High and Outside

Note: This story was a contest entry for the Oct. 2011 Twisted Tales Contest. To view the contest rules, click on Contest Rules:

Write for me the type of story I love to read--a tale with a plot twist or surprise ending. I'm an expert at figuring out the twist before it happens. See if you can fool me! It's a great way to sharpen your plot development skills and win prizes. All entrants receive 500 GPs just for entering! October round is open!

Plot twists are a basic element of mystery and suspense writing, but definitely not limited to those genres. They add excitement and interest to comedy, romance, fantasy, and almost any type of story. Stories by Dean Koontz and Jeffery Deaver give good examples of what I want. Most of their books contain at least one good twist. Other examples are the following short stories:
"Rain Rain Go Away" by Isaac Asimov
"The Open Window" by H. H. Munro (Saki)
"Charles" and "The Lottery" by Shirley Jackson
You can also check out last month's winners listed at the bottom of this page. All of them were fantastic!

RULES

The contest will run from the first to the last day of each month. Depending on the number of entries, winners should be posted by the 15th of the following month.

Entries must be no less than 300 and no more than 6000 words. Please include a word count with your entry. Please don't exceed the maximum of 6000 words. I hate having to disqualify good stories because they are too long.

Must contain at least one plot twist or surprise ending. Any genre is accepted.

Complete short stories only. Sorry, no poetry or novel chapters.

I don't care about the rating, but please rate appropriately. Intro and title must be rated E.

Post entries in the forum using a bitem link. Example {bitem: ######} with your item number in place of the # symbols. If you don't have space in your portfolio to do this, you can post your entry directly into the forum, as long as it is not rated above 13+.

You may enter one story per round. If your story doesn't win anything, you are welcome to enter it in the next round.

Previously written stories are accepted as long as they follow the rules. Stories that have won awards are allowed as long as they haven't won an award in this contest.

You may edit your entry as many times as you want before the round closes. I won't judge them until then. Please feel free to read and review each other's entries.

Judge's decisions are final.

All entrants will receive an in-depth review of their entries and 500 GPs for entering a story that follows the rules.

JUDGING CRITERIA

Plot
Plot development is of utmost importance in this contest. Is it original? Does it keep me interested? Does it unfold logically and make sense? The twists should be unexpected, not unbelievable.

Description
Do you bring your characters and settings to life? Are you able to weave your descriptions into the story without derailing the plot?

Grammar, punctuation, and spelling
Is the story free of typos, incomplete or run-on sentences, and other technical errors? This isn't as important as the other two criteria, as long as your grammar and spelling aren't so bad that I can't tell what you are trying to say!

"Twisted Tales Contest" 

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High and Outside

By Indelibleink

C'mon you bastard - don't you start pulling this shit on me here. Not this late. Not in weather like this. Not out in the middle of Hayseed, Who-knows-where, at three in the morning.

Rick Walling tried to turn it over yet once again. The result was the same as the previous ten or twelve attempts: A not-so-subtle message - the telltale 'clicking' sound from his car's starter - evidently communicating the message his car battery was in the thirty-ninth month of a three year warranty. He pounded the steering wheel with his left hand - his pitching hand - which he knew was a mistake the instant he did it. That left hand - and the arm it was attached to - was his bread and butter, baby. He immediately steadied the hand - as steady as he could under present alcohol-affected conditions - and did a quick metacarpal evaluation which seemed to turn out just fine.

Not that he was in any condition to pitch at the moment. No matter - Rick Walling was on top of the baseball world right now: Cy Young award candidate, MVP candidate, and five post-season victories in six starts. So what if he liked to enjoy a drink, or two, or even as many as ten, as he had done tonight? As far as he was concerned, he'd earned the right to do whatever he damn well pleased. However, the countless millions of dollars his arm supplied Rick for the better part of the last decade didn't seem to be doing much good right now.

He looked back at the bar he'd left about a half-hour earlier. No sign of life. The owner had only gotten Rick to leave the bar at closing time by agreeing to make him, as long as Rick promised not to drive, a couple of Mojitos. Rick swore he wouldn't and the bartender - since drunks never lie - did as requested. Rick sat in his car and consumed the drinks, waiting patiently for the bartender to close up and drive off, before attempting to start his own vehicle. Now essentially stranded, the strategy was beginning to appear a bit flawed.

Wait a minute...You have a cell phone, Lefty! Wow...I must have a better buzz going than I thought... He slapped the side of his head (with his non-pitching hand) for being such an idiot, then commenced to do a pat-down of himself in search of the stupid phone. Damn! I lent it to that f-ing bimbo at the bar and she never gave it back. Shit! The increasing frequency of raindrops pelting his windshield seemed only to underscore the magnitude of Rick's plight at the moment.

