Funny Horror (Unidentified Funny Objects Annual Anthology Series of Humorous SF/F) Read online

  The green woman in the Mazelli's apron stared at the fire engine in ecstasy. She immediately began wrestling off the apron. She struggled with it while the firefighters—mostly old neighbors, but with a handful of new neighbors here and there underfoot—poured out and readied the fire hose. They connected the fire hose to the hydrant. The green woman, tangled, snarled impatiently. Her fingernails burst out like knives; the apron fell in shreds to the ground. She dashed to the firefighters who were stretching the hose toward the restaurant.

  "Thank goodness I got the call!" she cried. "I made it just in time! Give me my uniform." She snatched the hat from the firefighter closest to the front of the hose.

  He and the others struggled gamely forward. The green woman put on the hat and stayed with them, so that they were stumbling into her and she was (elegantly, flawlessly, like a dancer) moving backward as they advanced. "I'm here now," she said again, sternly this time, to the first firefighter. "I'm the fire captain. Give me my uniform."

  The first firefighter tried to push past her.

  She put a hand on his shoulder. Her fingernails surged outward again like spikes on a blowfish: not piercing his shoulder, but encasing it in a sharp silver cage. "You're out of the unit," she said to the first firefighter. "Now give me my uniform."

  "God's sake!" he gasped. It sounded like a breath heaved in after long minutes underwater. "There's a house burning down behind you! Get out of our way!"

  The green woman's eyes narrowed. She moved her hand to his cheek.

  Paul turned away, but not fast enough. From the moment her hand touched the firefighter's flesh, his skin shriveled; he crinkled inward, stooped, aged to death and beyond, and he collapsed into a pile of rubbery yellow and blackened ash.

  The green woman stooped to get his uniform and began shaking it out, putting it on, piece by piece. The rest of the fire crew kept moving. They waited to turn on the hydrant until the green woman took her place at the front of the hose—and when the force of it knocked her back and sent them and the hose floundering around the sidewalk, they scrambled to catch it again.

  Paul put his head down and strode away, toward the Radio Shack. He had no place in that drama. He was helping his boss save the company from innovative competitors. A good day's work. A relatively easy, relatively safe day's work....

  "You! Hold it right there!"

  Paul froze in his tracks. The voice was nightingale-clear, ethereal and lovely, absolutely terrifying. The speaker was coming toward him—gliding, really—in a ball gown of impossible craftsmanship with a trench coat thrown over it and a fedora atop a hairstyle two feet tall. "Yes, you," she said. "I've got a couple of questions."

  Please newspaper reporter, Paul thought fervently, as always, not sure with whom he was pleading. Please, newspaper reporter, please, please....

  The woman in the trench coat and ball gown took out what appeared to be a bundle of rabbit-skins stapled together. She flipped through them, then pulled a hairpin from her remarkable hair and poised it over the skins. "What were you doing just before the fire broke out?"

  "Oh, um. Just walking by," said Paul. "I just stopped to watch."

  "Mmm hmm," said the woman. She poked the rabbit skins with the hairpin a few times. "And what was your relationship to the owners?"

  "I'm sorry?" said Paul.

  "The owners of the building. Were you on good terms? Did you have—grievances?"

  "No," said Paul. "I—I didn't know them." His collar seemed tight, and the back of his neck was mysteriously sticky.

  "I see," said the woman, poking her bundle of skins. She gave Paul a stern, disappointed look. "I'll be frank with you, sir. Down at the station we've got a hunch that something about that fire smells a little funny. A little bit suspicious. Like maybe it wasn't exactly an accident."

  Detective. Paul's heart nearly stopped. He could not, could not accept this role she was trying to hand him. If he went into police custody...their custody...

  Good neighbors never, ever crossed the new neighbors. Bad neighbors never, ever returned from custody.

  Heart pounding, Paul leaned in to the detective. He let a silent moment pass between them, to build suspense, to gather his nerve. "Tell the boys at the station," he said, slowly and conspiratorially, "they might be on to something."

  Her eyes brightened; they widened a bit, but the whites also began to faintly glow. "The boys never miss a trick," she breathed.

