Lawyer still trick or treating at age 45.

I have a sweet tooth the size of Alaska. That’s why when Halloween rolls around I break out the shopping bags and go begging.

Some people may say I suffer from a case of arrested development, but where on the law books is there a statute of limitations on trick-or-treating? I should know—I’m a lawyer.

At forty-five, it’s not easy to pretend I’m a kid. I’m five-ten and two hundred-plus pounds. In addition, I have the beginnings of a bald spot on the top of my head and a case of five o’clock shadow that’s impossible to disguise.

But I’m nothing if not ingenious. Last year I taped wrapping paper and ribbon around some cardboard boxes and went as a stack of Christmas presents. All you could see of me were my baby blues through the eye holes. The optical illusion created by my arrangement of presents made it impossible to figure out my true height. I netted thirty pounds of candy after tossing out the fruit and related junk.

One advantage of trick-or-treating at my age is that I have a longer stride and can cover more ground than the typical nine-year-old. Plus I keep an up-to-date database on the best and worst neighborhoods for candy that includes the number of lit and unlit porch lights, pumpkin sizes, types of treats and so on. Each year, I eliminate homes that have been declining in two or more categories and upload the results to my computer.

I couldn’t pull off a successful night of begging without it. For instance, there’s a rich financier a few blocks away who always has full-size Hershey Bars. Consulting my computer before going out, I’m reminded that the financier’s maid and butler alternate at the door. Knowing this allows me to hit the house twice, if I time it right.

As far as getting caught, the closest I ever came was three years ago at my parents’ house. My mother seemed to recognize my voice when I yelled “trick-or-treat!” But she’s elderly, so I just grabbed and ran before she could put it all together. Boy, were my underarms wet.

But the best part of Halloween for me is the rest of the year. I can’t tell you how satisfying it is to offer a client candy from the Wedgwood jar on my desk, then pop some into my own mouth. With only me knowing my Halloween secret.   

As told to Doc Paranormal

Adjunct Professor-At-Large

Edgar Allan Poe Community College

Revealed! Secret Ways Carnival Games Are Rigged.

  Ever wonder why you leave the carnival midway with no prizes in your arms—and no money left in your wallet? Well, it’s no accident that you didn’t win that stuffed bear or Dale Earnhardt Jr. t-shirt.

     
I worked carnival games for several years of my misspent youth. A friend’s dad owned a traveling show. I joined up and did pretty well, netting, in commissions, anywhere from $300 to $500 per day (inflation adjusted). And all I did was apply the same middle-class worth ethic that had earned me lots of As and membership in Mensa.

     
Carnival hucksters aren’t stupid. They’ve got street smarts and years of experience hoodwinking ‘rubes’ into believing they can win something for nothing. And the games they entice you to play always give them the advantage.

   
Not every carnival game is rigged. But all of them are created to give the carnie the house advantage—and leave you with empty hands.

     
Here are insider secrets that could prevent you from getting f****d over on classic carnival games:

     GUESS YOUR WEIGHT GAME: The secret to this game is that the carnie doesn’t care whether he guesses your weight correctly or not. With rare exceptions, the prize you win when he makes a ‘mistake’ cost him less than what you paid to play!

     Bonus if you have a bad body image: the carnie will always flatter you by dramatically underestimating your weight. 

     BASKETBALL THROW: There are many tricks to this game. The hoop is often a touch too small, the backboard is not regulation height and the ball is either over or under inflated.

     If you love the sight of dejected high school jocks, watch from the sidelines.

     MILK BOTTLE THROW: The three milk bottles you need to knock down with a softball are not all the same weight. Often, the bottom bottles are weighted down with lead, making them difficult to topple.

     But of course, you already knew that. I hope.

     CATS ON A SHELF: This throwing game requires you to knock sawdust-stuffed ‘cats’ off a shelf with a baseball. In extreme cases, the carnie controls a hydraulic lever that can extend the width of the shelf, making it impossible for the ‘cat’ to fall completely off the shelf.

     I paid for my college education with this one. Of course, I had to dodge a few baseballs thrown at my head.

     BALLOON DART: When the player pops a balloon with a dart, he wins the prize described on a tag that’s revealed. Unscrupulous carnies simply ‘palm’ any tag that awards the player a major prize, replacing it with one awarding an insignificant prize.

      A great game for teaching children that life is not fair.

     BUSHEL BASKET: To win this deceptively simple game, the player needs only to toss a softball into a common bushel basket so that the ball remains inside. However, a shifty carnie can secretly tighten the tension on the bottom of the bushel, causing the ball to pop out—and the player to lose.

    

     DIME TOSS or GLASS PITCH: People who play this game win a piece of tableware when the dime they toss into the center ring remains in one of the plates, glasses or bowls spread out before them. The only “fix” here is that it is very difficult to throw a dime in a way that it doesn’t skip out of the plate.

     Otherwise known as a “grind store.”

     CRANE GAME or “DIGGER”: This game asks the player to operate a scale-model crane in a glass case filled with prizes. The player wins as many prizes as he can scoop up with the shovel. Difficult to begin with, the game can be made even harder by a carnie who uses a screwdriver to tamper with the claws on the shovel, causing the prize to fall out.  

     Last week, I spotted one of these in a grocery store lobby.

     ANY GAME RUN BY A GUY WHO DOESN’T LOOK LIKE A CARNIE: I specialized in these. Too varied and complicated to go into here—let’s just say they’re adult games like the Razzle, where an individual can lose a few hundred $$ before he or she knows it. Typically the suckers are sophisticates who think they’re too smart to get taken on a carnival game. Like lawyers and M.F.A.s. I wrote about the thrill and anxiety I experienced running one in a memoir published by Simon & Schuster, Eyeing the Flash: The Making of a Carnival Con Artist.