Lefty grabbed a newspaper from the passenger seat of his car to serve as a make-shift umbrella. He decided walking somewhere might at least increase his chances of getting some help. However, he was still feeling the effects of a steady night of drinking, and since he had already visited a couple of other bars prior to this one, he wasn't even sure from which direction he came to wind up here. He stumbled out of the car, and steadied himself with the side-view mirror as he looked out the gravel drive to try and get his bearings. It was pitch black, and the street upon which this bar was situated was desolate enough that there were no street lights. Jesus...I sure pick 'em, don't I? Reasonably sure he had the wherewithal to make it out to the street, he gently let go of the mirror and gingerly took a few steps forward.

Evidently he wasn't ready to fly solo quite yet, as his foot caught a puddle which was a little deeper than expected. Before he knew it, he had lost his balance and was down on all fours, looking like the misguided puppy who had gotten more than he bargained for when he decided to play in the mud. Looking straight down into the potpourri of slop and gravel beneath him, he contemplated the pros and cons of actually trying to stand up again. Didn't work so well the first time. Yet, the shivers he was getting from the cool late October air coupled with being soaking wet told him he had to give it another shot. As he was giving himself the Knute Rockne "you-can-do-it" motivational pep talk, his internal rambling was interrupted by the blinding beam of approaching headlights coming his way up the drive. Fortunately for Rick - as he was in no condition to take evasive action - the headlights stopped a couple of feet short of the star pitcher.

He raised his head to try and make out who was in the automobile, but the combination of rain, headlight beams, and alcohol made it impossible. Thankfully, the car door opened , and he could make out the silhouette of a female wearing a dress coming his way. The figure stopped for a moment, and for some strange reason, Rick thought he remembered the legs from somewhere, but he was simply too messed up at the moment to recall the specifics.

"Well, aren't you in a fine state? You look like you could use a little help..."

She reached down to offer Rick a hand, which he gladly accepted.

"My c...car...d...dead battery, I th...think." The combination of shivers and alcohol made conversation difficult for Rick. "Th...Thank you for stopping."

The woman was also carrying a flashlight, and she stooped down and shone it on his head. "Look up here, if you can."

Rick tried to raise his head up as much as possible, which was still a struggle. He did, however, get a closer look at her legs, which made a very good impression. His eyes followed her inviting figure up beyond her lovely mouth, striking eyes, high cheek bones, and on up to her beautiful brunette hair. Whoa, we have a fine looking woman here, Ricky!

"Your eyes look like they've been to hell and back, Sailor. You remember me? The name's Linda..."

"Kinda, but I meet so many people..."

"You lent me your phone in the bar; I went out to make a call, and when I came back in you weren't there. I put it in my purse and then forgot I had it. I left and was half-way home when your phone rang - surprised the devil out of me!. Since I don't own a cell phone, I obviously remembered borrowing yours, so I turned around to see if by chance you were still here. Honestly though, I didn't expect to find you like this!"

The bar...That's where I remember those legs from...Jeez, didn't I hit on her a couple of times? Finally, with more than a little help from Linda, Rick was standing up. "Thank you so much for your help. I think I got a little carried away with my drinking last night. I wondered what happened to my cell phone - I musta been in the men's room and missed you..."

Having stood in the drizzle for the last few minutes, Linda's outfit - rather sheer to begin with - had started to cling to her like Saran Wrap. "You look like a drowned rat. Can I give you a lift somewhere? Where you staying?"

Rick's eyes, bloodshot as they were, still knew a fine woman when they saw 'em. He couldn't remember why she had rejected him earlier, but this was definitely worth another shot. "I'm at the downtown Marriott. Is that far from here?" He motioned over toward his marooned Mercedes. "Can't trust them cheap cars anymore. And yes, I really could use a ride."

Linda laughed. "I should have such a 'cheap' car! The Marriott's about a half-hour from here, but I live in that direction anyway. Hop into my 'expensive' Camry, and I'll get you home."

"Sounds like a plan. Thanks."

After a fifteen minutes of the Camry's heater blasting away on both passengers, Rick found himself feeling much better. His head had cleared up some, and the Advil which Linda had offered earlier had helped to get Rick back to feeling semi-normal.

"So, tell me Linda, are you married?"

Linda didn't take her eyes off the road as she replied, "Used to be."

"Any kids?"

"No kids."

After a few minutes of silence, it became Linda's turn for a little Q&A. "You know who you remind me of?"

"Who might that be."

"That baseball player - a pitcher I think - plays for the Sox - oh, what's his name - Bill Walker?"