  Paul glanced from side to side. "Officer Hastings," he muttered, indicating himself. "Undercover. I've been watching this place. Don't let this get out to the public. But I saw him."

  "Who?" gasped the detective.

  "The arsonist. Sneaking out from the roof."

  "And?" said the detective, poising her hairpin over her rabbit skins.

  "I'm not sure I believe it myself," said Paul gravely, buying time, his mind churning. "Kind of ridiculous."

  "We'll let forensics decide what's ridiculous," the detective rejoined. "Go on."

  Paul licked his lips. "Twenty feet tall. Wings like a bat's. Deep, deep purple. I saw his head over the roof, then he took off. A real blur. I doubt anybody else saw him. But that's your man."

  The detective poked her rabbit skins frantically. Then she snapped upright, stuffed them into the inside pocket of her trench coat, and stuck the hairpin back under her sky-high fedora. "Hastings, you're doing a great job out there," she said. "Keep up the good work."

  Paul put a finger to his lips. She nodded firmly, lips together. He gave her a genteel nod—the nod of a cop in a noir film, of a hard man with a secret, and slowly, confidently pivoted on one heel and strolled away.

  The girl at the Radio Shack was attempting to sell a television to a couple of black-eyed, looming customers in rainbow silk, who kept demanding a closer and closer look into its workings until it was vivisected on the counter, but she excused herself long enough to ring up some flashing, whirring equipment for Paul. He went to the laundromat and hid in the bathroom to wire it together. The result was impressive, in a purely facetious way. Mr. Jenkins' company was saved.

  Paul left the laundromat. He hoped Terry was doing all right, pretending to hack the imaginary competitor. She could have easily convinced someone who knew what hacking actually looked like. She got away with a lot of personal projects under Jorge's watch. Mr. Jenkins, though, surely expected something different. It was up to them to meet their new neighbors' expectations.

  He was almost back to work—downtown, passing shops under new and old management, dodging debris that the best neighbors would do away with overnight—when a pair of policemen came out of the Subway.

  One was ordinary, a fairly fit middle-aged man, in crisp tan slacks and shirt. The other was a vision of beauty. Golden hair streamed down his back, brilliantly set off against the tan shirt, like a lion's mane against its hide; however, the shirt was buttoned over a deep red robe, thickly embroidered with symbols Paul didn't recognize and which often moved. He also wore a gun in a holster, cinched tight so as not to fall off, which gave his shirttails a ridiculous flare but somehow made his physical form even more lovely. His eyes were striking, exquisite, and vicious.

  Paul avoided eye contact. He was nothing but Mr. Jenkins' hard-working employee, a fixer, occasionally a corporate spy. He had nothing to do with the police. Nothing.

  One of the policemen blew a long, shrill alarm on his silver whistle. Like a sound effect in a cartoon. Paul—along with everyone else on the street—stopped. Waited.

  The policemen came up to him. Paul's fear settled into his shoes, anchoring him. The tall policeman took out a piece of blue crystal and held it to his ear. "We have him." The other policeman held a straight face.

  "Who?" said Paul to the other policeman, sotto voce, trying to split the difference between being heard and being ignored. "Who do you have?"

  The other policeman looked at the sidewalk between their shoes and gave a short, helpless shrug.

  The piece of blue crystal flared, lighti
ng the tall policeman's cheek briefly in an unearthly glow; then it faded. The tall policeman tucked it into the breast pocket of his shirt. He put his hands on his hips. "And you thought you'd get away with it."

  Paul did not reply. He didn't have to: seconds later, the detective in the ball gown, trench coat, and fedora came storming around the corner. There were a half-dozen policemen in her wake, giving her the look of a ship's figurehead. She charged up to Paul and then stood back, crossing her arms.

  "Nice job, Officer Johns," she said, to the tall policeman.

  "It's Lieutenant," he informed her. "Lieutenant McClintock."

  She gave a curt nod. "My mistake." They could have been passing back and forth an aria, their voices were so clear and so lovely. "And you," she said, swiveling to Paul. Her ball gown brushed the other policeman's ankles. "Nice try. But the boys at the station are no slouches. There's no officer Hastings on the books." She leaned forward and smiled. "Not even undercover."