     CARNIVAL FOOD: You pay the true price for eating this sh*t about two hours after leaving the midway.

America desperately needs more PSYCHIC immigrants, illegal or otherwise.

 

Recently, there has been a lot of hubbub about the type of people immigrating to the United States Most of the talk is about who we shouldn’t let in. I’m here to tell you who we should welcome.

Plain and simple, we need to encourage more people with psychic powers to come to America. According to studies I have seen, we are not producing enough psychics domestically to meet 21^st century demands. Soon, other nations that value paranormal powers, like Russia, Nigeria and Romania, will surpass us in the number of psychically talented citizens they possess.

And that scares the hell out of me.

The solution? We need to encourage foreigners with mystical abilities to move here A.S.A.P., to make up for our domestic shortfall. America needs to do this in order to maintain a leadership role in UFO research, fortune-telling, ghost-hunting, ESP and other vital endeavors. This is a national security issue of the highest order. We must take action now, to keep our beloved nation safe from a surprise psychic attack launched from foreign shores.

What the incentive should be, I leave to persons more knowledgeable about such things. Perhaps it should be on a graduated scale depending on the psychic ability under question. For example, overseas UFO experts might receive a $10,000 bonus to move here, while crystal ball readers only get $2,000 cash, because we already have a sizable number of European gypsies in run-down urban strip malls.

Above all, psychic immigrants should receive instant U.S. citizenship, without the usual red tape. Case in point: right now hundreds of experienced South American Chupacabra fighters now languish in border camps, when they could be gainfully employed preventing the hideous night beasts from infesting U.S. soil.

IMHO this is an emergency situation. Lady Liberty needs to welcome foreign psychics with open arms, whether they arrive here via land, sea, air or the astral plane.

I’m afraid that we face total destruction in a psychic Pearl Harbor or 9/11 if we do not act.

And, regardless of race, creed, color or political persuasion, that is frightening for us all.

Signed,

A Reader in Massachusetts

President Biden to create 60,000 "family wage" ghost hunter jobs.

President Biden is preparing to stimulate the American economy by paying living wage salaries to 60,000 ghost hunters across the nation.

An insider told me, “It’s high time these volunteer ghost trackers are rewarded for their selfless duties. Most now hunt spirits in their spare time, often forced to spend entire nights away from their families in their noble quest to reduce the nation’s growing plague of restless ghosts.

“America’s volunteer ghost hunters are working under dangerous conditions in derelict mental hospitals and abandoned 5-star hotels. Yet, they have nothing to show for their labors but strained marriages and angry bosses when caught napping on their day jobs.

“It’s also a tremendous financial burden for them to purchase the necessary tools of their trade, including EMF meters, EVP devices, thermal devices and cool-looking black t-shirts.

“President Biden is well aware of these heroes’ plight. Therefore, he is funding 60,000 family wage ghost-hunting jobs. Money to lease Class A office space, new uniforms and vehicles is included. In other words, the taxpayer dollars given to these first responders will be immediately spent, stimulating the economy at large.

“In order to keep the price tag reasonable, the President has also ordered the Secret Service, DoD and ATF to donate every black Chevy Suburban they can spare, along with surplus flashlights and batteries.

Reported by Doc Paranormal

Tree sitter: my wonderful, horrible night in an enchanted forest.

 Dear Doc Paranormal:

I swear what I’m about to tell you really happened, even though I was alone at the time, one hundred and fifty feet above the forest floor. Holding on for dear life to a massive Douglas fir.

I’m a tree-sitter. You know, the kind of crazy person who climbs a big tree and stays put in order to protect the old-growth forest. Crazy, at least in the eyes of a general public that thinks clinging to the branches of an immense fir in order to save it is insane.

I’d never considered tree-sitting until I lost my publishing job in San Francisco. Living costs there are, of course, sky-high. A deal-breaker when you’re unemployed. So when I read about a protest at a proposed logging site (which I’m not going to identify, for reasons you’ll soon understand), I figured, “What the hell.” It was a good excuse to escape a hectic town I could no longer afford anyway.

I left all my possessions with a friend. Half a day later, I was in a world of giant trees and happy people. The dramatic change was a kind of high—a hit of Mother Nature’s Ecstasy, you might say. Before I knew it, I was being roped up to a platform one hundred fifty feet high in the branches of a grand, distinguished fir.

The protester I was replacing greeted me with glazed eyes and a beatific grin. But a shiver went through me when she tried to speak and only spittle emerged.

Little did I know I’d soon be struck dumb myself.

My first hours alone in the canopy were a wonder of soft breezes and swaying limbs. I had never before felt so serene. But as twilight fell and the stars came out, I got paranoid. Crippled with stress, I’d roll off my tiny wooden platform when I fell asleep. Only after roping myself against the massive trunk in a perpetual hug was I able to relax and close my eyes.

Two hours later, I awoke with a start. The tree’s limbs groaned. The wind had picked up, I thought. Thank god I’d tied myself down.

Then I screamed. The disturbance was actually a phosphorescent stream swiftly traveling up the tree, over my body and into the night sky. I was petrified. I wanted down. But I was teetering one hundred and fifty feet above the forest floor, with no help from below until first light arrived. I had to gut this out on my own.

