Chapter 12: The Martian Conspiracy
By Allen Frost
Where the wind takes things can be a mystery, there’s invisible pockets sewn in the sky, clouds disguise dragons, or on this foggy night a white balloon carrying a bomb beneath. It had escaped the fate of the other day’s explosions when it hit an updraft and soared above the ocean a thousand feet. The wind kept it there frozen in place until nightfall. With help from the dark swivel of the planet, the ocean fog and the clouds, it quietly rejoined the panic where radio waves bounced desperate signals into the ether, a hundred terror stories per hour.
Tiny’s Garage was open late, hammering, a frantic radio keeping the little man company. The big swinging door was open on the night and let out a bright yellow-white Titanic light. The oily cement room was filled with a shiny assembly line of red Shriner cars. Tiny was halfway along the row of them banging a crumpled fender with a wooden hammer.
In a way, what happened was worthy of a prayer—that terrible bombing of the city coincided with the Memorial Day parade. Puffs of burning buildings caused the Shriners to blow their practiced figure-8 thrills. Not only them though, the whole city went haywire and needed repair. Anyway, Tiny should have counted his blessings for this sudden appearance of twenty damaged miniature cars. They carried a hundred dollars apiece. What a windfall.
He had the radio going full blast so he could be sure to hear any news while he battered and bashed at the cars. Since seeing the doc’s green blood and then his daughter with her strange hunting creatures, Tiny was waiting for the end of America as we know it. Any second it was going to happen—Tiny had seen the Martian Conspiracy!
Finally he couldn’t take it anymore, he set his hammer on beveled chrome and hurried over to the telephone that held down a stack of paperwork. He dialed the spindle and drummed his fingers impatiently.
“This is Arlo Wilbur speaking. You’re on the air.”
“Listen Arlo, you got it all wrong!”
“Is that so?”
“Yeahhh,” Tiny sneered. He cocked his head towards the radio blaring among the cars. He heard his voice broadcasting a five second delay. “Listen Arlo, you got it all wrong!” He liked the sound of it.
“Sir—Sir, you’ll have to turn down your radio,” Arlo said in the receiver.
“Yeahhh,” Tiny’s hiss squealed out of the speaker.
“Okay, okay,” Tiny barked at the telephone and he left it for a moment.
“Sir—Sir, you’ll have to turn down your radio.”
“I know! I know!” Tiny screeched as he slapped at the wooden face of the Philco, turned and raced back to the telephone. “There!” he growled and panted, “Now listen up, Arlo. I know who’s behind these bombs and it ain’t who you think.”
“Really sir?”
“Yeah.”
“Even though the Nazis have publicly taken credit for—”
“Enough of the Nazis already!”
“Sir, this isn’t the time or place for hysterics. We need to—”
“Listen Arlo. We’re up against an enemy that ain’t even human!” Tiny raged. “I’ve seen them, they’re from Mars!”
Suddenly the telephone got cold; it was like holding a curl of ice to his ear.
“It’s Martians that are doing it,” he muttered. “Did you hear me, Arlo? Martians…” he repeated.
Arlo Wilbur was gone. The phone had lost him overboard.
“Hey!” Tiny jiggled the cradle. The dial tone hummed in his ear. “Agghh!” He threw the phone down on the sliding papers and ran back to the radio. Arlo Wilbur was lecturing sternly, “—got to maintain our faculties and reason in what will surely be a very trying time for our great nation. We must continue nobly and settle for nothing less than victory. I hope this next caller—”
Tiny snapped at the switch. He grabbed his wooden hammer and swung it in his clenched fist above the radio. Only a blur of motion in the doorway stopped him from striking.
Glowing in the swirling gloam of fog stood a ghost holding a candle. Actually, it was George, holding a fifty cent flame, with a can of cactus juice in his coat pocket, but when Tiny beheld that vision he dropped the hammer. It hit him on the head and clattered to the floor.
“Oohoww!” Tiny shrieked. He rubbed the sore knot on his forehead. When he took his hands from his face, the doc had blown.
