Flipped Script

Nigel sits at an outdoor café, anxiously awaiting a verdict. In the meantime, he sips his decaf oat milk caramel latte. He frowns, because they over-steamed the milk. He watched the girl do it, and he knew she was exposing it to the heat for an excessive period of time. He should have pointed out the error at that moment. But he didn’t. He always wants to, but he never does.

Across from Nigel sits Murray. At the moment, Murray is being three things. One, he is Nigel’s friend. Two, he is an editor at a large publication house. And three, he is a pie eater. A half-consumed slice of key lime pie with a large dob of whipped cream sits in front of him. The reason it is not fully consumed is because he is being an editor and reading Nigel’s latest manuscript. Nigel has written twenty-seven manuscripts, none of which have been published. The only reason he keeps reading them is because of state of being number one.

“Good God, Nigel. What is this shit?” Murray says, throwing down his reading glasses. They hit his fork and catapult whipped cream in all directions. 

The right side of Nigel’s face takes the brunt of it. He unfolds the napkin from his lap and carefully wipes it off.

Murray pounds on the manuscript page with his index finger. “Your villains…they suck.” 

Nigel thinks this is a tad too blunt. But Nigel has endured this criticism before. Twenty-six times, as a matter of fact. He still doesn’t care for it.

“This guy…Lord Overkill?? Are you kidding me? You couldn’t think of anything better? Why not just ‘Bad Guy,’ for fuck’s sake…’”

Nigel thinks it would be funny if someone’s name was Bad Guy. It could be a story about self-fulfilling prophesies.

“Look, Nigel. Like I’ve said before, your writing can be so good sometimes. But your antagonists…well…they just lack believability. They’re like fricken cartoon characters! You really need to dig deeper. Find a back story of pain that can motivate your antagonists. Go to that place where there is an emotional scar so deep that it drives a character to do the unthinkable. It’s about anger they can’t let go of. It’s about a soul torn apart and the misguided belief that revenge and other’s suffering will make it right again. It’s about…”

Nigel stops paying attention to Murray. That’s because over Murray’s shoulder, he spots a woman walking a Pomeranian. It is wearing a bedazzled jacket and a miniature top hat. Nigel starts giggling.

Murray follows Nigel’s gaze. “Ahhhhh…now I see.” Murray shovels pie into his mouth. “You’re too nice. You don’t understand bad, do you?”

Nigel shoots Murray a look of disagreement.

“Maybe you need more mean and rotten in your life. Go rob a bank or something.”

Nigel scrunches up his face and concludes it would be terribly inconvenient to attempt to have espresso drinks with someone if he were to be incarcerated.

“Or maybe you should go talk to someone who has been behind bars. Find out what makes ‘em tick. Get a handle on what darkness can push someone to do.”

Nigel thinks maybe he should indeed go talk to someone, perhaps a new editor. 

Murray can tell Nigel is finished listening. The editor, former pie eater and hanging-by-a-thread friend, rises, throws some money on the table and heads toward the door, dropping the manuscript in the trash along the way.

###

Nigel is a dentist by day. But by night, he is a word worker. It’s his routine to get in at least one hour of writing every night before turning in. He would actually prefer to read a novel or browse eBay for more items to add to his antique dental equipment collection. Or flip on a documentary about Parisian life. Or scrub the grout on his bathroom floor for that matter. The truth is, as is the case for most writers, writing isn’t easy. But Nigel understands the only way to do it is to attack it; to strap himself to his chair and force the sentences out. Extract them, as if removing a decayed tooth.

Tonight, however, Nigel considers not writing. Murray’s comments do not put him into the mood to pursue what has been, so far, a fruitless endeavor. So, he retreats to his Davenport and turns on the television. 

Nigel tells himself he shouldn’t feel guilty for skipping his nightly writing session. He allows himself time to mourn his latest casualty by indulging in an evening of streaming entertainment. But even a Bradley Cooper-Lady Gaga duet can’t provide adequate diversion. Words pull at him like an archer pulls at a bow. 