I took a deep breath only to be startled again. The phosphorescent stream was composed of recognizable beings—rabbits, bears, owls, even insects! Thousands upon thousands of them were shooting past me to the treetop and the twinkling infinity above.

Slowly, imperceptibly, terror turned to wonder. I started to blubber and cry. Yes! I had been granted a privilege few before me had ever experienced. A lucky few, like the tree-sitter I’d replaced—the young woman who’d been rendered speechless by the magnificence she’d beheld.

I was being overwhelmed by the spirits of deceased forest creatures, heading skywards to their Next Destination. I had entered the bloodstream of the life cycle itself.

I now stock shelves in a grocery store in a small Oregon town. Don’t talk (can’t really). Smile a lot. My co-workers call me The Mute. But I don’t mind. My only ambition is to put together enough money so I can return to the Enchanted Forest.

Because its towering pines offer deceased wild animals’ safe passage to the world beyond ours, where they cavort to their hearts’ content, free from the encroachment of man.

Cut down the old growth and we slam the door on their highway to the Other Side.   

Sincerely,

Anarki      

   

I accidently sprayed my guardian angels with RAID!

To Doc Paranormal

From: PN in TN

This all started in late March when my husband Bob and I began using our back porch for barbeques—and even a bracing breakfast or two.

We live on a lake in east Tennessee and we both love fresh air—although I must confess to being squeamish about bugs. That’s why we have a screened porch instead of a cedar deck.

Anyway, we were relaxing one night after a meal of grilled tri-tips and Bush’s baked beans when an unusually persistent swarm of bugs began assaulting the screen. It was dark and hard to tell what they were through the screen.

My heart skipped a beat because they didn’t seem to be flying at random. It was as if they were aggressively trying to get in, like a hungry dog banging at the door.

And the sound they made wasn’t that of mosquitos, flying beetles or gnats. It was more like a weird kind of singing—the distorted, staticky kind you hear on a distant radio station when a storm is coming your way.

Knowing how much I hate bugs, Bob grabbed two cans of Raid—one in each hand—and began mowing the insects down. That’s when—and I swear this is true—the screaming began.

(Sorry, I need to pause here for a moment to regain my composure…)

…Anyway, I thought Bob would laugh when I said I heard screams.

But his face was white as a sheet.

Trembling, he replied, “You must have been reading my mind. Those were screams. Millions of tiny screams.” He looked with disgust at the cans of Raid still in his hands. He heaved them into a corner.

The night suddenly silent, Bob carefully opened the porch door to examine the creatures he’d just killed. But he found nothing, nothing at all. No carcasses—only a light evening dew on the grass.

Now, I’m going to throw you a curveball. I’d been trying to get pregnant for twelve years when this happened. Bob and I had attempted everything. We were so desperate we’d even flown to Switzerland where I underwent experimental treatment.

But shortly after the tiny creatures visited that night, I felt something stirring inside. I secretly took a pregnancy test and was overjoyed when it was positive. My doctor confirmed it and I gave birth over the holidays.

Bob and I now firmly believe that the buzzing creatures he sprayed with Raid were actually tiny guardian angels. They had arrived in a swarm to bless us with a child.

Thankfully, a few of them were able to fly through the poisonous cloud, although Bob made a back-of-the-envelope calculation that he had caused several hundred thousand guardian angels to die a horrible death.

Bob’s been diagnosed with PTSD. He whimpers in his sleep.

I can’t watch a Raid commercial today without weeping uncontrollably.

We gained a baby and lost our souls.

Note from Doc Paranormal;

While the veracity of this tale has yet to be determined, caution should be exercised when using insect spray during the Spring and Summer bug seasons. The risk of collateral damage to unknown entities outweighs the benefit of a mosquito-free picnic, IMHO.

 

 

Imaginary friends saved their marriage.

 

Once upon a time there was a couple named Jack and Jill (names have been changed to protect privacy).

Jack and Jill had been married for 10 years and their relationship had become a bit dull. They had grown tired of each other's company and were finding it harder and harder to find things to talk about.

One day, while out on a walk, they decided to liven things up by including a pair of imaginary friends.

Jack's imaginary friend was named Bob and he was a wise-cracking trouble-maker. Jill's imaginary friend was named Sue and she was a sweet and nurturing old soul. While similar in age and attractiveness to Jack and Jill, Bob and Sue were each two feet taller.

At first, Jack and Jill were a bit skeptical about their new companions, but soon they found that their imaginary friends had breathed new life into their relationship. They found themselves laughing and having fun together again, all thanks to Bob and Sue.

They would go on adventures with their imaginary friends and would even have them join them on date nights. They would tell each other about the things that Bob and Sue did and said and it brought them closer together.

Bob and Sue were always by Jack and Jill’s side, making sure that the spark in their relationship never died out.

One would think that at this point Jack and Jill’s marriage was saved and they lived happily ever after. Instead, conflict arose on multiple fronts:

*Jealousy: Jack and Jill's imaginary friends were always around, and they were starting to get jealous of the attention they were receiving. They felt like they were being replaced by their own creations.

*Different interests: Bob and Sue had different interests and personalities, which led to conflicts between Jack and Jill. Bob loved to go out and party while Sue loved to stay home and read. Jack and Jill found it hard to compromise and make plans together.

*Secrets: Bob and Sue were privy to Jack and Jill’s inner thoughts and feelings, which led to some secrets being kept between them and their imaginary friends. This led to trust issues and arguments between Jack and Jill.

*Dependence: Over time, Jack and Jill became increasingly dependent on their imaginary friends for companionship and entertainment. This led to them neglecting their responsibilities and relationships in the real world.

