Gary Moshimer

Dr. Zolman has made our house call, with his miracle tracking chip to implant in Father’s neck. Father was found walking twenty miles up the highway in bare feet at two a.m. And he started calling my twin brother Aaron and me this: Laverne and Shirley. He wanted to know when we’d grown boobs. This hit Aaron hard — he’d tried to exercise and diet. We had a bad gene from our mother’s side and now she was dead, leaving no one to defend us.

Father had taken our photos from the wall of his house. He hung new frames and left the generic people in them. “They look nicer,” he said.

He eyed Zolman. “Are you here for the girls? Make them big losers?”

Zolman dissolved knockout pills in Father’s coffee. The implant tool looked like an electric staple gun. BAM, it was in. Father woke up rubbing his neck, squinting at us. “I see you two as water polo cheerleaders.”

Something went wrong with the chip. It did its job, tracking Father, but it also made him stronger. He grew younger each day. He lifted weights. He went to the college gym, where he was alumni, and started barking orders. People listened. He looked like Charlton Heston. He went without a shirt. One night he was up in the trees on the ridge in a loin cloth of his own making. It was purple, part of our mother’s dress. My brother and I hardly slept, watching the monitor where he blipped along, always on the move.

One morning he showed up at our apartment. He wore a suit and tie. The purple loin cloth formed a neat triangle in his breast pocket. “Come girls, we’re whipping you into shape. You’ll meet the team.”

We could not resist. He had pinwheels for pupils.

He paid trainers to torture us: fifty reps, a hundred. We were fat fish, mouths pumping as dying gills. We flopped poolside. The polo team wore Speedos hiding small dolphins. They gave us love kicks.

“They’ll be ready,” Father said.

“Zolman, we need it out.”

He said that would be complicated.

I said, “Don’t you see his power? He’s inside everyone.” I saw the pinwheels in Zolman’s pupils as well.

We came to on the couch, rubbing our necks. Zolman was gone.

Our chips made us shop. We wished to pamper our man breasts and full figures at Victoria’s secret, but the lady had a security button. The shoe place was more cooperative. They had monster shoe horns, jamming us into pumps. We bobbled around the floor, seams bursting. The salespeople liked it. “That’s ten pair you own now.” We felt like geishas with our bound feet.

We bought purses, and at the bath and body shop filled them with fragrant marbles and bubble bath for our first match.

“WE…ARE…THUNDERCATS!!”

We were the base of the slippery pyramid. The other girls perched in our fat palms, little butts snug. A finger might slip in, unseen, a special perk, because we still liked girls and our Speedos would sprout gherkins, little salutes like flag poles.

We quivered under the weight. We were not getting the best workouts because Father had disappeared. His chip no longer worked. We couldn’t find Zolman, either. We feared the worst but were on a new endorphin high.

“T-H-U…N-D-E…R-C-A-T-S!! GO!!!”

Aaron created the distraction by strutting the THUNDERCATS banner on his gherkin, while I poured the bubble bath. It made for an exciting fourth quarter — echoing referee whistles, the dolphin men rising many times with giant bubbles mistaken for the ball.

Zolman returned, drunk, wearing several coats. We saw him staggering on the shoulder, leading Father by the hand. They were casualties, Father with the bloody wrap on his neck, Zolman crying. We pulled them into the car.

Father was his old self, dirty face, suit hanging from shrunken frame. He did not recognize us in dresses and sensible make-up.

Zolman slapped his own face. “I’ve done terrible things!”

“No,” I said. “We’re happy for the first time.”

We cleaned them up, bought Father a smaller suit. We took them to the championship match.

There were footholds in our blubber, launching points allowing crazier spins and twirls. We bounced our girls higher, always catching. People cheered along. Father, half up the bleachers, tossed his cane with malice, but I was able to intercept it and fire it back like a javelin, perhaps too hard. The rubber tip clonked his forehead, rendering his limbs stiff and straight, a pure neurological response. His body shot like a plank through the slats to the concrete below, his ribcage squeezing out some last number combinations, an address or latitude to find an answer, or a question. The buzzer sounded, and we carried him out with pride. The game was won.