Rick laughed. "Well, you're mighty close. The name is Rick Walling. And that would be me."

"Get outta town...You mean to tell me I have a real live celebrity in my car?"

The pair pulled up in front of the Marriott, and Rick eyed his stunning driver. "You know, I really owe you something for all of your time and trouble. Why don't you come up to my room with me? Heck, the least I could do would be to fix you a drink..."

"Why, if I didn't know any better, I'd guess you were trying to seduce me, Mr. Big Shot ballplayer..."

*        *        *        *        *        *        *

It felt as if someone were pounding railroad spikes - one right after the other - into Rick's head. Holy crap, what did I drink last night? Not only that - what did I fucking do last night? He started to lift his head, but the movement - in fact, any movement - was cause for intense pain. He knew he was in his bed, naked, and was thankful for that. He heard some noise to his right, and ever-so-carefully turned his head in that general direction. He saw Linda, clad only in bra and panties, walking from the bathroom. Wow! I musta had a good time last night.

Linda noticed he was awake, immediately turned and went over to a chair by the door, and fished around in her purse for a few seconds. Apparently finding what she had been looking for, she walked quickly over to Rick. She dropped a five by seven photograph on Rick's bare chest.

His head pounding like a jackhammer, he winced. "No, I really can't do any autographs right now." Only half-jokingly, he asked, "Wasn't a night with me momento enough?"

"Hardly. Look at the photograph."

Rick brought the glossy image up to his line of sight, and squinted to see the images in the dull light of the still-darkened bedroom. Even the act of squinting resulted in multiple ripples of pain. "It's me and a kid and another guy; looks like it might be at an autograph session somewhere."

"Any chance you remember these people?"

"Lady, I sign autographs for tons of people over the course of a season. Free, too, I don't even charge..."

"Yes, you're a regular fucking all-American boy, aren't you?"

"Linda, what is the point of this? You seem pretty upset,"

"Take another look at the photo. A long look. Are you absolutely certain you don't recognize the boy or the man?"

Rick went took another, extended view of the photo, even turning it at various angles. Nothing clicked. "Apparently, you think I do know these people. Who, for the love of God, are they?"

"My son, and my husband."

"You said last night you weren't married."

"I said I used to be."

"Okay, you're divorced. I'm really sorry to hear that, but honestly, Linda, what's it have to do with me?"

"Okay, Ricky my darling, let me refresh your memory: The boy pictured in the photo is my son, Ralphie. A big Sox fan. Has been - or was - all his life. Got if from Larry, my husband, who was an honest-to-goodness Sox fanatic. I mean, Larry lived and died with the Sox every inning of every game. He taught Ralphie to do the same. They loved the Sox, Rick. But they worshiped you. Me? I never really understood the sports-hero-worship thing; always looked at you guys like a bunch of overpaid assholes. But, if you guys made my two 'boys' happy, then what the hell?"

The story wasn't making Rick's hangover disappear any quicker, that was for sure. And it was starting to seem like a pretty big price to pay for a roll in the hay that he couldn't even remember, but he felt a bit trapped at the moment. 

"One day, after waiting for two hours to meet their hero - you - who was signing autographs at the mall, they finally got to meet you. I had left them to shop - seemed stupid to me to waste all that time waiting for a written name scribbled on a piece of paper - but I returned and joined them just as they reached you. It was clear to me you had been drinking already, which helps explain why now you don't remember them from the photo. Anyway, Ralphie had been diagnosed with leukemia not long before the visit, and Larry thought that visiting you would be a positive step in Ralphie's recovery. Larry explained Ralphie's situation to you, and since you were lit up like a Christmas tree, you told Ralphie all kinds of crazy stuff."

"Like what?"

"Well, since you have this God-like image of yourself, I guess you felt you had the ability to 'heal the sick', because you told my little boy that he was going to be okay - all healed - by the time spring training rolled around in four months. What made matters worse was my husband believed all your bullshit too! He thought the great Rick Walling could do no wrong. You were buzzed enough that you grabbed my ass right there in front of my husband and kid. Larry even defended you for that. 'He's just caught up in the emotion - he didn't mean anything.' You were his fucking hero, you bastard." She slammed her fist on Rick's chest. "Strike one, Pal!"

Though he still felt like his head might explode at any moment, it was beginning to sink in Linda was conducting more than just an ordinary 'gripe session' with him. "Please Linda, how is Ralphie? I'd love to see him - and your ex - and try to make things right..."