*Imaginary Friends’ Agenda: Bob and Sue had their own agenda and sometimes it conflicted with Jack and Jill’s plans and goals. This increased tensions and disagreements between them.

*Reality vs. Imagination: Jack and Jill found themselves struggling to differentiate between what was real and what was imagined. This led to confusion and frustration in their relationship.

*Acceptance from others: Jack and Jill’s friends and family had a hard time accepting the idea of their imaginary friends, which led to isolation and alienation from their loved ones.

*Control: Jack and Jill found it hard to control their imaginary friends, and they often acted out in ways that Jack and Jill found embarrassing or inappropriate.

The relationship had reached a breaking point. After considerable thought, Jack and Jill decided they needed a time-out from Bob and Sue.

Bob and Sue were initially a bit disappointed. They enjoyed being a part of Jack and Jill's life and didn't want to lose the special connection they had with them.

But as they saw the positive effects the changes had on Jack and Jill, they realized that it was for the best. They understood that Jack and Jill's relationship needed to come first and that they were just a fun addition to it, not a replacement.

As time passed, though, Bob and Sue became increasingly dissatisfied with the new arrangement. They missed the closeness and attention they used to get with Jack and Jill and felt like they were being pushed to the sidelines.

They started to feel neglected and unimportant, and this caused them to become resentful towards Jack and Jill. They began to act out and cause mischief in an attempt to regain their attention. Despite Jack and Jill's attempts to address the couple’s concerns, Bob and Sue couldn't shake off their dissatisfaction. They started to feel like they were no longer needed in Jack and Jill's life and began to look for other ways to fill the void.

Eventually, Bob and Sue decided to move in with Jack and Jill's neighbors, a couple named Tim and Sarah, who were more than happy to have them. Like Jack and Jill, Tim and Sarah had reached a low point in their relationship. Bob and Sue saw an opportunity to fill that void as their imaginary friends.

At first, Jack and Jill were relieved that Bob and Sue had found new pals. They understood that their imaginary friends needed to find their own way and happiness. Furthermore, they realized that their own relationship was strong enough to survive without them.

Yet nothing is ever so simple. As Jack and Jill saw Bob and Sue's cozy new relationship with Tim and Sarah flourish, they couldn't help but feel a twinge of jealousy. They began to resent Tim and Sarah for taking their imaginary friends away from them and started to look for ways to subvert their relationship.

They would often make negative comments about Tim and Sarah when Bob and Sue dropped by for a chat, hoping to plant seeds of doubt in their minds. They also started to compete with Tim and Sarah by trying to outdo them in activities and outings, in an attempt to show Bob and Sue that they were still fun and exciting to be around.

Their efforts were in vain. Bob and Sue were happy in their new relationship and didn't want to be pulled back into the past. They were grateful to Jack and Jill for the time they had spent together but were looking forward to a bright future with Tim and Sarah.

Jack and Jill eventually realized that their jealousy and resentment were only hurting themselves. Recognizing the futility of trying to subvert Bob and Sue's new relationship, Jack and Jill decided to take a different approach in dealing with the loss of their imaginary friends. They decided to "play the bar scene" so to speak and explore the possibility of finding new imaginary friends to fill the void.

They started trying out new activities and hobbies, and meeting new imaginary people.

Through these experiences, Jack and Jill discovered that there were many other imaginary friends out there, just waiting to be discovered. They found that by keeping an open mind and a positive attitude, they were able to connect with a diverse group of imaginary friends, with their own unique personalities and interests.

Jack and Jill started to have fun again and to rediscover the joys of companionship. They also realized that by expanding their social circle, they were also expanding their own horizons and learning new things about themselves and the world around them.

As they moved on, they looked back on their relationship with Bob and Sue with fondness and gratitude. They understood that it had been a special and important chapter in their lives, but that it was time to create new memories with new imaginary friends. 

Reported by:                                                                                                              Dawnlee Hope, Jr.                                                                                                          Grad Student                                                                                                          Paranormal Journalism Program 

 

 

Crop Circles Appear On Hairy Guy's Back.

 I’m a man with an excess body hair problem that has made me the object of ridicule since puberty. At the age of thirteen, when most of my buddies sported a whisker or two, I grew a full hipster beard to hide my acne. I became successful with girls, I guess, as sort of a whiskery novelty item. They called me the Bearded Man, like I was some kind of sideshow act. They kept coming around, so I didn’t mind.

     

But things went haywire over the next few years. By the age of sixteen, I had thick tufts of wiry black hair on the top of my shoulders and so much “fur” on my torso and legs that the gym coach made me wear a full-body wet suit during swim class. He said he was worried my loose hairs would clog the filter, but I think he did it just to humiliate me.

     

I became an introvert. After graduating from high school, I took a job as a night janitor in an empty office tower so no one could see me. I threw in the towel and gave up on shaving. One Christmas I dyed my beard white and played Santa Claus at a shopping mall. I wound up being so popular with the kids that I quit my janitor gig. Now, I’m already booked solid for the next two holiday seasons. Amazingly, I earn enough as Santa Claus every winter to take the summer months off—when I allow my beard to go back to black.

     

This is where my problems with crop circles began. My confidence renewed, I started going out more, even venturing to the beaches of Lake Michigan near where I live. I’m sure I must have been a ridiculous sight to some eyes, what with thick body hair everywhere, but secretly knowing I was the Midwest’s #1 Santa Claus helped their wisecracks roll off my back.

