Stuart Townsend suffered from insomnia. Most nights he was lucky to get a few hours of sleep, but on this particular night he decided to try something new. Earlier in the day he read a long-winded article online on holistic remedies for disorders with unknown cures—insomnia happened to be listed at number four. In the article, Dr. Jeffrey Holland, a leading researcher on the affects of all things holistic, explained how the use of five ingredients made for better success when coping with stress, anxiety, depression, sleep disorders, hormonal imbalances and erectile dysfunction. Doing a quick calculation in his head he realized he may be suffering from more than one, but who’s counting? He just wanted sleep. When he got home from work, Stuart searched his cabinets and drawers and found two of the five ingredients. He’d have to go to the store for the rest. No problem though, the local pharmacy was right down the road next to Le Peep, the best bakery in town. Maybe he’d stop and get a donut or two, he thought. Then again, the sugar probably wouldn’t help. Stuart got home at eight o’clock that afternoon. He made a few pit stops on the way back because he was already out. He stopped at MacGruber’s for dog food and a new box of Greenies, treats that guaranteed fresher breath and cleaner teeth. The treats were expensive but his dog, Frito, loved them. He helped Mrs. Doran get the frisbee unstuck from a tree for her grandson, Billy. He used a broomstick handle from her garage to pry it loose. Mrs. Doran offered him a twenty, but after careful consideration, he refused. His final stop was Pauline’s, his ex-girlfriend, but she wasn’t home. No big deal, except she was supposed to be there so he could get his class ring back. The reunion was coming up and he wanted to wear it. He’d been asking about it for a while now—maybe another time. Unloading the car and heading inside, he placed the groceries on the counter and the box of donuts on top of the stove. There was something about the girl behind the register at Le Peep, he thought. She was very convincing. Or maybe it was her elegance and allure; she had a gripping appeal to her. Or maybe it was the fact that she had the tightest tush in town, and like most men who visited, left with more pastries than bills in their wallet. He took a bite of a chocolate glazed donut and continued to unpack.
Toweling off from a shower, Stuart thought about the book he was writing. The novel was a futuristic, psy-fi thriller on what would happen if people found out their President was actually an alien looking to sell their land to other civilizations from distant galaxies. It was a work in progress. After he flossed and brushed his teeth, Stuart decided he couldn’t wait any longer. He went to his kitchen, gathered the ingredients and headed back upstairs. On his nightstand, Stuart set down an 8 ounce glass on top of a digital kitchen scale and put the rest of the accessories on the bed. He took out his phone and scrolled to the instructions, which were bookmarked. Step 1: 5 grams of beet juice Stuart grabs the glass container of Lakewood’s Organic Beet Juice and pops the top. He measures 5 grams without it spilling onto his white bedroom carpet and considers that a win. On to the next. Step 2: Halve a lemon and squeeze juices into mixture. Seems a little much, but Stu continues, no problem. He thinks of how sour this concoction might taste. Step 3: Peel and add 1 gram of lemon zest. Cut into fine pieces. As if there wasn’t enough lemon, he thinks. Stuart peels and finely slices the outer part of freshly squeezed lemon and sprinkles it into the glass. Step 4: Essential Oils - 5 droplets of Eucalyptus, 3 droplets of Ginger and 2 droplets of Rosemary. Stu hesitates, he never knew you could consume essential oils, but he adds the drops anyway and continues. It’s for the best. Step 5: 5 grams of apple cider vinegar. As Stu unscrewed the cap, a pungent odor lifted from the mouth of the bottle. He gagged slightly. Hopefully it’s masked by the other ingredients, he thinks. Then pours in 5 grams and quickly covers the lid by screwing on the cap and tossing it aside. With all the liquids together he got a light brown, unappealing mixture. He lifted the glass to his lamp and gave it a swirl, observing the bits of lemon zest floating near the surface. Holding the lip of the glass below his nose, Stu gave the odd potion a sniff. It smelled better than it looked. He cheers’d to his dog and shotgunned the