Stars and Other Monsters Read online

  Contents

  Title

  Blah Blah Blah

  1. Meet-Cute

  2. Career Move

  3. Contrived Encounter

  4. Held Gaze

  5. Unresolved Sexual Tension

  (ONE)

  6. Head in the Clouds

  7. Hazy Flashback

  8. Whisked Away

  9. Long Distance Relationship

  10. Watching the Sun Rise, Holding Hands

  (TWO)

  11. Candlelit Dinners

  12. Boy Loses Girl

  13. Long Walks on the Beach

  (THREE)

  14. Anyways, And Then

  15. Two Become One

  16. Baby, Baby, Baby No

  (FOUR)

  17. Get a Room

  18. Messy Breakup

  (FIVE)

  19. Falling Action

  20. Just the Tip

  21. Collapsing in Her Arms

  22. Meeting in the Aisle

  (SIX)

  23. Let Me Get You a Drink

  24. Social Contract

  25. Show Me Your Teeth

  26. Dénouement

  27. Dog Days, Over

  Post-Credits Scene

  Read Book 2: Of Moons And Monsters

  About P. T. Phronk

  Also From FCP

  ...

  Acknowledgements

  STARS AND OTHER MONSTERS

  by

  P. T. Phronk

  Forest City Pulp

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  Stars and Other Monsters

  Copyright © 2014 by P. T. Phronk

  All rights reserved. The story or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations. Just pay a few bucks for it, okay?

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real people, places, or events is purely coincidental. Just pulled those names out of a hat. Yep. The front cover illustration is by Keith Draws. The back cover illustration and design are © 2014 Phronk.

  Second edition (2.2)

  Published by Forest City Pulp

  @ForestCityPulp

  http://www.forestcitypulp.com

  1. Meet-Cute

  WHEN THE STRANGE WOMAN RUINED Stan Lightfoot’s life, he was not minding his own business.

  It was, in fact, David Letterman’s business he was minding. Pictures of the talk show host still engaged in an illicit affair could sell to tabloids for tens of thousands of dollars. Stan grinned at his trusty dog, Bloodhound, wagging her tail in the passenger seat, then turned on his camera.

  He was oh so close to getting that picture; Letterman was right there. Stan knew he was in the right place because Bloody had barked when they drove past the row of novelty shops and antique dealers, all peeling paint on paneling, connected by a sagging porch.

  “You’re a good girl, Bloody” said Stan. Bloody looked at him and sighed through her nose, frowning.

  Stan broke off a chunk of his McDonald’s hamburger. The dog flipped it into her mouth, swallowed it in one bite, then leered expectantly at Stan.

  “You’ll get more when we get our picture,” said Stan as he scratched the scraggly gray hairs on her head.

  Letterman leaned out of the doorway of a gift shop. If Stan hadn’t been expecting him, the talk show host would have been unrecognizable. He wore a trench coat with the collar popped to cover most of his face. The rest was obscured by a brimmed hat and tragically unfashionable sunglasses. He held the door for a younger woman, who was also obscured by sunglasses, but most definitely the woman whom Letterman had supposedly ended his affair with.

  Bloody put her paws on the window of the car, panting as she stared at the couple.

  “Down girl! You want them to see us? Jackass.”

  The dog grumbled before getting down.

  “C’mon. Give her a kiss,” muttered Stan as he zoomed in with his camera. The couple disappointed him by shuffling to the next store, one behind the other, as if they didn’t even know each other.

  Two larger-than-life-sized cigar store Indians—feathers and all—guarded the entrance to the antique store. A bit culturally insensitive, but what else could be expected from this no-name shit-hole stretch of highway? Letterman bowed before the Indians, each in turn, flashing his trademark gap-toothed grin. With a smile like that, the biggest sunglasses in the world couldn’t hide his identity.

  Behind him, his mistress giggled. Stan snapped pictures, but a smile wasn’t enough. He needed something dramatic, something scandalous. Come on, a peck on the cheek. He’d even settle for wiping an eyelash from the corner of his eye, or adjusting the hat on his head.

