WILLIAM ARTHUR HOLMES

Random snippet from Lottery President {refresh page for more)

Benny's eyes went from the TV to the ticket as he read each number. He could not believe it. His ticket matched every number. Not the usual one or two... or none. All of them matched, including the bonus number.

Dub's Dilemma

That's when the conspiracy theories began. What happened to Tim was no accident, they said. And by "they" I mean Tim.

They're not openly called hit men, but they designate a few of their security team as proactive and, voilà, you've got yourself a hit team. I assumed LeHavre's whistleblower number was that team's direct line. Their only question would be, "Where are you right now?"

Miss Jessica touched my arm. Caressed it, really, when she said, "I was joking, Dub, but you can take the company jet. It has better snacks." She puffed out her chest as she said it. Was she offering those as a snack?

People like me can't up and quit. We have bills to pay. Until I win the lottery, I have to deal with whatever life throws at me. Only the wealthy can afford to be irresponsible.

"Good news, bad news, Dub. Which one do you want to hear first?"
"Bad news first, always."

Something felt off, and it must've shown on my face. Brice and Harold exchanged a glance. On cue, two huge, armed guards appeared behind us. Stealthy suckers. Grim. Unsmiling.

Darla grabbed the remote and turned it off, breaking its spell over me. I wanted to know what happened to that poor man, but when she pulled me into her bedroom and began to strip, I didn't complain about this latest plot twist.

"We're US Marshals," Brad dead-panned. "We're always serious."

The Lazy Pug Cafe

Welcome to the Lazy Pug Café!
Where the Past meets the Future
In other words, the Present

Ol' Lightnin' could not have cared less about beautiful scenery. He was convinced that tractor attracted lightning. It's a menace! "It's not a tree's purpose in life to stand around being picturesque," it said to no one but two squirrels and a colony of ants making their way up its trunk. "Not this tree, at least. Maybe that weeping willow up front, or some of my old friends so ruthlessly cut down in their prime when this place was built, but a mighty oak like me, a real tree's purpose is to... uh... is to... um... what was I saying? Oh yeah, a tree's purpose is to sink its roots as deep into the ground as possible, take hold of the Earth, and keep it from going anywhere!"

He had never heard a tree talk before, either; he just took everything in stride. That was how he rolled. He was one cool pug. His adopted name was Chandler, which was better than Pumba. Being named after the warthog from The Lion King never sat well with him. He should have been a Clint or Luke or maybe Elvis. Yeah, Elvis! He did have black hair and was from Memphis, after all.

Pugs are like that. They can go from lazy to ecstatic in 0.2 seconds.

Daisy and Joey liked to plop themselves down nearby – getting in the way as much as possible, of course – and just lie there a few minutes with their chins on the floor and their eyes following Hope's every move.

"I see ol' Queen Dark Cloud has arrived," Kirk said to Hope under his breath. "I guess that explains the gathering storm outside. I hope she's on her meds today."

Another Way

Bucky was holding up an advance copy of Dobie's book, asking, "What the hell is this?"
"My manifesto," Dobie said, as if everyone writes one. He reached out and touched the book, "See? Right here on the cover underneath the title, it says 'A Manifesto.'"
"Well, it sucks! Put in some jokes!"

The book laid out who and/or what was running things on this planet. He tried to focus on the who over the what, but there were times he had to wonder if there was not something out there, unseen, manipulating things.

He could see the rage in her eyes. When her friend stood to join her, Dobie felt like an eight-point buck in front of a couple of hungry mountain lions. He didn't want to make any sudden moves but looked around for the nearest security guard.

His friend Bucky was in the car at the time and wanted to know, "You always take advice from billboards?"
"When they make sense, sure. It doesn't matter who says what, so long as it's true."

"Do your usual research," said the Colonel, "and I'll talk to my friends but, if a bookstore owner or hotel manager is gay, tell them Dobie is homophobic. If they're Jewish, say he is anti-Semitic. If Black, he's racist, and so on. People used to let that crap roll off their backs, but now everyone is so easily offended. We'll use that against them. Push people's buttons!"

Last Train Out

Standing behind Cheval, Pamela shouts, "Don't shoot him! Not fatally, anyway." She moves to place a hand on the detective's shoulder, then stops for fear that he might pull the trigger.

