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  Damned Lies

  Damned Lies Book One

  By Dennis Liggio

  Copyright © 2014 by Dennis Liggio

  Smashwords Edition

  Cover image Copyright © 2014 by Dennis Liggio

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  www.dennisliggio.com

  To all the books unwritten,

  all the songs unheard,

  all the stories untold,

  all the dreams left in sleep.

  Contents

  Worst Date Ever

  Birth

  Chicken Scratch

  Becky & Zeppo

  Adventures in Science

  Graduation Day

  Retail Rage

  The Journey Begins

  Action! Adventure!

  Fightin' Montage

  Tournament

  The Beast and the Emperor

  Reigning

  Deserted

  The House in the Wasteland

  Mystic Crap

  The Catch

  Unpaid Debts

  Betrayal

  An Unexpected Ride

  Mechanical Gods

  Back to Civilization

  Sound Advice

  A Holy Mission

  Axes Are Awesome

  Cinnabar and Sulfur

  Adventures in Truck and Space

  Confrontation

  Bad Feeling

  Goddamn Death Ray

  It's a Trap!

  Flowers of Evil

  About the Author

  Excerpt from Damned Lies Strike Back

  Worst Date Ever

  The date was going poorly.

  She was telling me that she collects commemorative plates. Do you know what commemorative plates are? They're small dinner plates that aren't meant to be eaten on. Instead, they do limited runs of plates with certain images to make note of particular events like the bicentennial of America, some battleship you never heard of having an anniversary, some 70s pop star's birthday, or the invention of the rainbow. Then they go on TV late at night and they shill these in those "Order Now to Receive!" commercials that plague you when you're up too late with insomnia watching MASH for some reason. She collects those things. It somehow hurt my brain that such things still existed and that people actually pay money to keep the commemorative-plates-for-suckers industry alive.

  Naturally, I was more interested in trying to figure out why she would collect such a thing rather than actually listening to her. I decided she was either a pure old-fashioned Americana fan – the kind who has Strawberry Shortcake dolls and pewter unicorns all over the walls of their house to somehow show off that she's a young person with the soul of an eighty year old grandmother - or that she was a total stoner, unemployed and up at two in the morning, higher than a penthouse on Park Place, watching commercials for the Franklin Mint that were sandwiched between commercials for Jesus rock compilations and Girls Gone Wild. I wasn’t sure which she was, and neither was appealing. On the plus side, it was allowing me to focus on something other than her yammering.

  Her name was Deborah, as in Deb-OR-ah, the OR heavily stressed with an unpleasant curving of her lips, as she specifically told me early on in our date. That's OR as in “coffee OR tea,” which was just as well, since she was a flight attendant. At first, that was an interesting quality. Everyone knows the stereotype of flight attendants being “easy” because they are always staying in strange cities and get lonely. Since they are flying away come the morning hours, commitment tended to be low and they were hot to trot. That's what I'd always heard, at least. Now as I was losing interest in her plate-fetish, my mind started to wander and I began to wonder if other parts of the flight attendant lifestyle spilled over to her regular life. While we’re in bed, will she ask if I need another pillow or a blanket? Does she have a button above her bed with a tiny picture of a flight attendant? I’d press the button, it would light up, and then she would roll over, press the button to turn it off, and ask if I needed a beverage or anything. “Uh, no,” I’d say, “I was actually wondering if you’d do that thing with your mouth again…”

  She had long light blonde hair and very fair skin. She had blue eyes, but the really light blue eyes that look like silver. I do not know if you, Dear Reader, enjoy pale blue eyes, but I do not. They kind of creep me out. I'll admit, in the back of my mind I always wonder if they are aliens. Not for real in that "Oh my god, aliens are real, let's all hike to Roswell for a hippie campout until they come to take us back to the Alpha Centauri Youth Hostel" sort of way. More like, if I turned on the news one day and discovered that an alien sleeper organization headed by Marilu Henner had just come forward and demanded an exclusive concert with all the Canadian rock and roll greats, I wouldn't be surprised.

  It was at this point I realized by her expectant look that she had asked me something I hadn't heard and was awaiting my reply. I tried to think of something neutral but affirmative, so I could pretend that I was listening. But I also didn’t want to end up replying to the wrong thing – “That’s great!” “I just told you about my mother’s cancer.” “Oh.” The tension was thick as she slowly began to realize (rightly) that I was not listening and I floundered for some acceptable response.

  “Hello, I am Donald and I’ll be your waiter this evening. Would you like to start with drinks?”

  Saved by the waiter! She immediately turned to him, taking the heat off me. If I had an audience, a Greek choir, or even one of those people translating into sign language on the corner of the screen, they were cheering for me; the sign language translator was shouting, “GOOOOOOOOOAAAALLL!” much to the chagrin of hearing impaired viewers everywhere.

  We ordered our food, Deborah listening to the entire salad dressing list before settling on Ranch. I talked her out of an appetizer; so far this seemed like it was going to go badly, and the last thing I needed was for it to take even longer. I ordered a beer; there was no other way I was going to get through this date.