entire thing in one large gulp. Once settled, Stu found it difficult to get comfortable. The stress that came with agreeing to a hard deadline was mounting. And the book was hardly half finished. As the hours passed he deemed the attempt less and less hopeful. He needed a distraction. At 2 o’clock in the morning it was too late to call anyone to talk to. In moments like these, which for him were every night, Stu would cast ideas for new books. What if the rabbit hole in the backyard was a portal to another dimension? He thought. What if a boy with chicken pox actually turned into a chicken? What if— Stu shut off his brain and sat up in bed. All that ensued was silence, but he swore he heard something downstairs. The dog was fast asleep. Weird because the dog would usually growl at something like that. Stu stayed put, upright for a minute or two and relaxed back to his mattress. Maybe a branch fell on the deck, it was a bit windy outside earlier. He closed his eyes and tried to empty his mind. Then, like water droplets hitting the shower floor, the faint sound of knocking echoed through the foyer, up the stairs and to his ears. This time he was sure he heard something. He sprung from his bed, grabbed his robe, tossed it on as he headed down the stairs and proceeded to the front door. About to unlock and open the door, he hesitated. Who could it be? What did they want? Why so late? A burglar wouldn’t knock, he thought. Maybe it’s the police, or maybe someone has a flat or needs gas. Only one way to find out. Stu slide the lock slowly and twisted the knob, cracking the door just wide enough to poke an eye through the opening. “Who’s there?” he said shakily. All he could make out were the stairs leading up to his front porch and the sidewalk that led to his driveway in the background. No car or bike or sign of any transportation was visible as he cracked the door further and stuck his head out like a turtle from its shell. “Down here.” a loud voice called out. Stu flinched and retracted his head back inside, whacking it against the door with a THUD! Peering back out and glancing downward, Stu made out a tiny, mannish looking dwarf-like creature with large feet and a puffy white beard. A shrunken-down version of Santa Claus, no taller than your average garden gnome. “Uhh, can I help y—“ “Rudy Pennygrove, at your service!” the rosy-cheeked fellow said cheerfully. He held his tiny hand to the brow above his eyes and gave a salute. Stu opened the door all the way and took a step back to get a better view. He rubbed his eyes as if he were imagining things. Maybe he was dreaming. He began looking up, down and to the side, hoping to spot any signs pointing to an alternate universe. But there was none. He stood still, face to face with his odd new reality. The little gnome-like man fished out a tiny white card from his pocket and cleared his throat. “Stu, Jesus, relax. You act like you’ve never seen a small person before. I’m actually kind of offended.“ Rudy joked. “No, it’s not that, I—“ “I’m just busting your chops.” Rudy added. “Say, you got a light?” He produced a thin, long stogie and placed the butt into his mouth. “I don’t smoke.” Stu replied. “Well what good are ya, Stu?” Rudy said bluntly. “I’m sorry, I’m confused, who are you?” Stu’s face became quizzical. “Who the hell do I look like? The Easter Bunny?” Rudy said mildly. “Uhh—“ “I’m the Sleep Fairy, moron! Here’s my card.” Rudy extended his arm and handed Stu the white card. “And wipe that stupid look off your face, I’m here to help.” Rudy took a step through the doorframe and into the foyer. Stu turned on the foyer light and held the card up close to his face. The writing was small, and in big capital letters said: RUDIFORD H. PENNYGROVE and below that were the words: SLEEP FAIRY. The word “FAIRY” was X’d out with what looked to be red ink and the word “GURU” was etched in its place. Rudy observed Stu squinting at the card and offered some advice, “Call me a fairy and I’ll punch you in the nuts so hard your teeth’ll fall out.” “You’re going to help me sleep?” Stu said, ignoring the vicious comment. His eyes were bright with an overwhelming sense of delight. This was the answer, Stu thought. No more long nights of sleepless dread, slowly dragging him down to the pits of insanity. A joyous chorus of euphoric melody played loudly in his head—eureka, finally. “It’s gonna cost ya though.” Rudy said, looking around and noticing Stu’s high-hanging chandelier. “What do you