She now wonders if he had anything to do with Jenna's disappearance. It is suspicious how he just happened to be out of town when she went missing.

The corners of her mouth come down briefly before she forces the smile back into place. Jenna takes pity and explains with a laugh, "My father is trying to be funny."

He is waving and smiling at her when the unthinkable happens. At the far end of the hallway near her, there is a massive explosion. The last image he has of her – before the entire space fills with black smoke – she is throwing her arms up to cover her face, then crumpling to the floor.

A week from now, he will wish he never opened that door.

"Well, da!" he says, as if it's a given, then wonders if "da!" is where Americans got the word "duh!"

Operation Detour

I start singing.

Oh-oh here she comes
Watch out boy, she'll blow you up
Oh-oh here she comes
She's a man-eater

"Your roommate is a drug-dealing gay gigolo!" the woman says. "What did you expect?"

There is an awkward silence. When I catch myself looking deep into her eyes, being pulled in like a magnet, I break the spell by asking, "So, who are you with, really?"

Next thing I know, I am being handcuffed by the woman officer. "Ooh, handcuffs. Kinky. You'll have to excuse us, folks. We're gonna need some privacy."

He is wearing his signature black thick-rimmed eyeglasses, a smile, and absolutely nothing else. His chortle turns to roaring laughter now that he's been discovered.
"Oh, dear God," she gasps at his naked corpulence. "Put some clothes on! Nobody wants to see that."

"I never hear a 'Well done' or 'Nice job,'" she says, now holding her pounding head. "'Nice ass' doesn't count."

"Why him?"
"He insulted me."
"That's it? He insulted you, so now we ruin his life?"
"And why not?" he laughs.

Lottery President

Benny's eyes went from the TV to the ticket as he read each number. He could not believe it. His ticket matched every number. Not the usual one or two... or none. All of them matched, including the bonus number.

"I think I won the lottery, Jim. I just need to go down to their office and make sure before I say, 'So long, farewell, auf wiedersehen, goodbye!'" he sang a line from The Sound of Music.

He was uncomfortable leaving without his ticket or winnings, but that's how it worked. On his way out, the director smiled and advised, "Drive carefully, Mr. Reed. We don't want anything to happen to you before you collect your winnings!"
Was that a threat? How many winners died – accidentally or otherwise – after making their claim and before cashing that check?

Benny rolled his eyes. His geriatric father in an old folks' home was telling him to lighten up and get a life. Great.

"President?" the governor gave a derisive smile. "Of what? Your homeowners association?"

"So, you won the lottery," Toby said as casually as he could manage.
"How'd you know?"
"You just told me!" Toby squealed. "Besides, I saw you there. How much?"
"What were you doing there?"
"I... uh... had a thing. So, how much did you win?"

Temporary Insanity

There was something menacing in her tone. A certain crazed look in her eyes. She frightened him. But then, most women did. He knew he'd better just do as she said.

Once home from work, Benny heated up a can of beef stew for dinner and scarfed it down. Flipping the TV on, he came upon a show called The Love Connection. It was a popular, if insipid, little Dating Game-type show he almost never watched. Instinctively, he flipped past it, only to return half a second later after catching a glimpse of a woman who looked just like his ex-wife.

He cleared his throat and repeated himself, being sure to enunciate. The young woman shuffled and clipped a few more papers, for good measure, then looked up to see who she was ignoring.

Poking her head out the door, she said, "Thanks again for last night. Maybe I will see you later."
She tossed him what looked like a rock. Benny caught it and looked at it. It was a live hand grenade...

"Is there some sort of emergency?" Benny asked the paramedic standing in front of the desk.
"No, no. Nothing like that. I was just wondering how many lawyers it takes to screw in a light bulb."

"Happy," he repeated, taking a drag off his cigarette and staring at its ember as he twirled it between his fingers. "Are you a happy person?"
"What the hell is this?" Benny shouted, or thought he shouted. Whatever was making him so drowsy took all the force from his voice. He attempted to rise from the couch but could not gather enough strength and collapsed back into it.
"Now, now, uh... Benny. Just relax. Just a few more questions, then you can be on your way. Okay? Okay."

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