The number was Father’s lawyer. Turns out he wanted cremation, his ashes tossed to the sea from a remote bluff in Nova Scotia where he’d spent time with our mother. There was a note: She floundered in the surf, her body whale-like. I tried to save her. Her soul left her. I wanted to live with her soul.

That was too much for us, too far. We put his urn in the back of our mammoth shoe closet.

Meanwhile we inherited the house, redecorated, threw parties. We had the cheerleaders and the dolphin men. All were unthreatened by our small penises. The girls mounted us like favorite stuffed bears of girlhood. The men rolled us around the carpet and threw balls at us.

One drunken night we broke into the pool. We had Father’s ashes. We dumped them in. The cloud became a water tornado and Father formed before our eyes. Out he climbed, an ash man with reddish eyes.

“Now,” he said, his voice an ashy whisper, “we’re going to whip you into shape.”

GARY MOSHIMER has stuff in Wigleaf, Frigg, Atticus Review, and many other places.

Gary Moshimer

I’m slapping my new purple high-tops over Lebanon Mountain on my way to Lar-a-bowl, where my father is working on a perfect game. He called me on my purple phone all excited, pins crashing in the background, his mouth garbling peanuts and groaning with nerves.

“I have to get over the mountain. Can’t someone pick me up?”

“No can do. They’re all here. I’ve forbidden anyone to leave.”

My mother is visiting her sister in Pittsfield, or she would be helping me out for sure. My old man is still bitter I didn’t try harder at bowling, me being his only son. So, I have to stick out my bad thumb, the one with the permanent bowling injury from when he tried to make me champion of my grade school. The bone is warped.

The thumb catches me a granny with streaks of blue and white in her hair and shirt. She drinks from a whiskey bottle and smokes a long cigarette in a bone colored holder. “Mae.” She pokes out a skinny blue finger for me to shake.

“Doug.”

Turns out she’s headed for Lar-a-bowl also, but for a different reason. She’s going to light her farts out behind by the propane tanks.

“You can’t do that. You’ll blow the place up.”

“Nah. It’s outside. You only blow up if you’re in a confined space and there’s a leak.”

“You’ll go on fire, at least.”

“Nah. I have these special fire-proof pants. And long wooden matches.”

“Wow. Can I take pictures?”

“Most certainly, my new friend.”

“I have to watch my father, though. He’s working on a .300 game. He’s never had one.”

“Not to worry. I have mucho gas! Chili burritos! Dried apricots! I’ll be there all night for your pleasure!”

She speeds down the mountain, no brakes. I think I will die with this old woman, that my old man will never forgive himself for not sending someone for me. But she’s an excellent driver. Deer leap out and she swerves expertly and yells, “Fuck you all, nature! I’ll burn your ass with my ass torch!”

I’m thinking this is going to be a great night.

Lar-a-bowl is the bowling alley owned by the Larabee propane company. Out back they have their tanks and trucks in a fenced-in area and it always smells like rotten eggs. There are big NO SMOKING signs all over and I point this out to Mae.

“You need to live long enough for me to come see you.”

She gives me the thumbs up. In the weird overhead light her blue stretchy pants look pink. I raise my ruined thumb.

Inside, I find my father has just four strikes to go. He’s staring at the ball return waiting for Wade Butz to bowl in the next lane. Wade is an old prick. He grabs his crotch and thrusts it at my father, then throws a loud gutter ball because he’s so far behind it doesn’t matter.

“Top that, Dickweed,” he says in a loud whisper. I can tell he’s had a few beers.

Lloyd Thomas, a friend of my father’s, complains to the manager, who is acting as an official. “Dammit to hell, Perce! Reel that son-of-a-bitch in!”

Perce says to Wade, “Let’s keep this civil, or I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

Wade spits into his own hand towel and I snicker. He gives me a look to kill, for being the son of his bowling nemesis. Then he spits one more time, this time on the lane, and then packs up his ball and heads out of the building.

Everyone sighs relief and my old man gets to concentrate. He takes a knee and says a mumbling prayer to the bowling gods. He gets up and throws his thundering curve, which kills the pins. I see that each pin is Wade’s head with a dumbass look of surprise. So I know it’s clear sailing.

He nails the last three and the crowd closes in, slapping his back. I sneak out.

