How to Cook a Steak in the Oven

I'm that juicy hunk of rib eye your landlord (the one who wears too much perfume and dresses like a parrot) won't allow you to grill over an open flame on your patio because of last year's "incident." You can't eat a steak that's as cold as your cats' love for you, but you can't bring yourself to fire me up in the oven . . . or can you?

As President Obama said, "Yes. You. Can!"

Rearrange your oven racks. You want your broiler tray near the top. Preheat on broil for 10 minutes, just enough time to jump online and stalk your ex, who rejected you because things got "too real."

After you poke your ex on Facebook, drain the blood from me and pat me dry. Grab that knife Mom threatened you with when you quit college. Trim away any fat from my perimeter.

Get a bowl from your cabinet. Pour two tablespoons of oil into it. Vegetable oil works best. Motor oil's just stupid.

Add a teaspoon of black pepper to the bowl.

Grab a clean paintbrush from that art room you never use. It's next to that workout station covered in cobwebs and dust (you don't keep your New Years resolutions, do you?). Dip the brush into the bowl and paint a nice coat over me. Get all the sides.

Activate a burner on your stove, full heat. Put a skillet on it. Let it get hot while you obsess about that tasteless joke you made at your last office party, and how no one in accounting made eye contact with you since.

Toss me into the skillet for a minute. Flip me. Another minute. Get me out of there. The idea is to flash-cook my sides, create a shell that will lock in the flavorful juices hidden inside me like the incurable loneliness hidden inside you.

Put me in your broiler tray and your broiler tray in your oven. You want me to sunbathe about seven inches from the broiler element.

Cook until you achieve the desired level of doneness (Bloody. You want to eat me while I'm bloody and beautiful). Remember to turn me over after you triple check to see if your ex responded to your Facebook poke (she didn't).

Now open up a bottle of dry, red wine and take a walk to the nearest cow pasture. Eat me in front of my parents. Make eye contact with them.

Author’s note: the release dates for my blogs, as you might’ve noticed, turned all topsy-turvy this week.

I spent last weekend at an Army Reserve base in Cape Coral, Florida, and that pretty much smashed my schedule against the wall. This comes as something of an embarrassment, given my recent advice at Darkwana.blogspot.com, where I stressed the importance of a strict schedule for your blogs.

Expect my blogs to suffer, for the remainder of this week, a shuffling of release dates.

“Between a Grizzly and Her Cub” will continue. Promise. We have only another three chapters to go.

Thanks for reading! (Oh, and Google +? Fix my damn account, already. I can't post jack.)

Pills

Paul sat in front of Doctor Victoria, who examined the dime-sized patch of dry skin on Paul’s elbow.

Victoria straightened. “You have Isotopiea Demogenius.”

Paul’s eyes narrowed. “That sounds made up.”

“I’ll prescribe you some pills for it. There’s two different sorts that work wonders against Isotopiea Demogenius.”

“Still sounds made up.”

Victoria ignored this. “We’ll start treatment with Cantovia. Twice daily.” She wrote him a prescription, which he took to the closest pharmacy.

About ten minutes later, Paul frowned at the long list of possible side effects, written in exceptionally small font, across his bottle of Cantovia.

He went home, swallowed one of the red, round pills with water, watched some TV, and went to sleep.

He awoke the next morning and felt a slight annoyance, as if an eyelash trapped itself within his right eye. He tried, with the tip of his finger, to coax the source of irritation from his eye. He couldn’t.

Paul went to work, sat at his desk, and tried to concentrate on his paperwork. He couldn’t escape the annoyance that persisted in his eye.

He decided, once his lunch break arrived, to return to Doctor Victoria’s office and ask her to look at his eye.

She used a small flashlight to peer into his eye. “As I suspected. A slight discomfort in one or both eyes serves as a possible side effect of Cantovia.”

“That still sounds made up,” Paul muttered.

“I’ll switch your prescription to Faxaphilium.”

“That sounds even more made up.”

She wrote him the prescription. He took it to the pharmacy, paid for another bottle of pills, and returned to work. He sat at his desk, swallowed one of the blue, octagon-shaped pills, and tried to focus on his paperwork.

The itch in his eye slowly vanished, much to his relief.

His nose began to run. A lot. He blew through an entire box of tissues before he decided to sneak out of the office and return to his doctor, where he explained his latest issue.

Victoria listened, nodded thoughtfully. “A runny nose serves as one of Faxaphilium’s side effects. It seems that either treatment for your dry skin will cause you to suffer a side effect.”

Paul shrugged. “I guess I’ll deal with a small patch of dry skin, then. Whatever.”

“Let’s not be hasty. Faxaphilium will heal your dry skin. Another pill ought to counteract the runny nose that Faxaphilium causes you.” She wrote another prescription. “I recommend you take Vodoodamnit once a day before bed.”

Paul didn’t bother to point out how ridiculous that name sounded. “What sort of side effects does Vodoodamnit cause?”

“When combined with Faxaphilium,” Victoria explained, “Vodoodamnit causes massive depression.”

“I’ll deal with the dry skin, thank you.”

“Nonsense. I’ll write you a third prescription for an antidepressant.”

“What sort of side effects does the antidepressant cause?”

Victoria wrote the prescription. “It can cause headaches, muscle aches, stomach aches, volcanic diarrhea, death, spontaneous combustion—” she shrugged “—other stuff.”

Paul rolled his eyes. “I feel better already.” 

“Only a few people suffer from these side effects,” Victoria said. “You ought to feel fine.”

Paul returned to the pharmacy, received his new prescriptions. He returned to work, swallowed a handful of colorful pills, and focused on his work.