  They disappeared into the store. Stan sighed and rubbed his temples. Bloody leaned over the gear shift and licked his hand.

  “Thanks, girl,” said Stan.

  Bloody licked his hand again, then stared at him with a serious expression.

  “Oh Christ, you just want more food.” Stan reached into the McDonald’s bag on the floor to toss his dog a cold French fry.

  He zoomed in on the store window. He could make out roughly human forms, but through the tinted car windows and the gloom of the store, pictures came out dim. Stan groaned.

  The way the couple laughed and smiled at each other, there was no doubt they were still fucking. Stan didn’t even know he’d find them together when he started following Bloody’s directions to New Hampshire. He figured he’d catch old gap-tooth on a miserable 24-hour bender, wearing sweat-pants and stuffing himself with Cheetos.

  And that would have been great. Maybe five, ten thousand bucks to Star or TMZ. But when Stan caught Letterman with his not-wife, who he’d been accused of boning, it had been one of the happiest moments of Stan’s life.

  Just the pictures of them together would net five times more than a drunken solo shot. Ah, but one shot of unambiguous intimacy, selling it as an exclusive to some major gossip rag, that’d get him the mother lode. He could ditch this paparazzi bullshit. Buy a nice house with a pool, then sit beside it all day feeding Bloody all the fries she desired. Maybe he could even help his poor mother out.

  Inside the antique shop, Letterman took off his sunglasses. Perfect, except Stan’s camera still couldn’t penetrate the murk of the shop. He briefly considered going inside, but Dave wasn’t a stranger to stalkers. He probably had an evacuation procedure planned.

  Letterman unsheathed an antique sword and held it pointed at the woman’s chest, his face contorted in mock menace. His lips moved, sending the woman into fits of laugher.

  “Wish I could hear what they’re saying. I bet he just said something really funny, better than the stuff on his show,” Stan said. “I need one of those audio satellite dish things. The ones that the FBI uses to spy on people from across the street.”

  Bloody glanced back at him, snorted, then returned to watching the window.

  “You think those are even real? Or is that just in movies? Bah, you don’t believe me, but I bet they exist. Remind me to get one, huh?”

  The couple looked happy. Maybe it was for the best that old Dave ditched his wife to be with her. It was a shame they had to be so secretive. The thought crossed Stan’s mind without a hint of irony before a pang of guilt hit him. He pushed it deep down, inhaling as he raised his camera.

  The shopkeeper wrapped something in tissue paper. Letterman grabbed the package, paid, then headed for the door. Stan slouched and held the camera ready. Bloody slobbered on the seat.

  As they emerged, Letterman’s pinky finger wrapped around his mistress’s.


  “Not bad, not bad,” muttered Stan. “C’mon, give me more. Work it, Davey, work it.”

  Letterman grinned at his mistress. She smiled back.

  Stan exhaled, steadying the camera.

  There was a sound behind Stan—a screech—but he ignored it while he snapped off picture after picture.

  “This is it. Oh my God, this is it,” he muttered. Hand in hand, Letterman’s head lowered while his mistress arched her back and rose on her tippy toes. The golden morning light around them, fall leaves blowing past the rustic porch, it was like a scene from a romantic comedy. If paparazzi were rightly treated as artists, this photo would win awards.

  Their lips touched and Stan’s finger squeezed the button. Just before that ecstatic click, his head jerked sideways, knocking his glasses from his face. A thunderous crunch shook the car. Bloody let out a yelp as she tumbled to the floor.

  Stan’s car had been nudged from the shoulder into the middle of the highway; by what, he didn’t see. Stan whipped his head upright. A Mack truck was bearing down on him. He fumbled for the keys in the ignition, turned them. As he waited what felt like an eternity for the ignition to catch, he heard a second crunch, then a third, then a clamor of splintering wood.

  The truck loomed over him, brakes screeching.

  His car rumbled to life and he floored the gas just in time to avoid being obliterated. He pulled to the safety of the road shoulder before reaching for his dog.