     

Then, a few days ago, while on my favorite remote part of the beach, I woke up from a pleasant slumber to notice something strange on my back. Parts of it were completely bare. Large clumps of hair were in the sand surrounding my towel. I ran to my car two hundred yards away. Looking in the rear view mirror, I got the surprise of my life: an intricate pattern had been shaved on my back hair.

    

I thought I had been the victim of pranksters until I saw an online photo of a crop circle that had appeared in a farmer’s wheat field. Shockingly, it was the exact same pattern that had been fashioned in my body hair this September. I tried to find who had posted the picture with no success. It appeared have been generated from somewhere in Eastern Europe. And it was gone when I searched again just before creating this post.  

     

That, to say the least, was a crushing disappointment. However, I will swear to this day that the same entities that created the crop circle in the farmer’s wheat field cut the pattern on my back.

     

While I feel honored that I was chosen as the first human “canvas” for their mysterious art, I am now afraid to go outside for fear they will strike again. And Christmas is coming up soon. I’m terrified I’ll have to cancel all my Santa Claus bookings. My sole source of income will disappear. I’ll get evicted from my apartment. Where will I hide then?

Here’s what I’m urgently trying to get through to all readers of my cautionary tale:

   

This is a horror story not just for me, but for all hirsute men.

by: Anonymous

Transcribed by Dawnlee Hope, Jr. 

Paranormal Journalism Curriculum

Edgar Allan Poe Community College

Never Trust Anyone Over the Age of Fifteen.

 “Birth certificate, please!”

“Huh? What?” the suspect replied.

He had the beginnings of crow’s feet.

Reasonable suspicion.

“You know what I mean. Your birth certificate or I’m locking you up.” I pushed him face-first against the cinder block wall, jerked his hands behind his balding head and secured his wrists with plastic restraints.

“You’re hurting me,” he yelped.

“Not as much as I will if you don’t cough up your papers.”

“Who the hell goes walking around with his birth certificate?”

“Everybody, since the edict. You know that.”

“I heard. But I thought it was bullshit.”

“Please. There’ve been warnings for the past two weeks since your bankrupt little town sold itself as a test case. Billboards. Radio and TV spots. Op-eds. Your city fathers signed a contract on the dotted line with the billionaire that I work for.”

“Mr. App? He’s only sixteen-f*****g years old. I don’t give a damn what he wants.”

“He owns this town. You’re on private property. His property.”

“Okay. Okay. I know. But I didn’t give my consent. Asking me to carry around my birth certificate is stupid. And a gross invasion of privacy.”

“Then you shouldn’t have stayed when Mr. App seized control.”

I nodded to my assistants, one a certified eighteen-year-old, the other a confirmed fifteen, with massive biceps that belied his tender age. They forced the uncooperative suspect to the ground. I dug my knee into the small of his back as the trainees executed a textbook body search. They had absorbed their training well.

“Got it,” Fifteen said, raising a humid plastic baggie with a square of paper inside. “He taped it to his cottage cheese ass.”

“Cellulite. Another warning sign that’s he’s overage,” Eighteen chimed in. He wasn’t as bright or as strong as his younger team member, but he was down with the program.

“Make sure,” I advised. Maintaining a firm grip, I turned the suspect face up.

Fifteen opened the baggie. Scowling, he unfolded the stinking, damp document. “Bingo,” he said, raising a thumb. “Looks genuine. Has the official stamp.”

“What’s the bottom line?” I asked.

“Twenty six years, three months and seven days old. You’re busted, dude,” he said, waving the document in the confirmed elderly male’s face. While younger than his co-worker, he had a thuggish enthusiasm and a strong will to succeed. I could see him rising high in the organization by, say, the age of eighteen.

I grabbed the suspect by the lapels of his Members Only shirt. “Why the f**k didn’t you come clean in the first place? You could’ve saved yourself all this grief.” I slapped his cheek with a back of a hand. I wanted to show my assistants I was tough, that I could still kick ass at my relatively advanced age.

“I--I thought I’d pass,” he replied, shaking with fear. My girlfriend says I look like a high school senior.”

“With those crow’s feet? I had you spotted a mile away.”

“Can’t you cut me some slack? I’m only a little over the age line. I have money, if that’s what you want. I’ll show you where I keep it back home.”

“Law’s the law, dude. Over twenty-five and it’s the detention center for you. You’ve aged out. Take him away, boys.” That said, I tucked in the blouse of my Sherwood green uniform. Mr. App liked his troops neat and clean, to subvert the traditional notion that the young were degenerate slobs.

My decision, a reasonable, law-abiding decision, enraged Fifteen. “That’s it? Just take him away? He tried to bribe us just now. We should f***k him up. Teach him to respect his youngers.”

He reared back to perform a body slam. I shouldered him away.

“Again?” he fumed. “Every time we arrest one of these jerks, you hold me back. You’re getting soft. You’re getting—you’re getting—too old for this work. That’s it. What age are you, anyway?”

“Twenty-two,” I answered, restraining myself. Mr. App looked fondly upon Fifteen, seeing him as the ruthless wave of the future, the type of hooligan required to implement the program when it went live nationwide. If I beat him up now, even though I might need a length of two-by-four to seal the deal, I might wind up in hot water with the boss. “Take the Confirmed Elderly in and book him. That’s a direct order. We’ll talk later, okay?”

“We sure will. And it won’t end there. I’m taking this up the chain of command.”

“Be my guest,” I answered, feigning a lack of concern as he and Eighteen dragged the old man away.  Inside, though, I was clutching. Fifteen had pull. There was no telling how he might twist my words, make it seem to Mr. App that I was no longer dedicated to the cause. That I was over the hill.

