Seven Horrible, Gristly Deaths

by geoffrey m miller

            The judge lowered her half-rimmed glasses and peered over them at her newest defendant.  She leaned forward with a puzzled look and squinted, then double-checked the name on the docket.

            "Who is this woman?", she asked, turning to the bailiff.

            "That's the defendant, your honor:  Mrs. Gertrude Henkelgruber."

            "YOU?", she asked in disbelief.

            The defendant nodded a timid reply.  It suited her.  Mrs. Henkelgruber exuded timidity.  Her shrinking posture and skittish movements gave her the look of a tiny, helpless woodland creature.

            "Mrs. Henkelgruber, according to my paperwork, you are here because you've been charged with attempted murder, assault with a deadly weapon and making terroristic threats.  Is this possible?"

            This time, the timid nod was accompanied by a timid, "Yes, Ma'am."

            "Is the plaintiff here?"

            "Yes, your honor.", answered the bailiff, directing her gaze to a beefy gentleman sitting at the prosecutor's table.  The gentleman owned a delicatessen, but looked like he could have been a Mafia hit-man:  6'-1", 220 pounds, stocky and muscular.  His left elbow was in a sling.  Dark green, blue and amber bruises covered his face.  He waved his good arm toward the judge and tried his best to look like a victim.  She motioned to the District Attorney to the bench.

            "Your Honor", he began, "The police report indicates that the victim, Mr. Bruno, was waiting on Mrs. Henkelgruber at his place of business when, for no apparent reason, she attacked him.

            "With what?", asked the judge, eyeing the victim's injuries, "a baseball bat?"

            "No, your honor, with a roll of cappacola salami."

            "And don't forget about what she did to my phone!", called Mr. Bruno from across the room.

            "Oh, yes", the DA added, "It is also alleged that before striking Mr. Bruno with the salami, she grabbed a cellphone out of his hands and buried it in a bowl of roasted red peppers."

            The judge steepled her fingers and rested them thoughtfully against her chin. 

            "Mrs. Henkelgruber, I must admit that I find this all a little hard to believe.  Did you really attack this man?"  The defendant's reply was hushed and hesitant.

            "Well, I uh... I uh, didn't think I was doing anything, but... but I suppose... that is... I guess I did."

            The judge looked puzzled and demanded a clearer explanation.

            "I had purchased some rolls and half a pound of muenster cheese", the woman began softly, "And I was paying for them when Mr. Bruno's cell phone rang.  Instead of giving me my change so I could leave, he made me stand there and wait while he went on and on and ON;  yapping with someone about the price of his new freezer, WHILE I'M STUCK STANDING THERE!"

            In that short time, the meek Mrs. Henkelgruber had been transformed into a fiery-eyed, bare-teethed screaming maniac.  She paused, looking as if she had startled herself, then continued quietly again.

            "Well, then I imagined myself grabbing his phone and beating him with the meat roll, just like all the other times."

            "Other times?", asked the judge.

            "Uh, yes Ma'am", answered the defendant.  "The first time I remember it happening was at my niece's wedding.  Just as they were about to exchange vows, a cell phone rang and a gentleman sitting across the aisle actually answered it and started talking.  The next thing that went through my mind was going over there with a couple of big, fat hymnals and bashing his head between them, over and over again until he fell over dead, then throwing his phone up into the balcony."

            Her actions-- so appallingly violent, yet described so meekly-- chilled the group gathered at the bench.  The judge sat back, stunned.

            "Mrs. Henkelgruber, are you telling us that Mr. Bruno isn't the first person you've assaulted in this way?"

            "No your honor.  He's the first.  All the others... I just imagined doing things to them... in my head.  People who are inconsiderate with their cell phones are my only real...   oh, what's the word?"

            "Pet peeve?", offered the bailiff.

            "Yes, that's it-- my pet peeve.  They really get on my nerves, but I would never actually say anything to anybody.  I'm just not the type to do that.  Instead, I keep quiet, use my imagination, and pretend to do all the bad things I'd really LIKE to do"

            "It was like that with the man at the deli.", the woman continued, with a gesture to the plaintiff.  "I was picturing myself hitting him with the salami, and before I realized it,  I really was.  All things considered, he was lucky."

            "Lucky!", cried Mr. Bruno.  "You call this LUCKY?  You nearly killed me with that thing!"

