Thirty Twice Tiny Tales of Terror

By Samuel Chiodo

Thirty Twice Tiny Tales of Terror is a unique collection of short stories. ¬ ese brief observations of life and its grotesque, greedy and sometimes grandiose behaviors, open the door to other realms of possibility. A quick yet comprehensive peek at the human heart, TTTTOT creates nods and smiles among its readers. Author/pharmacist Chiodo an

• Language: English
• Publisher: URLink Print & Media, LLC
• Release date: Apr 29, 2019
• ISBN: 9781643673103

Samuel Chiodo

SAMUEL J. CHIODO JR. is a retired pharmacist who has been writing short stories for over 50 years under his name and under the pseudonym Sam Nail, since his surname in Italian means carpenter or nail. His main influence has been Rod Serling, master of the TV sci-fi series, notably Twilight Zone and Night Gallery. One formula that Sam uses is to take the reader's mind, plant a seed and retreat, allowing the person to end stories. ¬ Though some rail at this technique, it stokes the interest level.

Book preview

ONE 

termination

MARIO HAD BEEN TARGETED FOR annihilation immediately after ‘singing’ for the Federal Investigation Committee on organized crime. A regional family head, his illegal specialty had been drug dealing, with connections to other vices. When apprehended and confronted with the plethora of incriminating evidence against him, Mario decided to turn state’s evidence as a plea bargain for reduced sentence. As expected, his lawyers were able to keep him from jail, which, in effect, saved his life as he surely would have been murdered there. The alternative was a life of a recluse, even though he was moved thousands of miles away, and was given a completely new identity. The mob countered with a huge contract on his head, and, considering their ways and strength (and it was a question of strength), it was a merely a matter of time. Mario recognized that he had power, too, and he surrounded himself with trusted family, even employing a food taster. He left little to chance.

In the three years Mario was in hiding, not once did he venture more than two miles from his ‘prison’. Only the death of his beloved mother caused him to leave, and he had his closest friends guard the home while he was away. When the bereaved mobster returned, he was careful to have Tom, his taster, test all the appliances in the house first. Tom had to enter each room, and then he would turn on every piece of machinery that Mario might use. This phobia extended to the bathroom, which, in light of Mario’s extreme need of cleanliness, was a wise move. Mario had Tom flush the toilet, use the shower, shave, open all doors, brush his teeth, rinse his mouth–everything. There were no problems.

So it was a great surprise when, several days after his return, Mario contacted an elevated temperature and severe headaches. A cold was ruled out, as he had been inside his home and had not been exposed to anyone ill. His physician was called, and despite numerous medical tests, discovered nothing abnormal; yet his fevers grew worse and the headaches continued. Mario refused the doctor’s suggestion of hospitalization, knowing how unprotected he would be there. Near death, Mario steadfastly refused to leave his fortress, believing that the battery of specialists now involved would find the cure.

On the tenth day of his grave illness, the fever abated. An occasional headache was the only reminder of the sickness that had controlled him. Mario was so impressed by what he thought was a doctor’s skill, that he sent each one who had seen him a five-figure bonus check. He also decided to have a party for his body guards and it was during this bash that a message arrived for MARIO MORTU (death). This bit of black humor caused a sudden fear in the mobster, but his curiosity prevailed and he motioned for the piece of mail; besides, what harm could come to him, surrounded by his protectors?

Quickly he ripped the envelope open and read to himself.

DEAR MARIO,

WHEN A SHEEP LEAVES THE FLOCK, THE SHEPHERD LOOKS FOR IT. WHEN A SHEEP TURNS WOLF, IT MUST BE KILLED. IT IS TIME.

YOU HAD YOUR SUCKER TRY ALMOST EVERYTHING IN YOUR FORT, BUT WE KNEW HE COULDN’T BE AS CLEAN CONSCIOUS AS YOU. DID YOU NOT USE Q-TIPS EVERYDAY? ONES SATURATED WITH TINY GUNUTSU EGGS–A HARMLESS SOUTH AMERICAN FLEA. YOU DEVELOPED A FEVER FROM THEIR INVASION INTO YOUR EARS. IT IS OVER NOW, AND IN SIXTEEN MORE DAYS, IT WILL BE OVER ONCE MORE–WHEN THEY HATCH IN YOUR CRANIUM.

REVENGE IS DONE!

X

two 

a most trusted friend

M AY I HAVE YOUR UNDIVIDED attention, ladies and gentlemen? the tape began. If all is in readiness, please, start the legal mumbo-jumbo, Dawkins.