Where the wind takes things can be a mystery, there’s invisible pockets sewn in the sky, clouds disguise dragons, or on this foggy night a white balloon carrying a bomb beneath. It had escaped the fate of the other day’s explosions when it hit an updraft and soared above the ocean a thousand feet. The wind kept it there frozen in place until nightfall. With help from the dark swivel of the planet, the ocean fog and the clouds, it quietly rejoined the panic where radio waves bounced desperate signals into the ether, a hundred terror stories per hour.
Tiny’s Garage was open late, hammering, a frantic radio keeping the little man company. The big swinging door was open on the night and let out a bright yellow-white Titanic light. The oily cement room was filled with a shiny assembly line of red Shriner cars. Tiny was halfway along the row of them banging a crumpled fender with a wooden hammer.
In a way, what happened was worthy of a prayer—that terrible bombing of the city coincided with the Memorial Day parade. Puffs of burning buildings caused the Shriners to blow their practiced figure-8 thrills. Not only them though, the whole city went haywire and needed repair. Anyway, Tiny should have counted his blessings for this sudden appearance of twenty damaged miniature cars. They carried a hundred dollars apiece. What a windfall.
He had the radio going full blast so he could be sure to hear any news while he battered and bashed at the cars. Since seeing the doc’s green blood and then his daughter with her strange hunting creatures, Tiny was waiting for the end of America as we know it. Any second it was going to happen—Tiny had seen the Martian Conspiracy!
Finally he couldn’t take it anymore, he set his hammer on beveled chrome and hurried over to the telephone that held down a stack of paperwork. He dialed the spindle and drummed his fingers impatiently.
“This is Arlo Wilbur speaking. You’re on the air.”
“Listen Arlo, you got it all wrong!”
“Is that so?”
“Yeahhh,” Tiny sneered. He cocked his head towards the radio blaring among the cars. He heard his voice broadcasting a five second delay. “Listen Arlo, you got it all wrong!” He liked the sound of it.
“Sir—Sir, you’ll have to turn down your radio,” Arlo said in the receiver.
“Yeahhh,” Tiny’s hiss squealed out of the speaker.
“Okay, okay,” Tiny barked at the telephone and he left it for a moment.
“Sir—Sir, you’ll have to turn down your radio.”
“I know! I know!” Tiny screeched as he slapped at the wooden face of the Philco, turned and raced back to the telephone. “There!” he growled and panted, “Now listen up, Arlo. I know who’s behind these bombs and it ain’t who you think.”
“Really sir?”
“Yeah.”
“Even though the Nazis have publicly taken credit for—”
“Enough of the Nazis already!”
“Sir, this isn’t the time or place for hysterics. We need to—”
“Listen Arlo. We’re up against an enemy that ain’t even human!” Tiny raged. “I’ve seen them, they’re from Mars!”
Suddenly the telephone got cold; it was like holding a curl of ice to his ear.
“It’s Martians that are doing it,” he muttered. “Did you hear me, Arlo? Martians…” he repeated.
Arlo Wilbur was gone. The phone had lost him overboard.
“Hey!” Tiny jiggled the cradle. The dial tone hummed in his ear. “Agghh!” He threw the phone down on the sliding papers and ran back to the radio. Arlo Wilbur was lecturing sternly, “—got to maintain our faculties and reason in what will surely be a very trying time for our great nation. We must continue nobly and settle for nothing less than victory. I hope this next caller—”
Tiny snapped at the switch. He grabbed his wooden hammer and swung it in his clenched fist above the radio. Only a blur of motion in the doorway stopped him from striking.
Glowing in the swirling gloam of fog stood a ghost holding a candle. Actually, it was George, holding a fifty cent flame, with a can of cactus juice in his coat pocket, but when Tiny beheld that vision he dropped the hammer. It hit him on the head and clattered to the floor.
“Oohoww!” Tiny shrieked. He rubbed the sore knot on his forehead. When he took his hands from his face, the doc had blown.
posted by Miguel at 10:33 AM
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