mean?” Stu looked down from the card and his grin disappeared slightly. “Are you asking for money?” “No, not necessarily.” Rudy added. “Although it doesn’t look like you’re hurtin’ for cash.” he said, poking his head into Stu’s dark, mahogany office. Rudy continued, “No I’m more of a give and take sorta guy. I give you something, you give me something in return. Make sense?” “Yeah, but I—“ “I like you, Stu. You seem like a standup guy. Hell of a writer, too. I’ve read some of your work, my wife and I love your stuff.” Rudy said convincingly. “Thanks.” Stu responded. “I’ll make you a deal.” Rudy said. Stu nodded as he listened, intrigued. “You hand over your talent for writing, and in return, I’ll give you the ability to sleep every night for the rest of your life.” Rudy said. At first, Stu was mortified by the inquisition. Who did this fairy think he was? It was a rotten, no-good deal not even worth— Sleep, he thought. It tickled his insides like a tiny feather. His mind was thinking one thing, but his heart was thinking another. You need sleep, Stu—the voice in his mind started to sing. It was angelic, almost poetic. It glimmered and tingled and danced on him until his skin produced goosebumps. But how could he give up writing, it was everything to— “Deal.” Stu blurted out. He stuck out his hand, insinuating a shake. “I can afford it, I’ve got other talents. I can find a way to make it work I guess, right?” Stu was more so talking to himself it seemed, a desperate attempt at feeding one’s own ego. “Pleasure doing business with you, Stubert.” Rudy conjured up a smile so sharp it could cut through glass. “May the victor go the spoils!” Rudy added loudly. And before Stu had time to think, Rudy’s tiny hand swung instantly into Stu’s, generating a deafening clap of thunder. The room started spinning and everything went dark. Stu woke sometime later, feeling nothing.
“I’ll start the timer now. When it sounds, the session is over.”
Mel nodded.
“So, Mr. Saunders, why don’t you start by telling me why you’re here.” the therapist adjusted her posture and clicked the end of her pen. Her eyes focusing on the uneasiness of the man’s face.
He paused. Thoughts lingered for a moment before his mouth finally opened.
“My daughter, Rosie—“ he started, “You were the last person to see her before—“ Mel felt the fullness in his throat tighten, putting a strangle on his voice box. His eyes fell to his lap and tears blurred his vision without flowing onto his cheeks. He promised himself he wouldn’t, but the wounds were still fresh.
A low-spirited exhale escaped his lungs in shaky, uneven spurts as he sat wrestling with the emotion.
“I’m going to be frank with you, Mr. Saunders—” she figured she’d cut in. “Although I’m dreadfully sorry for what happened to your daughter, she was very…unwell. To put it mildly.” She lifted the notepad from her lap and placed it squarely on the table. She uncrossed her legs and leaned forward, hoping to intercept his gaze.
He stood and distanced himself, walked to the window and peered outside. The gentle rain trickled and fell like streams down the glass. He thought of his daughter’s smile along with all the happy times they’d spent together. Not too long ago his world seemed normal. Today, he was probing for the truth. Mel felt his heartache turn to anger like the flip of a switch. He suddenly felt compelled to take this head on, enough was enough.
He turned to the therapist, blinking away the held-back tears and returned to his chair. He leaned forward with his elbows on his thighs and exhaled a deep, strong gust of hot air.
“She was fine before they switched to the stronger dosage. But you—“ he lifted his index finger in her direction. “She would only talk to you. I’m her fucking father, and she hardly recognized me!” The vein in his forehead was noticeably pulsing. He was becoming irate.
“Calm yourself, Mr. Saunders, I—“
He interjected, “MEL!” He said forcefully, then ran his fingers through his hair. “Call me Mel, for Christ’s sake.”
“Okay…good, Mel.” She felt the tension slowly subsiding. “I don’t mean to upset you, but you DID sign the forms, all of them. You knew the implications, they were gone over with you by more than one doctor.”
The painful sting of that reminder made him feel like a child being reprimanded by his mother. Although yes, it was technically true, it was still a difficult pill to swallow. As a father, you take care of your own, and the thought of failing at that made him feel sick.