Linda's crazed emotion turned to one of grief immediately. She picked up the photo from the bed and drew it to her chest. "Ralphie died six weeks after visiting you at the mall. But, right up until the very end, he thought he'd be fine because 'Lefty said I'd be okay by spring training'. The kid believed in you up until the moment he died in my arms. And Larry? He just kind of flipped out. He was so shocked and disbelieving of what happened, that he tried for two weeks to call you - as if you could somehow rectify what happened to his beloved son. Obviously, you never got the message, but you know what the kicker was, Rick? One of your numbskull P.R. people got the message screwed up and we got an autographed photo of you pitching and you know what the message written on it was?"

"Dear God, Linda...What?"

"It said 'Keep fighting, Ralphie...Never say die...Regards, Rick (Lefty) Walling'. Never say fucking die, Ricky! Well, that was all poor Larry could take. He became despondent, withdrawn, detached from the real world. Started missing work; called in sick if he called in at all. Finally, he didn't answer the phone when I called from work to check on him, so I went home to check on him. He had thrown all of his Sox stuff - all of his sports stuff actually - out our sixth floor apartment window. Then he followed it. Six floors, head-first onto the pavement." Linda again punched Ricky in the chest. "Strike two, you asshole!"

Rick covered up as best as possible, but his effort was half-hearted. Jesus...What have I done?

Linda stood up and ran to the bathroom. She returned shortly with a handful of tissues. "At first, I wanted to kill you, you bastard. Then I thought about it for awhile, and realized that killing you wasn't really going to make me feel any better. You being off the face of the earth would be a good thing, no doubt, but I'd still be here without my son or husband, and miserable. So I came up with a plan."

"Good God, Linda, what plan?"

"Well, it was no accident I met you at the bar earlier tonight. It was no accident I borrowed your cell phone. And, you really need to do something about your drinking problem, Rick. You left your car keys sitting up on the bar all night, so I took them and turned on you headlights, CD player and rear seat TV. Your battery was shot in forty-five minutes. So it was so easy for me to set this evening up with you. And the clincher was when your wife - Janie, I think it was - called your cell phone..."

"Janie? You spoke to my wife earlier? Oh Christ! What the hell did you tell her?"

"Well...I played it real innocent-like when I answered the phone. Of course, she was real shocked when another woman answered her husband's phone - you know how some people get real suspicious and all for no real good reason - and I pretended we had a bad connection and said to call back later, because right now me and Ricky were going up to his room at the Marriott for some real hot sex and not to bother us, because Ricky had a real mean temper and might hit me if he got angry..."

"Linda, what on earth did you say that for? I never hit anyone in my life!"

"Yes, Ricky, you're so very, very honorable: A married man who's had sex with dozens of women in every major league city. Good to know you draw the line at hitting. I just threw that in so she might be inclined to catch a flight here right away, to see - no, make that catch - her hubby in action. I'm not sure, but I might have let the room number slip - you had written it on your key card in your car. My bad."

"And oh yes, a couple of minutes ago, in the bathroom I called the police with your cell phone and told them I thought you had spiked my orange juice because we just had sex and I threatened to tell your wife. Oh...I took the liberty of ordering room service for the two of us while you were still passed out, hope you don't mind. And lucky me! I found a bottle of your muscle relaxers in the suitcase in your car outside the bar when I was killing the battery, and I just washed down a bunch of them with the OJ."

Completely shocked by the entire scenario, Rick tried to contemplate just how to handle what had just happened. He reached over to the nightstand for the hotel phone, but immediately saw the line had been yanked from the wall. Just as the now-noticeably impaired Linda laid down next to Rick, there was a knock at the door.

"Mr. Walling...This Fred Marsh, the manager here at the Marriot. We were just contacted by the police, who are on their way, that there might be a problem here. Mr. Walling, would you open the door please? Again, the police are on their way. Is everyone okay in there? Mr. Walling, I have a master key I will use if you don't open the door immediately."

As Rick started to get up to get the door, he felt Linda grab his arm.

"Your painkillers in me; your semen in me; your wife on the way. Should make for one hell of an autopsy, no?. I'd say this is better than killing you, Rick Walling. You'll be suffering far longer than I will. Don't you think it's rather ironic that you began the evening trying to screw me. Sort of ended up the other way around, wouldn't you say?" Her head fell back to the pillow, and Linda's eyes rolled to the back of her head as the grip she had on Rick's arm relaxed. The faint smile on her lips, however, remained.

*        *        *        *        *        *        *

Just after the police had begun to wrap up their preliminary investigation, charging Rick Walling with the first degree murder of Linda Hastings, the Detective who had just read Walling his Miranda Rights was handed a small piece of paper by one of the emergency medical personnel.

"Mr. Walling, this note was found in one of Ms. Hastings hands. Do these words mean anything to you?"

"What words?"

"'Strike three - You're Out!'" 

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