Nigel migrates back to his computer, pumping out several pages of an exhilarating new story. The antagonist is a Columbian drug lord named Juan Menacio. Nigel is proud of the name. He likes that the word “menace” is hidden in it. Much of the narrative delves into Juan Menacio’s penchant for smoking cigars, and how with every puff, it makes him feel as though he is sucking the life from his enemies. Nigel is equally proud of this analogy. The scene concludes with Juan Menacio killing the highest-ranking members of a rival drug gang along with several CIA operatives by setting off a bomb, utilizing the cigar to ignite the fuse. Nigel thinks he’s crossed a threshold with his writing. 

Until he rereads it the following evening. 

Nigel huffs and decides the story is literary excrement. To demonstrate how disgusted he is with himself, he renames the file “Literary Excrement,” before dragging it to the computer’s trash can. 

Nigel concludes he is in need of a cleansing ritual. So Nigel visits the liquor store to acquire some Scotch. Unfortunately, the liquor store shelves are void of anything resembling real Scotch. The lone remaining bottle is one called GlenPhlegmwich. Nigel believes the bottle has more value than its contents. He determines, however, this may be the perfect opportunity to embrace the bad.

In the parking lot, Nigel forgets which pocket he leaves his car keys in. He pats down the usual areas, eventually finding them in his left front pants pocket. Looking up, Nigel discovers himself face-to-face with a rather large hooded gentleman holding a rather large pistol. Both have their attention directed at Nigel.

“Wallet. Now.”

Nigel frantically fishes it out and hands it over.

“Watch and phone.” 

Nigel complies. 

“That, too.” He motions with his firearm toward Nigel’s brown bag of Scotch-ish water.

Nigel passes the bag. The thug pulls the bottle out, takes one look and returns it. “Keep it. You apparently got enough problems if you’re drinking that shit.”

The robber casually but confidently strides away. 

Nigel is stunned. Shocked. Frightened. His first rational thought, after considering the state of his underwear, is that this liquor store is highly inadequate. Their stock of thieves is more plentiful than their stock of decent Scotch. Nigel decides the barrel of monkeys-aged sewage he is left holding is decidedly not worth this outcome. In protest, he launches the bottle into the darkness and awaits the satisfying shattering.

THUNK!! 

The bottle makes a sound that is decidedly not glass colliding with concrete. Nigel investigates. Half a block away, he discovers his assailant, knocked unconscious, still clutching Nigel’s valuables. The bottle lies next to him, completely unharmed. Nigel’s earlier thought is confirmed – that’s an acceptably sturdy bottle. Then Nigel thinks he ought to call the police. He kicks the gun away and snatches his phone. He is about to dial 9-1-1 when he reconsiders. He puts his phone away, retrieves the bottle and opens it. Nigel takes a good, long pull and, surprisingly, doesn’t hate the taste.

###

Nigel hits a bump in the road that causes his Audi to jump more violently than he likes. He makes a mental note to proceed with caution over any subsequent potholes. Not that Nigel is overly concerned with his vehicle’s suspension or tires or undercarriage. No, it is more that he does not wish to anger the fellow in the trunk any more than is absolutely necessary. After all, it’s one thing to tie and gag a fellow before kidnapping him in order to glean information about the motives of evil in order to write better antagonists. It’s another to rumble carelessly over every rut and sunken manhole cover in the road. That just seems excessive.

Nigel stops the car and opens the trunk. As expected, Hooded Thief is clearly displeased with being treated in the same manner one might treat a smelly gym bag or a spare tire. To express his unhappiness, Hooded Thief mutters words that are mostly vulgar, but it is difficult to clearly understand all of them with the sock taped into his mouth. Nigel counters that he is equally put-out by this arrangement – wearing only one sock is a rather uncomfortable experience, particularly with new leather shoes that are not nearly broken-in to a proper level. 

Nigel also explains that he does not intend to cross the street to hand Hooded Thief in, nor will he be requesting video footage from the liquor store as proof of Hooded Thief’s criminal behavior. Rather, he would prefer Hooded Thief agree to a proposal. It involves a little chat whereby Hooded Thief reveals the details of all his illegal activities and what drives him to commit such acts. Nigel reiterates that he wants to know everything, and he means everything.

Hooded Thief shakes his head. He is not agreeable to the proposition. Nigel is disappointed, yet he understands he cannot force Hooded Thief to talk. He tells Hooded Thief as much. Then, Nigel begins closing the trunk in order to retrieve the authorities. Hooded Thief attempts to stop Nigel by putting his hands out. Nigel does not notice and crushes Hooded Thief’s fingers.