She placed her hand on his knee.
“There was nothing I could’ve done to prevent her from—“ she paused. She didn’t want to sink the knife deeper. “She was sick, Mel. We tried something different and…and…it didn’t go as planned.” She winced as the end of her sentence came out, like the thud of a dropped hammer.
“Didn’t go as planned?” His face turned cherry red. “Is that how a fucking clinical psychologist would describe this whole thing?” The wheels came to a screeching halt.
“Mr. Saunders, I—“ But before she could continue her throat was constricted by a meaty hand. At first it squeezed so hard her eyeballs felt like popcorn kernels over a fire. Her nails dug into his wrist with great frustration as she tried to loosen the fleshy noose. But she was no match. She was staring into the eyes of a man who had nothing to lose, she could feel it.
He tightened his grip as he forced her back against the high-standing bookshelf along the wall.
“Your little ‘experiment’ with my daughter cost me everything. The day she died was the day I died.” Her eyes widened as he drew his face closer. “What? Are you scared of me?” He noticed the fear in her eyes for the first time. He let go and she crumbled lifelessly to the floor. Coughing and deep breathing ensued.
Mel took a couple steps back, examining the woman with a radiating glare.
“That drug, whatever-the-hell it was, made my girl do things this town will never forgive.” He began to simmer as an influx of guilt and encumbrance flooded his mind. His shoulders slouched and the strength in his body revolted, exhibiting a feeble shell of a man. He stood before her, humiliated and weak.
“She loved animals. You knew that, right?” He whimpered. The words falling from his mouth like driblets of water from a kinked hose.
“Tell me why. T-tell me why instead of petting her cat, she drowned it in the fucking bathtu—.” His voice deteriorated to a shortened whisper. He raised his palms to his reddish, teary eyes like a child trying to hide. He wiped the wetness from his cheeks and fought back his desire to cry with more acrimony.
“She put a screwdriver through the ear hole of our family dog. Did you read about that in the papers?” His temperament grew.
“She skinned, scalped and hanged the Bunderson twins down on Laurel Avenue. Was that listed as a fucking side effect?” he yelled.
As she slowly began to stand, she braced herself against the bookshelf. Her eyes scanned the floor for her glasses.
He lunged at her and forcibly grabbed her shoulders.
“Why? Tell me why she started killing everything, everyone she loved?”
As she tried to wiggle herself from his clutches, her brain couldn’t conjure up an explanation. She felt like melting into the carpet. Her mouth was moving, but the only thing that came out was, “We tri—, we tri—“
“You tried what! Speak!” But before the concussed woman could mutter another word, the man grabbed a hardback book from the shelf and rammed the spine into her jawline in a wild, heaping flurry. She dropped with a thump and lay motionless.
The monitor on the therapist’s desk showed the active recordings of cameras placed in the hallways. A stampede of doctors and campus security officers made their way down long passages, all seemingly headed in the same direction.
Thinking quick on his feet, Mel started to empty the bookshelves and gather all books and furniture in a single pile towards the center of the room.
The sounds of echoing footsteps could be heard from the hall and voices shouted for him to open the door. Mel gathered himself and reached for the travel-sized mouthwash container in his left pocket, he’d replaced its contents with that of gasoline. He popped the cap and slushed the liquid all over the readied assortment of paper and cloth-covered cushions.
The hostile group of workers pounded and kicked, buckling the doorframe. It was only a matter of time before—
Mel reached into his right pocket and pulled out a small family of red-tipped matches.
Without hesitation, he lit a single flame and went to the window and opened it. He hung one leg over and straddled the windowsill. He looked down, noticing his F150 in the lot below.
He flicked the match.
The spark was caught by Dr. Jeanie Gladstone’s 12 Steps to Fighting Cancer (go figure), and the center of the room went up like a backyard bonfire.
Just then, the door’s hinges were shot off by a barrage of bullets. The tall, wooden door was forced off by a series of loud, thudding kicks and it fell like timber, almost into the fire.