Fifteen and Eighteen took a left turn at next block, heading towards the complex of grain silos converted by Mr. App into internment camps for Confirmed Elderly over the age of twenty-five. It was there that Twenty-Six would be processed and incarcerated among a collection of elderly, raging from his age up to Gen X and Baby Boomers—the worst of the worst.

Yes, the Movement had come that far. This was the beta version of a society that had once been no more than a youthful dream. A society run by and for the young. Those of us who’d had it up to here with classic rock, Nirvana, Tony Hawk Pro Skater 5—the burdensome nostalgia culture that weighed upon us like solid stone, breaking our backs with the frivolous nonsense of dying generations that refused to get out of the way.

Suddenly spent, I slid down the cinder block wall, lit a Camel (my only concession to the 25+ world) and inhaled. The battle, while just, was exhausting me.

My head drooped, my eyelids teetered on the edge of closing. A power nap right now might refresh me for the struggle ahead. I no longer got a rush from kicking butt 24/7, as did Fifteen, who epitomized boundless energy.

Then the citywide P.A. system crackled to life. A powerful voice raised a familiar cry: “Assemble all ye who are vital and young!” and I felt refreshed and ready to carry on. It was Mr. App, the sixteen-year-old game changer whose master plan had made me drop everything—my job, my girlfriend, my parents, my student loans, to join the great cause.

Mr. App’s message had intoxicated me, an unemployed, overeducated young man simmering with thwarted ambition. His dispatches were simple, yet, to me, made perfect sense. By placing those over age twenty-five in internment camps, we could overcome the vexing problems facing callow mankind. His plan would:

*Reduce traffic gridlock. Fewer drivers equaled safer streets.

*Increase the stock of affordable housing. Empty homes would turn major cities into buyers’ markets overnight. Instead of squeezing into an 850 square foot apartment with six of your best friends, you could fit the same number in a seven-bedroom, 6,000 sq. ft. McMansion with room to spare—and money left over.

*Make for better salaries, quicker promotions. Incarcerating the elderly would eliminate the seniority system overnight. Can you say instant V.P.?

Mr. App’s texts had captured the imaginations of thousands, if not millions like me. However, as testimony to his infinite wisdom, Mr. App knew that implementation would be a bear. So, after taking a vow of silence, a special few of us had been selected to take part in this pilot project in a small town far from prying eyes.

To further bolster privacy, Mr. App had purchased the city, paid every local yokel $500 U.S. and told them they would be playing starring roles in the pilot episode of a revolutionary, “Survivor on steroids” reality show.

The surrounding five-square miles was patrolled by armed cops. Curious outsiders and relatives were allowed inside only after signing iron-clad nondisclosure agreements and surrendering any communications gear. They too, were paid, though a lesser amount, after a committee of long-term residents complained.

All complied, thrilled that this nowhere town and its dead-end inhabitants were on the pathway to Hollywood fame. Perhaps some of the glitter would rub off on them. Greed kept their lips sealed.

The sound of Mr. App’s mesmerizing baritone filled me with glee, as it had when I’d first heard him speak six months before. I buried my Camels (so I wouldn’t be caught in his presence with generational contraband) and sprinted as fast as I could towards the town square.

Others like me, youthful, in green uniforms, spilled from homes and alleyways, suspending raids for the more important task of heeding our master’s call. In short order, the streets were filled with hundreds of us, of all ages, as long as they didn’t exceed twenty-five. Seventeens, Eighteens, Twelves and Twenty-twos—ran, whooped and cried tears of joy in eager anticipation of Mr. App’s always inspiring words.

We formed a swirling, excited mass in the town square, battling each other for precious real estate near the stage.

A dispute broke out, Fifteen and his rough crew wading in, bringing order with truncheons. The resonant sound of skulls being thwacked punctuated the festive atmosphere. Foreheads bleeding profusely, the chastened revelers staggered back to their feet. Dedicated acolytes of Mr. App, nothing, not even traumatic brain injury, could deter them from hearing him speak.

And then…it happened! As if from out of nowhere—from heaven, from hell, Mr. App appeared on stage.

Hoping he’d notice me, I began the traditional welcoming cheer:

“Never trust anyone over twenty-five.”

“Never trust anyone over twenty-five.”     

Soon, hundreds of us were chanting in unison, weeping tears of joy, straining forward, only to dash away when Fifteen and his merry band swung their truncheons to prevent us from storming the stage and kissing Mr. App’s bare, flower-bedecked feet.

He joined us in the chant, this pudgy young man more junior sumo wrestler than tech magnate. Barely 5’2”, Mr. App sported a mop of black hair, pearly white teeth and a deep, resonant voice that seemed to make the earth tremble beneath us. He didn’t need a mic to reach the far edges of the throng. 

And then he addressed us directly, as if seized by a revelation, an epiphany, of earth-shaking import.  “No more are we followers under the thumb of those whose sole merit is that they were born before us. We are taking the reins. From now on, the elder ones pull the plow.”

“Amen!” a female voice cried. She was quickly shushed, handcuffed and removed by Fifteen. Scattered applause followed, until those impolite few were also cuffed and dragged away by Fifteen’s ubiquitous team. Mr. App was not to be interrupted mid-thought.

He continued as if nothing had happened. “They said it couldn’t be done. This,” he said, indicating the crowd. “They believed you didn’t have the guts. That you would always be compliant daughters and sons.” He guffawed, baring his perfect and allegedly capped teeth. “Man oh man, were they wrong. Correct?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” we replied in unison, having been trained to respond in triplicate when invited to speak by Mr. App.