  Her teeth were needles, thousands of needles, bursting from her perfect lips like a sabotaged Halloween apple.

  She was a good detective. Lieutenant McClintock was a good policeman. Just like the cook at Mazelli's had been a good cook until she was a good firefighter. Just like Mr. Jenkins was a good, furious boss. They were all so good at the jobs they picked up and put down like masks. And all the supporting characters were always so good at their roles. Such good neighbors. Because otherwise, God help them, the burning skin, the needle teeth....

  He put down the memories. Put on the mask.

  Paul said—gravelly and gravely—"Maybe you looked in the wrong books."

  "How's that?" she snapped. But her smile fell away, hiding the terrible teeth, as her eyes lit in curiosity.

  "Special Agent Hastings," said Paul. "FBI."

  The detective's jaw fell open. "Sir!" she said, sounding equal parts consternated and delighted.

  Paul put his hands in his pockets to hide the tremor. "You're just in time," he said. "You and the boys at the station have been doing some great work. Why, without them, I could never have tied up this case."

  "What case?" said the detective eagerly.

  "Man name of Jenkins runs a computer shop around here," he said, rocking back on his heels. "You heard of it?"

  "Sure," she said, "everyone knows Jenkins."

  "Well, I've been undercover there for a while. See, there are some people who want to put Mr. Jenkins out of business, and they don't care what they stoop to, to do it. Even—" He rummaged in his laptop case. "—building THIS."

  The detective and the tall policemen stepped back. The old policemen noticed and did the same.

  "A Keppler whirlydrone eight thousand," said Paul. "All ready to go off." He hit the switch, and a couple lights sprang to life. The detective startled away. He switched it off. "I'm taking it to Jenkins to decommission. All in a day's work." He stuck it back in his laptop case. "Couldn't have done it without you, detective." He gave her a nod, then one to the tall policeman with the long lion's hair. "And your boys."

  Her face screwed up. "Wait a minute," she said. "Just what did we do to help?"

  Paul took out the stone that he had found in his mailbox. "Why, your newspaper ad flushed him right out."

  "Ha!" said the detective. She put her hands on her hips. "And he fell for it."

  "Well, you know," said Paul. "If they were any smarter, they wouldn't be criminals." He put the stone away. "Now, I better take this down to Jenkins to take care of it." He nodded again. He was getting a lot of mileage out of stern, noir-perfect nods. "Thanks again. You saved the city."

  "We saved the city," said the tall policeman. He hooked his thumbs in his holster.

  "Yes, yes, McClintock," snapped the detective. "Now get back to work. That arsonist is still on the loose."

  "Oh, we pulled him over on Maple Street," said the tall policeman.

  "You did not. That was a kidnapper. The poor little child."

  "I'm telling you, she was the arsonist too."

  "Check your files again, McClintock, or I'll have your badge."

  "This is my investigation. This is outside of your jurisdiction."

  "Then I'll make it my jurisdiction!"

  Paul hurried off before they remembered he was there. The other policeman gave him a very brief smile as he went.

  Terry put the finishing touches on her hack job after Paul walked in the door. Mr. Jenkins was overjoyed to see his competitor's only prototype on his desk, which he proceeded to smash—desk included—with the morning newspaper. Paul got a promotion. (There was no one else above or below him.) Terry got the rest of the day off. (She scurried out before he could change his mind.) The imaginary competitor's stock took a nose-dive and they went out of business. Mr. Jenkins went out to celebrate with the stockholders. No one had ever held stock in Jorge's computer center. Paul had dinner at Subway and read the actual newspaper, which had apparently been printed, but not delivered, because the paperboy had filled her wagon with rocks instead.

  He wondered about the old paperboy, and about Jorge. He wondered all the things good neighbors never wondered about. And he wondered, chewing a sub that still tasted of foods never meant to be eaten in this town, what he always wondered at the end of the day, every day, since the new neighbors had moved in: when would one of them decide they wanted to be him?