Stepping through, the leading officer met eyes with Mel through the flames that separated them. The officer began his journey towards the window when a loud timer bellowed repeatedly in his ears, snapping his head in its direction.
Turning back to the window, only a split second later, Mel Saunders was gone.
Tommy Gallo stood outside DeRobert’s Pastry Shoppe waiting for his right hand man, Antonio Carillo, to unlock the back door and let him inside.
A made man, known on the streets by his nickname ‘Two Gun Tommy’, Gallo talked the talk and walked the walk of a New York City mobster. Brioni suits, shiny shoes and custom bulletproof Cadillacs came with earning for the family; a family that will love you one minute and kill you the next. ‘The Life’, as they called it, was a one way ticket to immortality or a six-foot grave outside Manhattan.
Tommy, puffing on a Toscano cigar, exhaled a thick cloud of smoke. “Come in, Tommy, come in.” Antonio said, opening the screen door. “Alphonse will see you now.”
Alphonse DeStefano had been the boss of the Luciano Crime Family since ‘64. Now in his seventies, DeStefano was known for his hair-trigger temper and high-risk, high-reward bank robberies. He just finished serving a 12-year pinch for racketeering and money laundering in San Quentin, and DeRobert’s was the perfect cover for a crime boss on the low.
Tommy Gallo made his way through the back door and down the shallow steps to the basement. He got to the bottom of the staircase and was met by two DeStefano bodyguards. Arms raised, the bodyguards patted Tommy’s legs, waist and chest for hidden pistols and knives. An old voice echoed from the corner of the room, “Just protocol kid, you know how it goes.” Tommy lowered his arms and remained where he stood, waiting for the boss to give orders. “Sit down kid. Antonio, why don’t you get me and Tommy some coffee.” DeStefano said, sitting across from the chair Tommy would soon occupy. Tommy made his way across the stone-flooring of the basement interior, undoing the top button of his Brioni suit jacket and taking a seat. He didn’t utter a word.
Alphonse slid a Bluebird cigarette into the crease of his mouth and lit it. “Ya know what? I’ll give you three guesses as to why you’re here right now Tommy.” Tommy paused and thought hard, “You tell me boss, I don’t kn—.” DeStefano slammed his fists to the roof of his wooden desk and stood, making the room of gangsters flinch slightly. “You cock suckin’ motha fucka, don’t talk stupid with me, capisce? I’m gonna make this easy for you tough guy. Tell me why you ratted to the fuckin’ feds.” the crime boss added.
Tommy loosened the black tie around his neck, crossed his right leg over his left and cupped his hands together in his lap. It was a heated moment and he knew the consequence. He tried to tread lightly. “Alphonse, I don’t know what you’ve heard, but it wasn’t me. I swear to God.” Tommy braced himself in his chair, pleading for understanding.
“You were like a son to me, Tommy.” the boss continued. “I trusted you!” Antonio made his way down the basement steps. He placed a coffee on DeStefano’s desk and turned to Tommy and offered him the same. Tommy accepted the coffee and Antonio shuffled to the back of the room, behind Tommy’s chair.
The boss eased up and sat back down in his brown leather recliner. “Listen, if you look me in the eye and admit what you did, we’ll shake hands like men and go our separate ways. What’ll it be, Tommy?” the boss added calmly. “I didn’t do it,” Tommy started, “and I’ll go to my grave with that answer.”
Alphonse DeStefano locked eyes with Tommy ‘Two Gun’ Gallo, took a soft breath and grinned. “I thought you’d say that.” said DeStefano. The crime boss shot a look at Antonio Carillo and rotated his chair away from Tommy. “I’ll see ya around kid.”
Antonio pulled a .38-caliber pistol from his waistline, pointed it to the back of Tommy’s head and pulled the trigger. The back of Tommy’s head opened like a smashed pumpkin and brains escaped onto the floor and down his back. Tommy sat hunched in his chair, motionless.
“Get him outta here and clean up the mess while you’re at it.” the boss of the Luciano Crime Family said sparingly.
And Antonio did just that.