I hear the plume before I see it, along with shithead Wade’s voice. “Ya wanna kill me with that? Ya wanna kill all of us?” Another WHOOSH! “Come on. I’m still your old man. Give me some sugar, baby.”

I peek around the corner. Wade’s on his knees and Mae is bent over some feet before him, in farting position. Suddenly she can’t get the match lit; her hand is shaking. Wade jumps up and tackles her, throwing punches with bad intentions.

I run and jump on his back and chop his neck. He laughs and throws me over his head, but I land right under Mae. I grab the match, give her a squeeze, and use her as a fire-thrower, blasting Wade. His shirt goes up, and then his hair. Screeching, he stumbles back into the fence, where the lone tank at this end of the lot stands. That goes up too, blasts off like a rocket. I crawl towards Mae and find Wade’s hand with his fucked-up pinky ring.

Everyone’s outside now. Officials want to evacuate, but people want to stand and watch, their faces aglow. My old man climbs up onto a fire truck with his arms in the air. I chant: “Jer-ry, Jer-ry, Jer-ry!” and the crowd takes it up. I get up there with him, and Mae follows. Someone brings a beer and my old man cracks it and it foams all over. Mae grabs it and guzzles. I smile so hard it feels like my face is on fire.

It’s a wonderful night here at Lar-a-bowl.

GARY MOSHIMER has stories at Pank, Word Riot, Smokelong Quarterly, Monkeybicycle, and many other places. He lives near Lancaster, Pa.

Gary Moshimer

This was back in the day, of course, when there were still strip joints in the hills and video stores with X-rated VHS tapes. I was in the rental place, picking up a copy of Ghostbusters, when the old man tottered out of the “back room” with an armload of dirty tapes. You weren’t supposed to bring the boxes up front; you were supposed to bring the little tags. But he hadn’t heard. As he approached the checkout he could no longer handle his load; the boxes toppled and scattered, showing their lurid titles and cover photos to everyone, including some little kids. Mothers and fathers covered the kids’ faces. The girl at the checkout was cool. She calmly picked up the boxes and brought them behind the counter and addressed the old man as Bill. She reminded him about the tags, but Bill was smiling a crooked and perverted smile, oblivious to everything but his future pleasure. I had to smile. One of the titles was ZOMBIE STRIPPERS. I had something to offer old Bill.

I went outside the entrance and smoked and waited for Bill. He emerged with his bag of tapes, and I said, “Psssst, Bill.”

He stopped and we studied one another. In the sun his skin was transparent, showing his old green and purple veins. His eyes were colorless, as were his lips. He was still smiling, his brown teeth pointed and covered with something that resembled dried blood. “I know a place you’ll like,” I said. His hands shook. He probably couldn’t wait to get to his VCR. But he kept smiling and didn’t say a word. “If you like zombie strippers. It’s the real deal.” He made a grunting sound. I wondered if he was deaf. He worked his greenish tongue over those teeth. He pulled out the ZOMBIE STRIPPERS tape and showed it to me, nodding his head.

“Let me follow you home,” I said, moving my mouth slowly before those creepy eyes. “Then I can pick you up tonight and take you there. It’s an awesome place. Trust me.”

He put the tape back and held his hand out to me. It was freezing, as I expected. “Okay,” he said, his voice a gravelly whisper that gave me a chill. I walked with him; his house was just around the corner. He said he lived by himself, that he was lonely, the girls in the tapes were his company. Sometimes he fell in love, but there was something missing. I told him I’d pick him up at eight, and he held my hand again. This time he scraped my palm with a long, yellowish nail. My spine trembled.

He wore all black — pants and a tunic, black fedora. He smelled of cheap cologne disguising the odor of impending doom. He blinked those colorless eyes, and I noticed the tears. “My friend,” he said. “Thank you.”

“Bill, this will be something you won’t forget.”

I drove from the hollow up into the purple hills. The eerie sundown made Bill glow. I could see the blood pulsing at his neck, a slow beat. He smiled at me and nodded his head. He didn’t ask where we were going — he had total trust in me.

The place was at the top of a mountain, far past where the houses stopped. A few battered pick-ups sat in the parking lot. Not a lot of people knew of this place. I’d found it one night when I was driving around, trying to forget how my wife left with the appliance guy. The auto graveyard was next to the parking lot. Some of the dancers had died in car wrecks, and those cars were sitting out there. Some stayed in their cars during the day.