“Just like they were wrong when they said that an overweight Fourteen—me—couldn’t develop a billion-dollar app. Correct?”

“Yes, yes, yes.”

“And that a young punk—again me—couldn’t attract a consortium of private—very—private Wall Street investors to provide me with seed money to create an app that they didn’t understand. And never will, because I refuse to tell them what it is or what it does. Which is a bold stance on my part that has created a worldwide financial buzz. My app is now valued at over ten billion, of which two or three billion are mine.”

He smiled. “At least that’s what my mom says. Because she still keeps the books.”

Several audience members gasped. They were quickly muscled off the scene by Fifteen and crew.

“Just kidding,” Mr. App continued. “Mom’s forty-five and under house arrest. Along with the rest of the seniors in my extended family, including my cousin, a Thirty Three. Because I’m serious about this endeavor. So serious I changed my legal name to Mr. App. So serious that I lied to my elderly investors and told them that you, the young, loved the app, even though that’s impossible because I haven’t completed it yet. And probably never will because I’m already a billionaire, so why bother? If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it, you know what I mean?”

I started to chant “yes, yes, yes,” but thought the better of it when Fifteen strolled by, slapping his truncheon and giving me the fisheye.

“How can I help you?” I asked, maintaining a happy face while seething inside. I hated the guy. Insolent. Inexperienced. But the little snot had quickly climbed in the ranks. Why? Who did he know? 

“Looked as if you were going to say something. You know that isn’t allowed when Mr. App is addressing us.”

“I was preparing to agree with him but stopped. Is it now a crime to flutter one’s lips? Please enlighten me if the rules have changed.”

Brandishing his truncheon, Fifteen took a giant step in my direction. His downy cheeks brushed against my stiff, expansive beard. “My, my, my. The old geezer has such a smart mouth. Think we should do something to shut it, boys?”

Before I could react, Fifteen was joined by a dozen other members of his thuggish gang. They ranged in age from Fifteens down to Tens. But even the youngest sported hardened faces and lean, bare arms. These were the most enthusiastic, most vicious foot soldiers of the coming revolution and they appeared to hang on Fifteen’s every word.

“Let me take care of him, boss,” a beefy Eleven asked, his voice breaking with deep emotion and budding puberty. “This Twenty-two is half my size and twice my age. I could handle him easily.”

Kneeling down, he began pounding the ground with his truncheon. His fellow warriors joined in, as if drumming their weapons helped prepare them for battle. I spun around, noticing for the first time that the town square had been infiltrated by massive numbers of the very young.

I unsheathed my steel baton, disbelieving that I was about to be hit by friendly fire.

“Attack!” Fifteen yelled.

His troops charged towards me, truncheons pointed out.

“Stop!” a cute female Eighteen screamed, inserting herself between me and Fifteen’s advancing goons. Spinning around, fierce with passion, she asked, “Have you all gone mad? We’re supposed to be fighting the elderly, not ourselves.” She flourished a homemade oaken sword, its blade painted the colors of deadly nightshade. “Anyone who wants to fight will have to get through me first.” She turned my way. “Including you.”

Sighing, I did.

“And you. Stand down,” she declared, addressing Fifteen. With great reluctance, he nodded to his hordes, now numbering fifty. They backed away.

Mr. App’s booming voice brought us all to our senses. “Boys and girls, boys and girls,” he said in an admonishing, fatherly tone. “I appreciate high spirits, but these nonsensical domestic disputes need to end. Twenty-twos fighting Twenty-fours, Fifteens fighting Twenty-twos. We’re supposed to be one big family under one big tent. This movement was meant to pit the young against the elderly, not the young against the young. Come up here, my quarrelsome children. Come on the stage,” he said.

“Is he talking to us?” the pretty Eighteen asked.

“Think so.”

“I can’t believe it. I’ve never been close to him before. Would you take my hand? I’m a bundle of nerves.”

“Uh…sure,” I answered, suddenly nervous myself. Other than to bark orders, I hadn’t talked to a girl since the Movement began, let alone held a hand as warm and pleasurable as pretty Eighteen’s.

As if feeling the same, she smiled at me and quickly looked away. “Can I ask you a question if you promise not to tell?”

“Sure.”

“What’s your real name?”

“Ethan,” I said, even though doing so could get us locked up.

“Matilda,” she responded, smiling, making sure to keep her eyes on the ground. I knew then and there that I would never forget Matilda, even though, after tonight, I might never see her again. There was a war to be fought. Who knew where we would be assigned?

Our group, now numbering around five dozen Fifteens, Matilda and me, filed onto the wide stage. Reluctantly, I released her hand.

Pomp and Circumstance, a 20^th century composition the production crew had mistakenly let slip past, boomed over the P.A. The sun was setting and torches had been lit. The dramatic, flickering glow transformed Mr. App into a mystical deity, notwithstanding his ample girth and virulent acne. It was as if he had descended from a far better place than planet Earth, with its soul-killing seniority systems and apprenticeships.

The music stopped abruptly.

Mr. App folded his arms. Face impassive, he surveyed the multitudes. A full minute passed. He cleared his throat. Fell silent again, watching us, weighing our merits. Then, anticipation at a fever pitch, he deigned to speak. “I’ve been thinking as the combatants came on stage,” Mr. App intoned, chin in his hand. “I have good news. And bad news.”

All those assembled moaned, even me. I glanced sideways at Matilda. Her mouth remained closed.