After shoving the crumpled digits back into the trunk, Nigel pauses to consider his next course of action. He is irked that he cannot coerce cooperation from Hooded Thief. Yet, he also concludes that opportunities for speaking with a criminal who is relatively immobilized and contained within his automobile’s cargo area are limited, and he does not wish to miss this chance. If he were to turn him in to the authorities now, he’d need another lout to interrogate. And what are the odds of that scenario presenting itself again? Nigel decides to try a different method to persuade agreement. He points his Audi in the direction of the Maple Street High Bridge.

###

The high bridge is undergoing a series of repairs. Construction materials are strewn in a closed lane alongside of the bridge railing. Nigel parks his car amongst the equipment. He exits the vehicle and surveys the surroundings. It is remote. It is silent, except for the rushing of the water many stories below Nigel’s feet. Charcoal-colored storm clouds roll in behind the city skyline, adding an intricate layer to an already dramatic scene. Perfect, Nigel thinks.

He again opens the trunk. Crushed fingers have taken the starch out of Hooded Thief, and he is reluctant to move. But Nigel wishes for Hooded Thief to fully absorb the setting to which he has brought him. Nigel pulls him to a seated position. 

Upon rising, Hooded Thief notices two things. One, they are on a bridge above a sizeable river. And two, they are surrounded by cement mixing equipment. Hooded Thief attempts to dive back into the trunk, but Nigel keeps a firm grip. 

Nigel then picks up a shovel and leans on it as he begins speaking to Hooded Thief. Nigel shares how, sometimes in life, people get the feeling they are sinking. How sometimes, they feel as though, despite all efforts, they are…drowning.

A bolt of lightning crosses the sky. Hooded Thief quivers. A tear rolls down his cheek.

Nigel thinks he is finally reaching the man. He sees the façade peeling, bit by bit, moved by words and the stunning sight of the cityscape painted upon the darkness; the last diminishing hints of daylight hanging onto the horizon like fingers clinging to a ledge. So, he continues. 

He asks if Hooded Thief has ever had the desire to run freely but simply can’t. He asks if Hooded Thief has ever had the sensation his feet are stuck in place, solidly unmoving, cemented to the ground. He inquires if Hooded Thief has ever experienced such a lengthy fall in his own life quests.

Hooded Thief wets himself before passing out.

Nigel is confused. He only intended to inspire Hooded Thief. He thought bringing him here, to this picturesque place and sharing his own struggles, would make Hooded Thief freely volunteer the particulars of his own complicated path. Nigel concludes he over-inspired the man. The panorama and his story obviously took him beyond the emotional brink a human is capable of tolerating. Nigel makes a mental note to take Hooded Thief somewhere a bit more subdued. Nigel knows exactly the place.

###

Antique dental screws, bone chisels, mouth gags, finger-rotated drills, jaw pliers, primitive anesthetic syringes and other early implements of tooth maintenance always give Nigel a sense of calm. They remind him that dental practices have come so far. And every rusty, barbaric, ill-conceived apparatus mounted on the wall in Nigel’s spare bedroom is a testament to today’s advancements in gentle oral care. Happy is a not a word he uses frequently, but within these walls, among his treasured collection of items that were the building blocks of modern dentistry, Nigel is happy.

Nigel imagines Hooded Thief will also feel contented and at ease here. He carries him in and tries to make him comfortable in a late 1800’s metal dental recliner. 

Nigel is eager for Hooded Thief to awaken. Sitting next to him on a stool, Nigel impatiently swivels from side to side. He fidgets with an old tooth extractor. He taps his thighs as if they were bongo drums. Finally, he decides to pass the time, waiting to execute his plan, by giving Hooded Thief a quick dental examination, as he is certain an individual in the larceny profession does not carry adequate dental insurance. 

Nigel removes the sock from Hooded Thief’s mouth. Then, he pulls on Hooded Thief’s cheeks with a device that could be mistaken for something one might use to gaff an adult blue marlin. He notes Hooded Thief’s teeth are in outstanding condition, although he certainly could benefit from more frequent flossing. Nigel finishes the inspection by grasping Hooded Thief’s tongue with an aging pair of forceps that might have held George Washington’s tongue while they were installing his dentures. This is when Hooded Thief comes to.

