corncob pipe out of his jacket pocket. "Relax, gents, and smoke 'em if you got 'em." There was nothing else to do, and so Addison took out his pack of Chesterfields, and Milford brought out his Husky Boys.  The shouting and the banging and clanging continued, but now the noise was coming from above, as the elevator car continued to whir and hum and slowly to descend to whatever lay below.