  This date was not my idea. I did not find her via Facebook, I did not have her picked out as a possible soul mate by a dating site, nor did I answer an ad in the local paper. I can't even blame this at picking at the bowels of weirdness via Craigslist. No, I had been perfectly fine to sit home and entertain myself for the evening, probably surfing the internet as my entree, a dessert of, well, actual dessert, and a nightcap of porn. Instead, I was subjected to this date the old fashioned way: busy-body friends set it up for me without my knowledge and then they guilted me into going through with it. I have my old friend Bruce to blame for this imminent train wreck. Technically, his wife instigated the whole thing with a girl she had met a single time at her reading group, but the rules of matrimony and sex-withholding compelled Bruce to go along with it and involve me.

  This was not the first time they had tried to set me up with someone. Despite all that experience attempting to find my perfect mate, their choice was consistently poor. In the past, they had set me up with a stripper, a single mother, and a woman who had an unnatural obsession with the Oscar Meyer Weiner song. The stripper was on meth, the single mother had vowed death to anything with a penis, and there’s only so much Oscar Meyer-related conversation I had in me. Let’s just say that at this point Bruce owes me so many apology favors that I’m pretty much family. Unfortunately, those favors still won't get me out of blind
dates.

  I wondered how much longer this date was going to go on. Unfortunately, with the advent of cell phones, I had, like many, stopped wearing a watch. The thing about watches is that they were nice to surreptitiously check the time on - a nice tilt of the wrist and you were fine. Since phones are usually in pockets, looking at the time is very obvious. I scanned the walls over her shoulder and while I saw fine, inoffensive restaurant landscapes, I saw no clocks. I looked over at other tables to see if someone else had their phone out. I tried to make eye contact with other young men so I could show them the pain in my soul with this date and get their pity so they'd show me the time on their phone. Alas, I was out of luck. So I slowly slid my phone out of my pocket. I tried to keep this as casual as possible, since she was talking and looking right at me. I kept staring into her eyes, nodding and saying “mmhmm”, waiting for her to show a sign of weakness and look away so I could steal a glance at the time.

  “Uh huh.” “Yeah, sure.” “That’s very interesting.”

  Her conversation stopped and she began staring at me. I had no idea what she last said. My hand froze, the phone halfway out of my pocket. A false rictus smile stretched across my face. She still kept staring at me. I debated looking over her shoulder and smiling or yelling “What in the world is that!” to fake her out.

  Once again, the waiter saved me. I made a mental note to tip him well and do some male-designated sign of solidarity like a fist bump with him before I left. He came with her salad, and she finally looked away from my deer in headlights impression. I quickly looked down at my phone, cursing the fact that the display had gone dim from inactivity. I darted a glance back at her to confirm she was distracted, then I jammed on the sluggish touch screen until it lit up. 7:30. I turned back to her quick enough to give her a strained smile.

  She was currently telling me about her cat, Admiral Fluffynuggins and the cute way he drinks water. Normally I don’t call someone boring just because they like to talk about their beloved pet. But if I have to wonder if their pet outranks me or if it possibly fought in the Great War, I draw the line. She reached into her purse and produced a book of cat photos. It turns out Admiral Fluffynuggins loved boxes and laying around on furniture. Shocker!

  I think that was the final straw. Yes, I admit that there was probably a huge amount of my own complicity in the date's disconnect. Maybe it was because I was not willing to try to connect with her, maybe it was because I have intimacy “issues.” Maybe it was just because I’m kind of an ass. Probably it was because I’m kind of an ass. Whatever the reason, I made the decision then and there that the date would need to end.

  I was going to sabotage it.

  This is always a questionable topic. Do people really sabotage their dates as a way to shorten them? It seems a television gimmick or some ribald bar conversation. Are people so heartless? Are they so unwilling to be honest that they would actually try to make things go so poorly? Am I really such a terrible person that I would not only do it but confess unapologetically to a stranger like you, Dear Reader?

  The answer is yes to all of the above. Date sabotage is one of the long refined arts of the coward and the inertia-laden sitcom character. The key to the technique is in making them pissed off at you but without it being your fault. You have to get them to dislike you as a person so much that they think you'd be a horrible boyfriend, so it becomes their decision to end the date. You then escape guiltless [1].

  For some reason, when sabotaging a date, it is better to come off weird or crazy than rude. Rudeness throws the fault back on you, as if you're doing something assholish, rather than being something they dislike. Being a weird, awkward creep ranks higher than asshole in recollections to friends the day after in date postmortem [2]. So, to do this you need to “accidentally” blurt out something that makes the other person either incredibly uncomfortable or immediately insulted. You’d think this would be easy, but it’s not. You can’t just go for the throat, because then they’ll know it was intentional. If you are too outlandish or too non sequitur about it, they also realize you’re fucking with them. You have to subtly and reasonably horrify them. The name of the game is careful escalation.

