Supreme Court Hears Twitter Fiction Briefs –This Week’s “Golden Parachute” Tweets!

Med Students in Line

Prospective Medical Students Line Up at Admissions Office

Here are Week 11 @Twitstery tweets of “The Golden Parachute” the amazing new sequel to Executive Severance

I knew the actual medical school campus was located in the Caribbean. What was their admin office doing in the middle of way out here?

I look around. No one prowled these mean streets.  All alone, I could be standing on Mainstreet Anywhere USA except I don’t see a Starbucks.

The silence is defining. I have no clue except a  plaque at the entrance “Site of Vitagraph Company of America, Motion Picture Studio, 1916.”

A shadowy figure beckons from a side doorway.  “Hey” she says. “Yeah. You. You lookin’ for a quality clinical education?” That’s an easy one.

“No. I want the admissions office here.” “F%#k that. I can get you Harvard Med-guaranteed.” “Not interested.” “OK. Forget the Crimson Tide.”

“That’s Alabama.” “Whatever.” She leans in. “How about I fix you up with Johns Hopkins, early admissions, first tier, no questions asked?”

“You’re barking up the wrong prospective  premed. I’m not seeking a lucrative medical career. I’m looking for a girl.” “That would be me.”

“No. I’m here to meet with the Dean of  Admissions.” “Oh. That would also be me.” She points to the Vitagraph plaque. “We can’t talk here.”

She puts a finger to her lip and signs “Come along” or maybe “Complain.” My American Sign Language is rusty. Luckily my cell has an ASL app.

“Why are we signing?” “This was a silent film studio. We took a vow of silence to work here.” She signs again which I snap with the app.

It translates as “stomach.” “What about your stomach?” She signs either “no” or”squirrel.” My ASL app says “Monster.” I realize I’m hungry.

“A monster?” She shakes her head. I follow her inside. In silence we reach her office where with a look down the hall she closes the door.

There is a pad on her desk. I write “Why did you think I’m an applicant?” She takes the pad. “Most candidates have been around the block.”

We look out her window. A line of med school wannabees stretches down to the corner. She writes “We get seven applicants for each opening.”

“Most are multiple med school rejects. We’re their last hope.” “You get all the students who couldn’t get into their first choice school?”

“Or second or third. It’s like the joke: What do you call somone graduating last in a med school class?” “Doctor.” We both laugh silently.

Mary writes “Sadly, many of our students are so desperate for a medical diploma they’ll do anything. They cheat, they lie, they steal.”

“And get expelled?” “Only if their financial aid runs out. Once they make residency the medical code of omerta protects them from exposure.”

“Why do hospitals grant residencies to such students?” “Shh!” She signs “We pay them. All professions are conspiracies against the laity.”

I write “Are you quoting Shaw?” Seeing my confusion, Mary signs “But you didn’t hear it from me!” I write “I didn’t hear anything from you!”

This may be my most difficult interrogation ever. I’ve handled tough characters before but never in ASL translation! I give it one more try.

(The Twitter Mystery continues daily at @Twitstery)


Still Wrestling With Formal Cause: This Week’s “The Golden Parachute” Tweets!

Here are Week 10 @Twitstery tweets of “The Golden Parachute” the amazing new sequel to Executive Severance

“You saw him when you were alone?” “If not a ghost perhaps a clone?” “A ghost or clone it couldn’t be.” “Who told a knock-knock joke to me?”

“Malt does more than Milton can to justify God’s ways to man.” Suddenly I realize something odd is going on here. Why isn’t Dash lisping?

And did he just accuse me of drinking too many milkshakes? Somehow I have slipped into a rhyming sequence with Dash. How did he do that?

I must proceed carefully if I am to get any benefit from this interview. Dash seems to be confirming what Dot said about their clones.

Whatever I do, I must stop rhyming everything he says. “Arkaby, are you deranged?” OK. Careful now. “Dash, your speech has changed.” Damn!

I complete whatever Dash says as a rhymed couplet. Wait! If I speak first, he’ll be forced to follow me. “Yes. I don’t lisp anymore.” Damn!

OK don’t rhyme ‘anymore’. “You’ve made real oral progress.” “Bridgework changed my speech of yore.” “Something useful to redress.” Damn!

What’s happening? Now I rhyme myself! I must cut this off. “Arkaby, you’re running dry.” “I can’t talk right now. Goodbye.” Damn! I hang up.

That went well. My visitor was neither a ghost nor a clone. Out of options, my only recourse is to find Regi and stop the world from ending.

What makes rhyming so compelling? While I consider this, my phone chimes. “Hello?” “You’re a poet and you don’t know it.” >Click< “Hello?”

I’ve been called many things in my professional crime fighting career. “Poet” isn’t one of them. If this gets out my rep will be ruined.

I can’t afford to continue on this case if my ability to fight criminals is impaired. Unless…it’s said the pen is mightier than the sword.

People often steer clear of poetry because they get scared off by traditional verse’s off-putting formats and complex themes. Works for me.