            "I meant lucky compared to some of the things I've imagined doing to other people.  Like the time I visited the Grand Canyon.  I was standing on an overlook at sunset.  It was quiet and beautiful, until the woman standing next to me took a call and kept yammering away at the top of her lungs.  I was going to say something, but I couldn't work up the nerve.  Instead, I imagined throwing her phone over the edge and sending her after it-- then watching her dead body bounce from boulder to boulder."

            "Then there was the guy at the symphony concert", she continued calmly, "the lady in the coffee shop, the fellow in the library, the kid on the bus and the people at the funeral home.  All of them died horrible, agonizing, gristly deaths-- in my head, at least."

            The judge leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes to think.  From a legal standpoint, it was a clear-cut case.  The mild-mannered Mrs. Henkelgruber was clearly guilty of some kind of assault.

            On a personal level, though, the judge had to admit that she had had the same vicious thoughts when confronted by thoughtless, self-absorbed cellphoners.

            After a long while, the judge stirred.

            "Mr. Bruno, regarding the charge of making terroristic threats, what exactly did Mrs. Henkelgruber say to you that was threatening?"

            "I never heard her say anything.  I was out cold after the first swing of the salami."

            "If you never heard the alleged threats, it is therefore impossible for you to have been threatened.  Mister District Attorney, is cappacola salami generally considered a deadly weapon?"

            "Well, your honor.  It is a blunt instrument... sort of.", he replied weakly.

            "I disagree.  If there's no deadly weapon, there can be no assault with a deadly weapon.

            "Mrs. Henkelgruber, I sympathize with you completely.  However, since Mr. Bruno has obviously been harmed, I have no choice but to find you guilty of disturbing the peace, which is a misdemeanor.  I sentence you to compensate Mr. Bruno for the loss of his phone and for the bowl of roasted red peppers.  In addition, you will serve twenty-five hundred hours of community service.  That ought to give you enough time to design and produce 'No Cellphones' signs and to post them at every church, synagogue, library, park, elevator, restaurant, and scenic overlook in the city."

            "Bailiff, call the next case."

The Most Dangerous Man In The World

by geoffrey m. miller

            Halloween is by nature a strange holiday, but this Halloween was stranger than most.  First, because I attended a wedding, (yes, wedding).  And second, because I came face-to-face with Milton Harshberger-- the most dangerous man in the world.

            We met completely by chance when I took a seat next to him at the airport.  He was rubbing his way through a pile of instant lottery tickets and nodded 'hello' as I sat down.

            "Any winners in that stack?", I asked.

            "Probably not.", he replied.  "I'm not very lucky."  I told him that I used to buy lottery tickets every other day, until I realized that I had better odds of being struck by lightning.

            "I have.", he replied, matter-of-factly.

            "What?",  I asked.  "Hit the lottery?"

            "No-- been struck by lightning.  Twice."  He made the comment in a disturbingly nonchalant way.  "The first time was in 1975.  I was watching my kids high school football game.  It started to rain, so I put up my umbrella.  The bolt hit the tip, came out through my left buttock and set the bleacher support on fire.  Thirty-five people went to the hospital. 

            "And you survived!?", I asked.  "How long were you hospitalized?"

            "About ten minutes.", he told me.  "I had a blister on my butt.  They put some salve on it and sent me home."

            "The second time", he continued, "was in '86 during 'Hands Across America'.  I was in Columbus, Ohio.  We were standing there, holding hands and singing when I got hit.

            "How badly were you hurt that time?", I asked-- astonished.

            "Not a scratch.  But some guy in Wisconsin was standing in a puddle..."

            "And...??"

            "Toast.  I'm about due for another one", he continued, "They seem to come about once every eleven years.  Eleven is an unlucky number for me."

            We were sitting in the rows of molded plastic chairs that filled the end of the concourse near Gates 10 through 14.  Gate 11 was directly in front of us.  I was scheduled to depart from it at eleven-am on flight 1101.  For a brief moment, I held the vain hope that maybe-just-maybe, this spectacularly unlucky person was leaving from a different gate on another flight. 

            "So where ya' headed?", I asked hopefully.

            "Chicago.", he replied.  "Going to a wedding.  A wedding-- on Halloween!-- can you believe that?" 

            Slowly and shakily, I pulled my invitation from my jacket pocket.  "This one, by chance?", I asked.  When he pulled an identical envelope from the pouch of his carry-on, I realized I had more to worry about than just the flight.

            "That's great!", Milt exclaimed.  "Maybe we can split a cab to the hotel." 

            As we stood to begin boarding, the bolts that held our row of seats to the wall popped loose, throwing half a dozen people to the floor.