  For example, I first tried to take advantage of the fact that Deborah was a flight attendant. If the media is to be believed, flight attendants hate being called “stewardesses"; they feel it is demeaning. This was the perfect button to push on. So I nonchalantly questioned her about her work, “accidentally” calling her a stewardess. Then I sat back and waited for the outrage so I could feign ignorance and then apologetically and ineffectively back peddle, dropping worse offenses on the way.

  The problem is that she didn’t take the bait. She just went on talking like I hadn’t said anything wrong. I made another statement, saying stewardess again. I said it slowly, pausing right after it so it hung in the air. Stew-ARD-ess, my tone as black and venomous as I could make it without risking the charade.

  No reaction. Nothing. No outrage, no anything. Was she stupid or oblivious?

  I was frustrated. I decided it might be time to pull out the big guns.

  “So are you kinky?” I asked, being cocky. It was kind of a non sequitur and I knew I would lose some points from the judges, but it made some sense within the context of a date and it was, of course, a very polarizing subject. This was sure to turn her off, especially brought up this early and without any rapport developed through the date. I decided to put the cherry on top and pushed one sentence further: “How naughty do you get once we’re in bed?”

  She chuckled playfully. “Oh very. I’m sure you’ll have many opportunities to shackle me and whip me. I’m a total painslut.”

  Umm…

  “Well,” I said, switching gears, “back to airlines, the real reason that airline tickets are expensive but the workers are underfunded is because of the Jews.” I ended that sentence quickly taking a drink to hide any expression I had.

  I bet you are now suddenly angry. I don't blame you. But before you throw down this book in disgust, before you begin throwing outrage like a monkey flinging poo, stop and wait for the explanation. Know that this is a tactic. I do not really believe this. I don't believe in a conspiracy, and I am the first to roll my eyes when someone attributes the evils of the world to Zionists. In actuality, this tactic is exploiting how pro-Semitic (i.e. sane) people generally are. Few like an anti-Semite and even if they don't have strong views on the subject, it's generally a reason to look down on someone for being intolerant. And for a first date, it is the touch of death.

  Except here. “Oh, completely!” she said. “It’s so refreshing to meet someone who will finally admit that openly. My father always hated them and their conspiracy. He taught me all about them, as well as staying true and staying proud.”

  “’Staying true and staying proud?’” I asked.

  “To my race,” she said. “No mixing. That’s why I like that you have such fair skin. We are part of the superior race.”

  It was a moment before this truly sank in.

  DANGER, WILL ROBINSON, DANGER! A giant robot hanging from the top of a skyscraper was warning me just how crazy she was. I have learned to trust the phantom robot to tell me when a prospective date had just crossed into crazy town. I have no idea where that robot came from or why he appears in my mind, but distrust the robot at your own peril.

  In the throes of a fight-or-flight panic, I somehow stammered out that I needed to go to the bathroom as I stood up and knocked my chair over. I didn’t look back as I went straight to the restroom, nearly body-checking a waiter on the way there. Inside the bathroom, I clutched the sink, panting, as I stared in the mirror frantically. I splashed water in my face and calmed myself down.

  Where’s that girl that was obsessed with the Oscar Meyer song? She wasn’t so bad a dinner companion. The meth whore? The man hater? All preferable to Little Miss Crazy White Supremacist out at the table.

  I’m usually pretty open minded about people’s individual quirks and t
rips. Whatever they want to do is cool. It may not be something I agree with, and that’s okay. That's their thing. But this is where I draw the line. Discrimination and intolerance just bug the shit out of me. Always have, always will. I’m intolerant of intolerance. I’m sure there’s some irony, hypocrisy, or contradiction, but there it is. When will people reach a state of enlightenment where they realize it’s so much better to dislike people for individual reasons, rather than their arbitrary grouping, a cultural background, or the color of their skin?

  Besides that, even if I might be okay or neutral about her racism, I still thought she was crazy. There were too many markers of extreme psychoness in the evening. On the crazyometer, she was rating batshit-and-a-half.

  So I knew I had to get out of the restaurant somehow. I went over my options, delineating all the strengths and weaknesses of any plans:

  Plan A: Sneak out of the bathroom and then restaurant without her seeing. I would need to do my best stealth impression. What would Ezio do? He’d probably just sneak up behind her, do a stealth kill, and walk out without having to worry about being seen. Flaws: Deborah was sitting with the wall at her back, lack of assassin training, prison time.

  Plan B: Just leave the bathroom and walk directly out of the restaurant. Don’t sneak, don’t run. Just walk, and never turn and look at her. Ignore her shouts, her inevitable harpy-like screeching, and her questions of how she was getting home. Flaws: The size of the cojones required for this plan would make walking prohibitive.

  Plan C: Go back out there, sit down and finish out the evening. Gritted teeth, neutral small talk. End the date with a weak handshake and awkward silence, don't respond to her calls, tweets, or Facebook requests. Under duress resort to the mantra of "it's not you, it's me". But what if she kept wanting to keep up the racist banter all evening? I’ve faked my way through a lot of things, but I had no desire to fake my way through NeoNaziLoveMatch.com. Flaws: I lack the patience to pull this off. Despite effort to become so in college, I have never been the better man.