Time for a break. I go to the vending area where I purchase a tall, cool (your product could be promoted here with a link to your web page.)

Ahhhh, sheer poetry! So much for Twitter marketing. Now I’m ready. Regi’s university has administrative offices an hour’s drive out of town.

On the road I think about the kind of man Granger was to me. I haven’t walked in his shoes, but I have stepped in his ofal. I stop to tweet.

Still on the road, not tweeting while driving. Granger’s image floats before me, man or shade. Shade more than man, more image than shade.

Stopped again for a bathroom break. Granger’s doppelganger alleged he hailed the superhuman. I call it death-in-life and life-in-death.

After my previous out-of-body experience I avoid auto multitasking. Thus it takes longer to get to the administrative offices than expected.

It’s late in the heart of nowhere when I pull up to the two-story structure housing the school stateside. “No Parking” signs line the street

I stop at a fire hydrant and search for the ramshackle building’s entrance. I see a law office and a water taxi service, but no med school.

(The Twitter Mystery continues daily at @Twitstery)

Direct From the CPAC Twitter Fiction Panel–This Week’s “Golden Parachute” Tweets!

Here are Week 9 @Twitstery tweets of “The Golden Parachute” the amazing new sequel to Executive Severance

Among the gruesome exhibits of human abnormalities was a complete naked “reference copy” of Granger as he was before their genetic meddling.

“You made a museum replica. What stops you from putting one on the street?” “There’s a difference between a study tool and a human being.”

Was that true? If a Granger facsimile in a museum receptacle is equivalent to the original Granger, what is special about any individual?

“Still there Arkaby?” “Just thinking about being a tool.” “Introspection is always useful.” “Not me. Your study clone shaped like Granger.”

“So?” “You know Marshall McLuhan said ‘We shape our tools and afterwards our tools shape us.’ What if our tools already are shaped like us?”

“What we hold we become.” “Everyone becomes a clone?” “Just medical students. Anyway that was John Culkin.” “The clone?” “No the quote.”

“McLuhan Culkin. Whatever. You admit you made a Granger copy for research purposes. How do I know your clone isn’t running loose right now?”

“After his daughter made a fuss we took the clone of Granger out of our museum. If you come out I can show him to you.” “I’ll pass for now.”

I’m not keen on a repeat visit to the Body Parts R Us facility. Last time I was there they were a bit too eager to get me into surgery.

At BP R U it’s operate or perish. Often operate AND perish. Admitted with multiple bee stings, I was scheduled for an unnecessary facectomy.

I avoided going under their knives…barely. I got my clothes on and escaped with my dignity intact and a $40,000 bill I’m still paying off.

“Any chance of renegotiating my hospital debt?” “Sure. Slim to little. You should be glad we didn’t actually perform any procedures on you.”

“How about I just default?” “Then we’d have to repossess our work.” “BUT YOU DIDN’T DO ANYTHING!” “Exactly. Be careful what you wish for.”

Dot hangs up. I hear a strange hum. “Did you get all that?” The humming suddenly stops. “Well, did you?” “Press 1 for yes.” replies the IVR.

I’m not falling for that again. “Stop the presses and get me Dash.” If Dot won’t admit to a free-ranging Granger replica, maybe Dash will.

I look to my interrogation of Dr. Dash with foreboding. Either he will refuse to cooperate, or he will mock me by rhyming everything I say.

Dash has a history of antagonistic vocal noncooperation. Rather than compete with Dot on directorial competence, he opted for a poetry slam.

Before I go on another wild goose chase, I have to be sure I’m not chasing a ghost… or a clone. I have little choice but to speak to Dash.

If permitted he will sabotage my inquiry with his lyrical propensities. It will take a superior interrogative aptitude to keep him on topic.

The IVR system comes back. “I’ll connect you to Dr. Dash now.” “Hello? Is that you there Arkaby?” “Of course it is. Who else would it be?”

“Without doubt it’s been some time.” “I’ve been busy fighting crime.” “What cause are you calling for?” “A ghost just knocked upon my door.”

(The Twitter Mystery continues daily at @Twitstery)

Twitter Fiction Record High Rivals Dow Jones Industrials! – The Golden Parachute Continues!

Here are Week 8 @Twitstery tweets of “The Golden Parachute” the amazing new sequel to Executive Severance

“Wait!” I shout “I need to speak to one of your directors!” There is a brief pause and then the IVR says “Why didn’t you say that before?”

“You never offered the option.” A pause. “Press 1 for Dr. Dot. Press 2 for Dr. Dash.” So Dot and Dash still co-directed Body Parts R Us.

When I last saw Dot and Dash, properly Dr. Dot and Dr. Dash, they locked horns poetically over who was the true head of Body Parts R Us.

Trading assonants like schoolyard brawlers, the docs went from bad to verse. I revoked their poetic licentiousness with an ill-chosen word.

Don’t get me wrong. Like any mixed metaphor hardboiled gumshoe, I scan poetry a couplet at a time and I like it long, lean and onomatopoeic.

Dot and Dash took it a quatrain too far. Dash thought teasing his rival by rhyming his speech would force him out. Dot resisted the muse.