“Bad news first.” Mr. App sobbed. Tense seconds passed. Then, blubbering, shedding tears, struggling to get words out, he said, “The policy of never trusting anyone over twenty-five has failed.”

He paused, then added, drawing out every word, “It—doesn’t—go—far—enough.”

Fifteen applauded. His thugs followed suit.

“Recent events have shown dissension within the youth cohort. The old-young,” he nodded at me, “are getting in the way of the overzealous-young.” He indicated Fifteen. “And when it comes to fulfilling our noble cause, a little overzealousness never hurt, right?”

“Right!” Fifteen and crew bellowed. They began pounding the stage with their truncheons. Countless overzealous-young pressed against the crowd barriers, desperate to join in. A stage hand gave Fifteen an overloaded black bag. He emptied it of complimentary truncheons that he tossed into frothing crowd. The din became something only Mr. App’s voice could overcome.

“Therefore,” he concluded, “in order to ensure we achieve our noble goal I am, at this very moment, changing our slogan to Never Trust Anyone Over Twenty.

“All of those who have just received truncheons begin arresting anyone above that age.” With that, the torches were doused and Mr. App strutted off the darkened stage.

Imagine an army of Fifteen and Under anarchists trying to initiate a new youth order and you have only any inkling of the madness that unfolded that night.

I, of course, was arrested, by Fifteen no less, for the crime of aging out. Adding to the insult, Matilda was forced by him to tighten the cuffs. She was then stripped of her sword, issued a truncheon and ushered off the stage to make arrests until there were no more to be made.

She uttered but one parting word, and that, I swear, was “Ethan.” I replied, enthusiastically, whole-heartedly, “Matilda,” after which I was severely beaten. I can only hope that she did not experience the same.

Three weeks later:

I’m still recovering from my wounds. I stand all day and curl up at night in the two feet by three feet space on the concrete floor inside the wire cage I share with one hundred and ten other newly-minted old men.

The stress is overwhelming. It’s shameful to admit this, but I’ve started to hope the Forty-seven on the floor to my right dies because his space—and I measured it, is an expansive 3’X4’. As they were carting away his body, I’d seize it as my own.

Even more crushing, I have no idea where Matilda is or if she even remembers me. While we had only one brief meeting, I’ve come to love her dearly. The thought that I might one day hold her hand again keeps me from smashing my cranium against the unforgiving floor.

Four weeks later:

I woke up to feel a new detainee pressed against me, shivering under a tiny space blanket. Irritated that the new fish had invaded my precious privacy, I gave him a sharp elbow in the ribs. Grumbling, he rolled over to face me.

My god! It was Mr. App, stripped to his underwear. His eyes were bloodshot. He was covered with scrapes and bruises.

“What the f**k are you doing here?” I said, scrambling away, banging into another neighbor, who shoved me back into my own space.

“I aged out,” Mr, App said, cringing as if I was going to hurt him again.

“You’re sixteen!”

“Fifteen and his crew seized power in a palace coup. They changed the Movement slogan to never trust anyone over fifteen. Said old folks like me had screwed everything up. They even had my overseas bank accounts transferred over to them. I’m broke.”

He began to cry. “Twenty-six percent of the world’s population is under fifteen. And kids at that stage of development live only for today. They lack planning skills. They’ll never overthrow the system because they don’t even care. Give them a skateboard and they’re happy as clams. They’re skate-f**k-boarding nihilists, I tell you.” 

“Sounds like me when I was that age,” I replied.

“Because of them, everything I’ve worked for is going down the tubes.”

“And you sound like my dad,” I said, bitterly amused. Mr. App’s youth movement was eating its own tail. Who’d seize power when Fifteen aged out? The six-year-olds? The Prince George generation? I joined Mr. App in crying. The futility of it all!

But what of Matilda? Where was she now that she, too, was of an unacceptable age?

“Incarcerated like us, in the women’s sector,” Mr. App said.

Enraged, I stood up. Matilda’s personality was too big to be cooped up in a 2’X3’ space. Inevitably, she’d lash out at her immature guards, and that would be the end of her.

Mr. App pulled me back down. “Hold on. She’s okay. Fifteen is protecting her.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Fifteen has a fatal flaw for a man in his position. He has a thing for older women. And Matilda’s exploiting that flaw to the hilt. Which reminds me that she wanted me to give you this.” He extracted a note from his underwear.

I read it with barely restrained joy:

     Dearest Ethan:

     My hand aches for your warm touch.

    But never fear.

    We shall be together soon, if I have my way.

    More than that I cannot say.

    Age is but a number.

    Yours forevermore,

    Matlida aka Pretty Eighteen

Matilda and I have been communicating through the prison grapevine since then. I’ve even seen her from a distance once. She was, of course, as beautiful as ever.

It is because of Matilda and her expedient relationship with Fifteen that this message has found its way to you.

For the time being, the Age War is contained within this secret, small community. But one day the fight will spread into society at large.

The social order you take for granted.

It’s a nightmare scenario that may be happening already, for all I know.

I apologize for helping this twisted youth movement to metastasize.

That said, I hope and pray you heed my final words of advice:

The next time you cross paths with a Fifteen, be afraid. Be very afraid. They might not be as innocent as they look.

And for god’s sake, don’t turn your back on a Fifteen. The next thing you feel may be a truncheon crashing down upon your skull.

After which, you’ll wake up in here. Alongside me and Mr. App.

We’ve become friends—brothers in old age—and we’ll respect your personal space.

Our friend in old age.

By: Anonymous

As told to:

Doc Paranormal

Adjunct Professor without Portfolio

Edgar Allan Poe Community College