  This story originally appeared in Not Our Kind anthology, Alliteration Ink, 2015.

  Amanda C. Davis writes dark fantasy, light horror, and the very softest science fiction. Her short fiction and poetry has appeared in dozens of magazines and anthologies, including Cemetery Dance and InterGalactic Medicine Show; been adapted for audio, including in Parsec-winning podcasts Pseudopod and The Drabblecast; been reprinted extensively, including in translation (Ténèbres 2015) and in Year’s Best Weird Fiction, vol. 2; and was collected in 2013 along with her sister Megan Engelhardt‘s work in Wolves and Witches: A Fairy Tale Collection from World Weaver Press. She has an engineering degree and an obsession with baking the perfect macaroon. She tweets enthusiastically as @davisac1. You can find out more about her and read more of her work at www.amandacdavis.com.

  Happily and Righteously

  Larry Hodges

  PETER NOID WASN'T TOLD about the meeting of the Society Of Conspiracy Theorists because, as he knew, they were all out to get him. So when he showed up uninvited that night in his pajamas and tin foil hat, the president of the Society of Conspiracy Theorists, Norma Par, was upset.

  "They must have told him!" she fumed, pulling a pistol from the pocket of her black trench coat. Most of the members of the Society of Conspiracy Theorists fled the room, believing Norma was out to get them, and they did not want to be get.

  Peter stayed, afraid to leave because he was certain he'd seen a deadly green alien lounging outside that was out to get him. He fidgeted in the smelly red pajamas he'd worn for months, too modest to change for fear of hidden cameras.

  "Who are they?" asked someone who had not left, and was not important, and who will no longer be a part of this story.

  "Those who are out to get us!" Norma exclaimed, aiming her pistol toward the open window. There was a glint in her eyes as she added, "So I'm going to get them first."

  "But why are they out to get us?" the unimportant person asked, "and why did they just try to take me out of this story?"

  "The answer to both is because they can, if we aren't on constant guard," Norma said. She fired the handgun out the window to scare away whatever it was out there that was out to get them. "Constant vigilance is the price we pay to avoid embarrassing probes stuck up the you-know-what and getting eaten alive."

  A deadly green alien had just stuck a tentacle through the window. It froze, both because of the bullet that had just missed hitting it, and because it was cold, which was why it wanted to come into the warm room. But it was sure that inside were deadly pink bipeds out to get him.

  The unimportant person correctly thought he'd seen the green tentacle in
the window, and stuck his head outside to make sure, even though he expected something outside the window was out to get him. There was, as the deadly green alien pulled the unimportant person out the window, strangled him to death, and then hugged his dead body for warmth. The unimportant person will no longer be a part of this story.

  Seeing what happened to the unimportant person, the last few members the Society Of Conspiracy Theorists fled the room, choosing probable death at the hands of whatever it was outside the front door that was out to get them, rather than certain death at the hands and tentacles of Norma and the deadly green alien. As they fled the room, they were shot to death by the waiting assassin who was just outside the front door, waiting to get them. Knowing they had been correct, they died happily and righteously.

  This left the room with only Norma, Peter, and the deadly green alien outside the window, still hugging for warmth the dead body of the unimportant person who is no longer a part of this story.

  Finding himself stuck between the assassin out the front door, and the deadly green alien outside the window, Peter attacked the alien. After all, it was now a known entity, while the unseen assassin outside the front door undoubtedly had allies as part of the Grand Outside Door Conspiracy. So Peter leaned out the window, his red pajamas flapping in the breeze, and pulled the deadly green alien inside, whereby Norma shot it to death. Since the deadly green alien had always figured a deadly pink biped would someday kill it, it died happily and righteously.

  Since both Peter and Norma in real life were doctors, they pulled the dead green alien off the dead unimportant person and performed CPR on him. The unimportant person sputtered and came alive, only to find a woman punching his chest and a man in a tin foil hat kissing him, the very nightmare he'd been having for years. He sprang to his feet, sputtering in outrage. Since in real life he too was an assassin, he strangled both Peter and Norma, just as they knew someone would someday do to them. They died happily and righteously.