"Friends, I am Herbert V. Dawkins, lawyer for the estate of the late Remington R. Hurst III and you were summoned here to be witness to the unique ‘living will’ that Mr. Hurst prepared shortly before he demise. Now, I present the ‘will’.

Mrs, Hurst turned to her late husband’s business associate, Harry Templeton, and whispered, That old codger–even in death he wanted limelight!

Thank you, Dawkins. The tape continued, timed to allow the lawyer to finish. I truest all who were invited are here: My lovely wife, Terry, whom I plucked from the streets of the North Side and in whom I desperately tried to infuse some sophistication–only proving that not all experiments are successful.

My partner, ‘Harried’ Templeton, who, because of congenital defect–no backbone–cost the various companies millions of dollars–and who always alibied the fault.

Charles, our devoted chauffeur, who was more devoted to the physical needs of my wife than to his duty. I do hope it was enjoyable, Charles.

"Tom Slatter, my accountant, whom I’m sure was not aware that I, too, had a degree in accounting and would inspect all your finished work. Shame, shame, Tom, you were terrible with numbers; so bad in fact, that several deposits destined for my bank accounts accidentally made their way into yours. Tch… Tch…

Ah… Mandy. When I first acquired your services as a maid, there could not have been a better one in the entire country. But wealth jades even straight, normal people, doesn’t it? Were you aware that Jackie at the pawn shop used to work for me and always reported all those fine, purloined items you sold him?

Finally, you, Dawkins, one of the finest lawyers money can buy; and speaking of money, why was it when we used your services, the price was five to seven times the industry trend? I do hope all that undeveloped land you stole from me brings you a good deal of prosperity.

Well, well… except for my good friend, Larry, you are all here. Have no fear, for all the transgressions and problems you’ve given me, there will be no penalties. Dawkins, break the seal on the package of documents and distribute them.

The lawyer produced a container with six sealed portfolios and gave each person one, keeping the last. No one opened them, awaiting further orders from now-silent tape.

Does everyone have a folder? … Good. Please allow me to say that I decided some time ago to divide my estate equally among the six of you. This may come as a shock to some who expected the lion’s share, but it is fitting for all to divide identically. After all, you can only die once, can’t you?

The word ‘die’ snapped everyone from their lethargy and they strained to hear.

"Yes, my friends and wife, your doom was sealed as you first touched the treated portfolios. Each cover was saturated with muscle-paralyzing poison and DMSO–a substance that penetrates body tissues, transporting the poison with it to your very bones. Don’t be excited, you are all to be dead in 10 minutes–at most. Certainly that is not enough time to find the antidote; and while I’m baring all, I might as well confess to these six murders: So whomever discovers this carnage and in particular, this tape, I, Remington R. Hurst III, confess to the crime. Of course, I’m already dead, so this case is closed.

Peaceful rest, friends. I hope to be seeing you soon.

CLICK

An interloper to this scene would have thought the poison had completed its work as the six people sat quietly rigidly in their cushioned chairs. No one moved, each lost in the seven or so minutes of thought. It was, as the damned lifeless tape had said, useless to do anything, for exertion would only accelerate the poison’s action.

Little more than an hour after this reading of the will commenced, a package was delivered to Larry Johnson, postal worker and dearest friend of the late Remington R. Hurst III. It was Larry who had planted the seed of revenge for the six people, and Remington had readily accepted, knowing this was a way to vent the animosity he had for all. Larry was nonplussed as he took the package, especially since the return address was that of the Hurst estate. He tore it open and discovered a cassette which he quickly put into his tape player.

I’m sure this surprises you, Larry, the late Remington’s voice began. "By the time you hear this, my six ‘closest’ friends should be dead. Thank you for the supreme suggestion, you old rascal. You were my most trusted friend, and with all of them gone, I’ve bequeathed the bulk of the estate to you. Enjoy it. Remember all the great times and superb practical jokes we played on many people. I’ll miss you.

"Oh, by the way, I think I’ve gotten the last laugh as I’ve sent a tape of our incriminating conversations to the police, who should be receiving them shortly! After all, buddy, I couldn’t allow you to get off ‘scot-free’, which I believe was your favorite phrase! Ha Ha!

Hearing this, Larry realized he had been double crossed and would be accused of six murders. This onus was too much for his frail mind, so he reached for the top desk drawer and removed the