“Oh good. You’ll want to be awake for this,” Nigel begins, still grasping Hooded Thief’s tongue. “There’s something I need you to…endure.” 

Hooded Thief’s eyes dart from torture device to torture device, eventually going so wide, there is some fear they might roll free from their sockets. He retches. 

As lightning splinters the sky and thunder booms in the background, Nigel turns to retrieve something. He returns with several pieces of paper. That’s when Nigel sits back and begins to read. Nigel reads accounts of someone named Lord Overkill. He reads of this villain’s over-the-top methods of revenge. He gets to a narrative where Lord Overkill rips fingernails out of his prisoner’s hands. He reads how Lord Overkill enjoys using ancient torturing devices like iron maidens, the rack, thumb screws and even, early dental tools. Nigel points to a particular contraption that was designed to rip off pieces of diseased tongues. It is on the wall directly in front of Hooded Thief.

Hooded Thief cries, sobbing uncontrollably. 

Nigel thinks he has made the connection. Nigel thinks Hooded Thief finally sees the hole in the author’s story-telling abilities and how some of his own insights will provide fodder to significantly improve it. Nigel thinks this is the moment of truth. This is the time to close the deal. This is when he should go in for the kill, so to speak.

“I can be more evil. I know I can,” Nigel says slowly, softly. Comforting, he thinks. “Much more.” Nigel leans in for emphasis and whispers. “And I’ve been looking for someone just…like…you…” 

Shrieking, Hooded Thief jumps up. Even with ankles bound together, he manages to stand upright. He hops three times and flings himself through a window. He plummets from the upper level and lands on soft, rain-soaked grass. Cut up and bruised, he slogs through the mud, grabs a shard of window glass with smashed fingers and cuts his legs free. Hooded Thief flees into the night as Nigel stares out the shattered window. 

ONE YEAR LATER

Nigel sips his decaf oat milk caramel latte as Murray peruses his latest manuscript. The milk is not scorched this time. But only because Nigel directed the girl to remove the steaming wand earlier. Nigel has broken down a barrier and is now a bolder man. He sits higher in his chair.

“Wow. I have to admit…,” Murray begins. “You’ve made progress.”

Despite already sitting more erect than a skyscraper, Nigel sits up even taller.

After his failed interaction with Hooded Thief, Nigel went to the extensive and uncomfortable effort of tracking down another deviant to interview. He found just the right individual and acquired a great deal of knowledge on the drivers of evil. And now, Nigel believes it is paying off. 

“Yeah. This is truly something! I’m not sure how you did it, but…somehow you got worse.”

Nigel sinks.

“This is some crap. This new villain…Madame DePraved…geez Nigel…what are you doing? She becomes evil because some crabby neighbor kicked her puppy?”

Nigel had indeed based the Madame DePraved character on the hardened criminal whom he had interviewed. It was his niece, all of eight years old, who had just done a lengthy stint in time-out for throwing rocks at her little brother and talking back to her parents. 

Murray continues. “You know what? There’s a new book from a new author you should read. This guy knows how to write a mean S.O.B. Unexpected. Sadistic. Truly frightening.” Murray produces a book from his backpack and hands it to Nigel.

It is a book called, “Flipped Script.” The jacket teases the story of a petty thief who gets abducted by one of his victims – a meek, timid little man. The vigilante turns the tables and exacts revenge upon the unsuspecting criminal. Through a series of perverse, sinister cruelties, he intimidates and tortures his prisoner, taking him to the brink of death. The harrowing tale concludes with a daring escape from a house of horrors, and results in the criminal’s life being turned around.

“It’s already got three weeks on the best seller list,” Murray adds. “And we just auctioned off the movie rights.”

Nigel flips the book over. There is a familiar face staring back at him. He recognizes the author, even without his hood.

Nigel awakens. “Hey! I know that guy! Who knew he was a writer? That’s crazy!” 

Nigel puts the book down and takes in the enchanting aroma of the blooming lilac bushes, carried to him by a soft breeze. He sips his latte and notes it’s at a temperature that is currently acceptable but bordering on being unpleasingly lukewarm. Nigel turns back to Murray. “I sure would like to know where he gets his ideas.”

FLIPPED SCRIPT

A Short Story by Tom Witkowski

9 Circles Fiction

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