  “Bloodhound! Oh girl, are you okay?” He lifted his dog from the floor onto the passenger seat, patting her down. Bloody was glassy-eyed, but could stand. She shook herself off as if she’d just gotten out of a bath, gave Stan’s hand a reassuring lick, then propped herself up on the windowsill to get a look at the commotion at the antique shop.

  It hurt to turn his head, but when he did, all Stan saw was a cloud of dust and smoke.

  “Stay,” he said, but Bloody leapt out the door as soon as Stan opened it.

  A figure emerged from the cloud. She wore sunglasses not unlike Letterman’s, a long coat, and a wide-brimmed hat. As the dust swirled away from her, Stan saw that the hat had a flowery pattern, and the coat was purple. Above that, an unwrinkled face; she was thirty-something, not much older than Stan.

  Behind the woman, a VW Beetle had lodged itself into the porch in front of the antique shop. Bloody hurdled into the smoke and fire. “No girl! No!” screamed Stan. He turned to the woman. “Are you okay? Were you driving that car?”

  “Must’ve hit a slippery spot,” she mumbled. She was hugging herself, wrapped up in the purple coat as if it was freezing outside, though it wasn’t. Her face was red in the few spots visible between the coat, the hat, and the sunglasses.

  “Ma’m, are you all right? Did you get burned?”

  “Oh honey, don’t you worry about me. Just run along now, I’ll handle it fine.” She brushed herself off and poked at the arm of her coat, where there was a tear surrounded in dark tacky blood.

  “I’ll call an ambulance,” said Stan. “What happened to the people who were standing on the porch here?” There was no sign of Letterman or his mistress. The porch where they had been standing was now largely taken up by the VW Beetle convertible, flipped on its back, wheels still spinning. Splintered beams of wood poked up all around it. Smoke billowed everywhere.

  “People? Ah, nope, didn’t see any people there.” The woman turned to enter the antique shop. “Thank you, young man, for your assistance. You can get along now. Okay, sweetie?”

  Bloody trotted from the other side of the car. Stan’s stifled a gasp. The dog violently shook the object in her mouth back and forth. Little tufts of curly gray hair flew off and fluttered away in the wind. Stan’s dog had found Letterman’s hat, soaked in blood and covered in fleshy hunks of talk show host.

  2. Career Move

  BLOODHOUND WAS NOT ACTUALLY A bloodhound. Stan could never figure out what exactly the little bugger was, but at a pudgy eleven pounds, with grayish-brown fur, the bulbous eyes of a pug and the frowny underbite of a shih-tzu, she certainly wasn’t a bloodhound. The name came from her gift.

  Articles of clothing are what you want. For a B-list celebrity, maybe even low A-list, you can get a signed T-shirt off eBay for twenty or thirty bucks. Clothing traps the skin oils, or the little hairs, or whatever it was that Bloody sniffed to start tracking the owner down.

  Presently, Bloody was taking the celebrity clothing thing a little too seriously. She held onto Letterman’s hat, growling, as Stan tugged at it.

  “No! Bad girl! Leave it!” he said. Finally, Bloody let go. A clump of hair attached to a jiggly strip of flesh rolled off the brim and hit the odd woman’s foot. She was wearing slippers.

  The woman stared at Letterman’s hat, her head motionless, as if she were daydreaming. She caressed her lips with her tongue.

  Stan tossed the hat to the ground beside the overturned car. He held up his hand sternly to keep Bloody from running after it again. The dog was really earning her name today.

  “Hey, lady!” said Stan. Her head turned slightly. “We gotta find those people, okay? They might be trapped under your car.”

  “Was it your ride I nicked before I flipped on over here? I’m terribly sorry about that,” said the odd woman.

  Stan groaned. She must’ve been in shock. He started to run around to the other side of the car, but then the odd woman was in front of him. She lowered her sunglasses, revealing eyes the color of ice, striking in contrast with her red skin.

  “Honey, you don’t want to be involved with this, do ya? More trouble than it’s worth, I’d bet you.”