            The flight was one of the most turbulent I can remember.  We hit the first pocket just as the flight attendant was leaning over to pour hot coffee into Milton's cup.  It ended up on the head of the lady in front of him. 

            Later, someones carry-on bag got loose during a particularly violent jolt and went sailing across the cabin-- straight for Milton's head.  He sneezed just before the impact, jerking his head downward into his handkerchief; his 'Achooo!' drowned-out by the 'Thud!' of the bag hitting the guy beside him.

            Later, as he struggled toward the forward bathroom, the nose of the plane dipped violently, sending a dinner cart careening down the aisle after him.  It was like watching something from an Indiana Jones movie:  the unknowing Milton grasped the bathroom door and pulled himself inside, just as the cart hurtled past. 

            It continued through the first class compartment and was probably traveling at more than thirty miles an hour when it struck the co-pilot, knocking him unconscious.

            As we disembarked at O'Hare, he asked if I wanted to ride with him to the hotel.  I lied and told him I already had one, which was good, considering the severity of the accident his cab was involved in.  Milt wasn't hurt, but he told me the paramedics thought the driver would probably live.

            We were having this conversation in the hotel lobby.  I had showered, changed into my sweats and was heading out for a run.  The porter had pulled a cart-full of Miltons luggage onto the elevator as I was getting off. 

            He was just getting to the part about watching the med-evac helicopter land, when the elevator doors slid closed.  The porter, stuck behind the luggage cart, had been unable to reach the button to hold it open.  A moment later, we heard a creak, a cry and a crash, as the elevator plummeted to the basement. 

            With a broken leg, cracked vertebrae, and fractured wrist, the porter got off easy compared to most of the wedding guests. 

            After the ceremony, as people were filing from the pews and making their way toward the receiving line, one of the basilicas huge organ pipes came loose from its moorings.

            It was at least thirty feet tall and fell like a tree, slowly at first, then faster-- directly toward Milton.  He was facing the other way, chatting with people in the pew behind him. 

            Milt would have died, had the pipe not struck the pulpit first.  The pulpit-- standing closer and much higher than the pews below-- acted like the fulcrum of a gigantic see-saw, swinging the top of the pipe steeply downward.  It's sharp metal edge shattered an empty pew just two rows in front of him.

            What had been the motion of a falling tree was now that of a pole-vaulters pole.  The base of the pipe rose to the vertical.  It teetered there for a moment, then crashed onto the massive chandelier that hung over the crowd in the middle of the sanctuary. 

            The wedding made the network news that evening.  More than fifty people, including the bride, had been seriously injured.  Milton got off without a scratch.

            I spent three days in the hospital.  Although I had narrowly missed the falling chandelier; and had been one of the lucky ones on the flight home; I had made the mistake of accompanying Milt to the long term parking lot. 

 

            It was raining.  The lightning struck him just as we were shaking hands.  Milton wasn't hurt.

The Battle of Badger Hall

by geoffrey m miller

            It's the kind of problem people never expect to happen to their own families, but to my horror, it had happened to mine.

            I don't mean to sound self-righteous here-- Lord knows I've done my share of reckless things-- and I understand that it's not even appropriate for me to say anything to her about this.  She's a grown woman, after all.  But someone has got to do something and I'm afraid it's going to have to be me.  I have to convince the rest of the family to face a shocking and embarrassing fact:  Our Grandmother has become a 'Bingo Thug'.

            The first clue that something was wrong was an abrupt change in her behavior at home.  Nunny, as we call her, had until recently been a gentile and soft-spoken soul.  Within a month of her first night at the bingo hall, her demeanor had turned coarse and ornery.

            She always used to be in by 7:30, (to catch "Wheel Of Fortune"), but could now be found hanging out on street corners at all hours of the early evening, waiting with her reprobate bingo buddies for the hall to open.

            Out of concern, I contacted BIPA, (BIngo Players Anonymous), who referred me to their support group, FOBLA, (Families of Bingo Ladies), who assured me that I had every reason to be concerned.

            "She has all the signs of a serious case:", the counselor told me, "Irritability, possessiveness, an exaggerated sense of superstition.  Can you tell me where she plays?"

            "At the Benevolent Order of Badgers.", I told her.

            She slid back in her chair, eyes wide.

            "The B.O.B Hall, huh?", she repeated with a tinge of fear in her voice.  "That's bad.  The parish hall people can get pretty nasty.  The firehall gang is tough.  But the Badgers have, by far, the worst reputation in town.  They are the Crypts & Bloods of the bingo world."