On the chance Dash might still rhyme, I press 1. “Yes?” “Dr. Dot? Arkaby here. We met back during the Granger affair.” “I remember you.”

“What is it, Arkaby? “I just received a very interesting message.” “And after all this time you couldn’t wait to call me up and tell me?”

“What would you say if I told you Willum Granger delivered it?” “Were you conducting a séance?” “No. It was a message without a medium.”

“Was Granger delivering his message in corpus delicti or was it his spirit come back from the beyond?” “That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

“I think the spirits you presently are involved with having nothing to do with the afterlife.” “One man’s present is another’s hereafter.”

“It’s been great catching up with you. Good luck on your spirit quest.” “Wait. I have a question about a different kind of corpus delicti.”

“Can we do this another time? Our IVR system is giving us trouble.” “I noticed. Have you built any Granger clones out of his spare parts?”

“What?” “I just encountered Granger’s body double. Did your lab rats reconstruct him from parts at hand?” “Cloning doesn’t work that way.”

“We produce clones to replace or improve body parts, not to reconstruct a whole human being.” “So you’re saying clones don’t make the man?”

“I’m categorically denying we created a clone of Willum Granger. I don’t know who you just saw, but it wasn’t him.” “It was like his twin.”

“Well either you saw a ghost or perhaps Granger himself time travelled to the present.” “Time travel? Seriously? Why waste my time on time?

“If Granger could time travel why would he come to me? Why wouldn’t he go save Socrates or prevent the Library of Alexandria from burning?”

“I’d be happy if he stopped your grandfather from meeting your grandmother.” “Too late for that. Time travel just isn’t what it used to be.”

“But that’s all waters under the timebridge. You’re lying about creating a clone of Granger. What about the copy in your Genetics Museum?”

Regi and I had stumbled into the Body Parts R Us Genetics Museum during our exploration of their possible connection to Granger’s murder.

(The Twitter Mystery continues daily at @Twitstery)

Think of Twitter As a Type of Literature Sequestration – The Golden Parachute Continues!

Here are Week 7 @Twitstery tweets of “The Golden Parachute” the amazing new sequel to Executive Severance

“Wait. Before you vanish again, what do I call you?” “Don’t call me, I’ll call you.” With that he walks out and disappears down the hallway.

Whoever said you can’t step in the same river twice never considered how mistakes you make on a case can come back years later to haunt you.

While I haven’t actually stepped into a river, I have visions of stepping into something by taking up with Regi Granger and family again.

I make a couple of quick phone calls to confirm that Willum Granger has not risen from his grave or been recreated in a cloning laboratory.

The cemetery director is uncooperative until I remind him of all the contributions my police unit has made to his business over the years.

“You’re claiming I’ve lost track of one of my residents?” he asks. “I’m trying to find out if you keep the bodies buried out there” I reply.

“Founders Memorial Park CE is a secure, state of the art cemetery. People are dying to get in. Of course we keep the bodies we bury here.”

“They don’t just walk out.” “To your knowledge. Maybe now and then the dead walk.” “What are you suggesting?” “You’re missing some body.”

“Says you. Founders Memorial has plenty of openings. Why don’t you drop dead and drop in one of them? We’ll see if you walk out again.”

I’m astonished at such highhandedness from an undertaker. Is he involved in a cover-up? Who knows what secrets he has buried out there!

“Founders Memorial Park CE. What’s the CE stand for?” “Don’t let me keep you” he replies. “From all appearances you couldn’t if you tried.”

“Now THAT’S a proposition I’m eager to test.” He hangs up. His actual response involves part of my anatomy, but I clean it up for Twitter.

I realize too late the proper question is: What secrets DOESN’T he have buried out there? Is he supporting some sort of underground economy?

My next call is also productive. On the chance my ephemeral visitor was a DNA clone built from spare appendages I dial Body Parts R Us.

An Interactive Voice Response system answers. “Welcome to Body Parts R Us. Press 1 if you know the organ or member you want to replace.”

“Press 2 if it is your 2nd attempt to call Body Parts R Us without reaching a living human being. Press 3 if it is your 3rd.” I press 0.

“Press 4 if it is your 4th attempt. Press 5 if it is your 5th.” I press 0. “Press 6 if it is your 6th attempt. Press 7 if it is your 7th.”

“Press 8 if it is your 8th or 9 if it is your or 9th. If it is your 10th attempt to reach us and your phone keypad is in Base 11, press A.”

“Press 0 to return to the main menu.” I press 0. “Invalid key.” “Are you pulling my leg?” “Press 1 if you want us to pull your leg.” “Huh?”

I press 0. “OK. I’ll pull your leg. To continue in Spanish press 1.” I punch the 0 repeatedly. “¡Bienvenido a Partes Del Cuerpo R Nosotros!”

“Pulse 1 si se conoce el órgano o miembro que desee reemplazar.” I press 0 once again. “I don’t recognize your selection. Goodbye.” “Wait!”

(The Twitter Mystery continues daily at @Twitstery)