  She had a point. People from the nearby shops were coming out to see what happened. The shopkeeper from the antique store was behind the cracked window, peeking from behind the counter. Sirens whined in the distance.

  The smoke started to clear. Stan glanced down. Lying on the ground, poking from behind the smashed car, was an unmoving, liver-spotted hand.

  Unconsciously, he touched the camera still strapped around his neck. From deep in his mind, that Elton John song, Candle in the Wind, began playing in his head. The woman was right. He didn’t need that sort of trouble. A beloved celebrity, killed while being stalked by a professional paparazzo? He had nothing to do with it, but he’d never be able to find work again if anyone found out he was there.

  “Okay,” he said, his lips shaking. “You, uh, you can handle it? Good … good luck?”

  He backed away from the wreckage. Bloody stared at the odd woman with narrowed eyes for a long while before joining Stan again.

  Stan studied the details; they told the story of what happened. The parking lot was pockmarked with two shallow pits surrounded by broken asphalt, where the woman’s Beetle had bounced twice before bowling into the couple on the porch. A little pile of broken red plastic sat on the shoulder of the highway; the remains of Stan’s tail light. He gathered up as much as he could, stuffing the bits into his pockets. The less evidence the better.

  On the road, skid marks started at the junction between the highway and a cross road, then formed a curved line to where Stan’s car had been, nicking it before hitting the curb sideways, flipping into the parking lot. Stan took in the details. They could be important later.

  Rubbing his neck, he stumbled to his car. Bloody hopped to the passenger side. Stan gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white.

  He considered going back to see if he could help. Bloody let out a sharp bark. She stamped her paws, alternating left then right. Let’s go.

  “Fine, fine, I’m going.”

  An ambulance sped past him, lights flashing, followed shortly by a duo of police cars. Stan scratched his face, inconspicuously obscuring it at the same time.

  He drove and drove, his heart forgetting to beat every time he spotted a cop. He stopped only once at a greasy roadside diner, where Bloody barked until Stan fed her an entire bacon double cheeseburger. A few hours later, he was back in New York City.

  He mumbled a greeting to
his old neighbor, Mrs. Olson, on the way in, then slammed his apartment door. He stood with his back to the door, eyes closed, breathing heavily, for a very long time. What was the car’s license plate? What color were the woman’s eyes? Dammit, he couldn’t remember the plate number; what if that detail was important? Her eyes though, her eyes were blue. Icy blue.

  He opened his eyes. Bloody was on the bed, snoring.

  He collapsed on the tattered couch in the middle of the apartment. The CRT television flickered to life with a labored boing.

  Surely the news of Letterman’s death would be all over the networks. With the recent scandal, he was already near the top of the celebrity gossip list, and for the gossip shows, the timing of his death couldn’t be better. Especially when his mistress had been by his side.

  Was she dead too?

  When Michael Jackson croaked, five minutes wouldn’t go by without his name flashing across the TV. Stan wondered who had taken the last picture of Jackson alive, and which tropical paradise he was living in now.

  Would he even be able to sell his pictures? Or would it dump too much suspicion on him? Maybe he should have just stayed at the scene and cooperated as a witness. Ah, but then the pictures would be confiscated as evidence, so he still couldn’t sell them, and his career would still be in the shitter.

  What a damn mess.

  The television image faded into view. It was already tuned to CNN. Stan mashed the volume up button.

  He gasped when he saw what was on. Bloody perked up her ears.

  There, on the television, was some bullshit story about the pros and cons of the H1N1 flu vaccine. No celebrity “expert” blabbing about Letterman. No live helicopter shot of the ambulance carrying the body. Nothing on the ticker about the odd woman who’d bowled into him.

  He flipped from channel to channel. Nope, nada, nothing. Somehow, the world hadn’t found out that David Letterman was dead.

  3. Contrived Encounter

  “MAYBE IT WASN’T AS BAD as it looked,” muttered Stan. He sat on his couch, knees to his chest. It had been a week since the Letterman incident.