            Despite the danger, she suggested that I try to smuggle myself into the Badger hall some night and see for myself what I was up against.

            "It is a good night to die.", I thought bravely as I parked my car a few blocks away from the Badger's hall.  I thought I'd try to sneak around the back and get in through the service door.

            It was spitting cold rain as I turned the corner.  Flashing emergency lights raced across the graffiti-covered backs of dingy buildings that lined the alley behind the bingo hall.  There, in the dank drizzle, amid rotting remains of cigarette butts and ripped-up bingo cards, paramedics were attending to a poor soul who had mistaken "G3" for "B3" and yelled "Bingo" out of turn.  The mob had set upon her with a vengeance.

            Their gurney was blocking the back door, so I had to sweet-talk my way in through the front by claiming to be here to pick-up my Auntie.  The security guard who admitted me was packing heat.  Ostensibly, he said, it was because of all the cash, but I could tell from the way he kept shifting his eyes that the gun was a precaution of self-defense.

            The hall had the ambiance of an opium den-- sinister and dimly lit.  Half the fluorescent bulbs were missing from the decrepit fixtures that dangled from the ancient  tin-plate ceiling.  Half of those that remained were blinking and buzzing, casting an eerie, uneven light through a gray-green haze of cigarette smoke.

            Away at the far end of the hall, three members of the Benevolent Order of Badgers spun the ball cage, called the numbers and kept track of the proceedings.  Their part in this was strictly business.  For better or worse, they had allowed themselves to become totally dependent on this shady crowd for financial support of their little refuge-- a wife-free zone where they could drink for cheap.  Aside from myself and the security guard, they were the only other men in the place.

            Before them, in rows stretching back almost to the front door, were lines of battered folding tables and metal chairs whose legs had worn bare spots in the floor's tattered terrazzo tile.  Hunched over the tables, surrounded by sheaves of cards and piles of colored markers, were fifty-or-so of the most menacing human beings I had ever beheld.

            Back in high school, the tough kids always sat in the back of the bus.  The same held true in the bingo hall.  Nunny-- a relative newcomer-- was sitting way up in the second row.  The kingpin, the cappo, the Godmother of the group appeared to be the woman sitting directly to my right.

            Her thick sweatshirt was embroidered with the slogan, 'World's Greatest Grandma'.  An overstuffed babushka did it's best to subdue a mound of heavily-permed, light-blue hair.  The heavy rouge on her cheeks clashed with her thick gold chains-- which clashed in turn with the heavy turquoise brooch that hung from her shoulder.  Her bright red lipstick was thick enough to allow her to hold her unfiltered pall mall with only one lip.  She smelled of smoke and Avon.

            A dozen bingo cards were spread out before her, flanked by a row of colored markers and a good-luck shrine that included a lucky penny, a horseshoe medallion, her lucky lighter, a plastic Jesus, and a pile of pocket lint from the time she won the big jackpot.

            The latest round had just ended.  The woman who had won was being dragged toward the back by the two biggest, meanest old ladies in the place.

            "Da boss wants to see ya'.", I heard one of them growl as they passed.  Apparently the Godmother had been just one number away from winning when this woman had yelled 'Bingo'.  There followed a discussion I couldn't quite hear, although the woman's gestures had a certain 'begging for mercy' quality about them.  It ended with one of the boss' bodyguards jabbing the woman's foot with the sharpened point of her umbrella, while the other whacked her in the stomach with her over-size purse.  I could tell from the sound that it was packed with bricks. 

            I had seen enough and was just turning to sneak back out the door when a meaty hand grabbed my shoulder and spun me around.  It was the lady with the bricks in her purse. 

            "Just where do ya' think you're goin', pal?", she asked.

            I was hauled before the Godmother.  She was casually munching peppermint patties from a glass bowl, in much the same way that I had seen Jabba The Hut eat frogs.

            "So how are things at the Moose Hall?", she asked.

            "The WHERE?", I replied.

            "You know perfectly well what she means!", threatened the lady with the pointy umbrella.  "Da Moose gang-- what sent somebody down here last week to yell 'Bingo' in through da ventilation fan."

            Having no clue what she was talking about-- but fearing for my skin-- I confessed. 

            The Mooses held their bingo games in an equally dingy hall across the street.  The riot that ensued caused the National Guard to be called out, headed by the Governor's Bingo Lady Task Force.  The games were canceled until further notice and Nunny has been spending her time with a BIPA counselor.