Bill trembled as we entered. It was totally dark except for the stage, where Mercedes was doing her thing. She was named for the car she perished in. Now she was peeling her burnt skin from her bones. Zombie strippers can do that. There were whistles from the good old boys in the dark. “These are the real zombie strippers, Bill.” Boy how he shook. He took my hand and I led him to a table up front. There was usually a vacant zone because of the smell. Bill didn’t mind the smell; he said it reminded him of when he was young — gasoline and burnt rubber. He didn’t mention the burnt flesh. He said he could love a woman like that.

Mercedes shook her bare bones. They rattled. She removed her blonde hair like a wig and swung it around, her naked skull grinning. Bill clapped and tried to whistle, but he was dry. I summoned the waitress, Molly, whose chubby arms molted skin as they took my order. I ordered us both a whiskey, and when it came we toasted and downed them, sputtering. Bill whistled. Mercedes was done and Angela took the stage. She spun on a stool, removing her legs and then her arms in a sexy way. She rolled on the stage and arched her back. She looked in pain but she smiled. The pain was short-lived when she was hit by the truck that severed her. Projected on a screen behind her was a picture of the tractor-trailer, and the men booed at first. Then they cheered, realizing that without the truck there would be no Angela the zombie. Then came Susanne, who had been murdered by her boyfriend with a big knife across her throat. She did a bump and grind while slowly removing her head and holding it by the black hair. All the strippers had died in terrible ways, and Bill was shedding tears of sorrow and joy.

“I want to help these poor girls,” he said.

“There’s no helping them, Bill. They’re dead. They stay in the junkyard when they’re not dancing.”

“I want to meet one, to hear her story. I want to meet Mercedes. Can that happen?”

Mercedes was sitting at the bar. She’d pulled her skin back on and freshened up a bit. I sat next to her and asked if she could do a favor for an old, appreciative man who didn’t just see her as skin and bones.

Her smile looked painful. How she had suffered in her crash, but not for long. I nodded towards Bill, and she said she’d be glad to tell her sad story to a man who cared. “He’s a lonely man,” I said.

“I can help him,” she said, her voice just empty puffs of air. I could smell the metal, the old blood, but also something sweet and innocent from her former life. “I’m done for the night. We can go to my car.”

I took Bill by the hand and we followed her into the moonlight, winding between all the cars until we came to hers, a late model Mercedes with the front end crushed. They climbed into the back seat like a couple of teens. Mercedes told him the story of her life — the abusive husband that caused her to drink and drive way too fast one too many times. Bill said he didn’t understand how such a beautiful woman couldn’t just break free from the bastard, and she said Bill was sweet. He laid his head on her shoulder. She kissed his head with her bluish lips that were sliding off her face, and Bill was in heaven.

“I want to stay here with you,” he told her.

“You have to be dead to get in here. Otherwise you’ll have to keep going back to your life. You have to eat. We have no food here.”

“Then come live with me,” Bill said. “I’ll take care of you. You won’t have to dance anymore. I’ll buy you new clothes, and make-up, and we can spend our days inside. Until I die, then we can come back here and live forever. “What do you say?”

So that’s how it happened. I would walk by Bill’s house at night and see them dancing. He had gotten her white dresses from Goodwill so she looked more angel than demon. I’d see him brushing her hair, but it was falling out. So he got her a wig. He rarely left the house, and she never did. He rented only normal movies now, so they could watch them and she’d feel like a real person again.

But then something terrible happened; Bill stepped in front of the number seven bus. You could say it was an accident, or you could know the truth like me. At the funeral I caught glimpses of Mercedes in the distance. She waved to me. She was happy. Bill would be with her now.

His house was auctioned, but I still looked in the windows for them. I drove to the junkyard. They were staying in the Mercedes now. She was working as a waitress, and Bill was a stay-in-car zombie. He showed me his special ability; he could pose his arms and legs in all possible contortions, thanks to the bus. They lived there happily. Over the years I visited, became old myself, and started looking for my own zombie girl.

Gary Moshimer has stories in Smokelong Quarterly, PANK, Monkeybicycle, Necessary Fiction, and many other places. He wishes to be a zombie.