He stayed an extra hour to catch up on his In Box before he headed home, warmed some leftovers from his fridge, and ate. He went to bed.

He awoke and realized that, overnight, a pair of horns sprouted from his forehead.

He stood in his bathroom, stared at the twisted, blue horns that spiraled from his head.

He showered, called in sick (much to his supervisor’s disapproval), and headed to Doctor Victoria’s office.

Victoria examined his horns with little interest. “This serves as an occasional side effect. It occurs in a small number of patients who mix Faxaphilium with an antidepressant. No big deal.”

Paul cocked an eyebrow. “No big deal, you say?”

She wrote a fourth prescription. “Two doses of Goatjellycheesejoke with every meal ought to shrink and eventually remove those horns.”

Paul hooked his hat over one of his horns and headed to the pharmacy. He received his new bottle of pills and paid with a credit card (as his bank account felt rather empty at this point).

He returned to work, explained the situation to his impatient supervisor. Paul set to work on his freshly replenished In Box.

He stood from his seat about thirty minutes before his lunch break, headed into the men’s room. He experienced, while he went to the bathroom, a fear that some terrible, new side effect would rear its ugly head.

Would he pee lemonade? Shit a live fish?

No such events occurred, much to his relief.

He washed his hands, inspected his horns in the mirror (yes, they retreated a few inches since this morning, thank modern medicine), and stepped through the bathroom door into a blue desert.

He stood dumbfounded, stared at the blue sand and the black castle constructed of golden gears. The clockworks turned and moaned. A wooden boat flew across the purple sky far above the castle.

Paul called his doctor.

“Yes, yes,” Victoria said over the cellphone. “Spontaneous teleportation between planes of existence serves as one of Goatjellycheesejoke’s rare side effects. Nothing worth concern.”

Something that looked like Mothra attacked the airborne boat.

“Victoria,” Paul said, “ . . . I’ll deal with the dry skin.”

(I plan to leave for an Army reserve unit in Cape Coral, Florida this weekend. I will not, consequently, publish any posts next week--aside for, perhaps, a movie review on Sunday. I will still publish a post at FictionFormula.blogspot.com tomorrow, and I will continue "Between a Grizzly and Her Cub" here, at martinwolt.blogspot.com, on the 22nd. See you then!)

Between a Grizzly and Her Cub: Part 8

Chad sat in the room, wondered what name such a room might carry. Interrogation room? That seemed wrong. He awaited his attorney, not the police.

He sat in one of three chairs, each fastened to the floor. A thin, metal table—also fastened to the floor. A door. Four walls. Nothing more.

The door opened. His lawyer entered. She cradled a thick, brown file folder. Her polished heels clicked against the bare floor while she approached the table. She sat and removed a few stapled papers from her folder.

“Valdus Qasim,” she said, “agreed to drop the charges against you if you agree to stay away from him and his place of business. You also have to pay for the broken mirror.”

Chad’s eyes narrowed. “What broken mirror?”

She shrugged. “Qasim said you broke a mirror when you broke into his office and attacked him.”

“I never touched him.”

“That’s not what his four or five witnesses said.”

“Look at me.” Chad gestured at his beaten face, split lips, lost teeth, and swollen eye. “I attacked him?”

Another shrug. “Just because you lost the fight doesn’t mean you didn’t start it. Qasim’s witnesses all reported the same story. If you don’t accept his terms, you’ll go to court, and you’ll lose.”

Chad cradled his head in his hands. “How much does this mirror I supposedly broke cost?”

“About four thousand dollars.” She didn’t even blink.

Chad slowly redirected his eyes at her. “How much?”

She didn’t bother to repeat herself.

Chad stood, paced. “So I pay Qasim four grand for the privilege of kicking my ass, and I have to stay away from him even though he probably knows who killed my brother.”

She silenced him with a glare. “Stop. Accusing. Qasim. You don’t know anything. You have no evidence.”

“I have a torn check from my brother’s checking account, made out to Qasim.”

“That proves nothing.” She stood. “I’ll tell the DA that you accept Qasim’s offer.”

“What if I don’t?”

“Then find another lawyer.” She marched towards and opened the door. “Stay put while I finalize this mess. Also, an Agent Teller wishes to speak with you.”

Chad sank into his previous seat. “Teller from Internal Affairs?”

The door slammed shut behind the lawyer.

Chad’s head pounded. If Teller came here, to the police station, to interview him, then Detective Redwood would know that Chad contacted Internal Affairs.

The door opened. A well-dressed and very pregnant woman stepped inside, shut the door, and took one of the available seats. “Mister Heel?”

Chad nodded. “Teller?”

“Agent Teller.”

“Right. I keep forgetting how much everyone loves the sound of their titles.”

“My department has Agent Redwood under investigation. I’m here to take whatever statement you’ve prepared.” She removed an old fashion tape recorder from her pocket, set it on the table, and pressed the red record button.

Chad shared everything he knew, even the parts that incriminated him. He only omitted Ernie’s name.

Teller waited for him to finish before she shut off the recorder and stood. “Thank you.” She headed for the door.

“Wait!” Chad shot from his seat. “What happens next?”

“None of your concern.” Teller opened the door. “My department will continue its investigation. You, in the meantime, will stay away from Redwood and Qasim.”

She left.

Chad’s lawyer returned shortly thereafter, led him towards a window near the station’s front door, where Chad signed a few papers and collected his wallet and cellphone. He stumbled zombie-style out the door and towards the nearest bus stop (his Prius impounded).

Melissa would lose her husband’s life insurance money if Chad couldn’t prove that David never committed suicide. Melissa’s cancer would soon claim her. Her son, Chad’s nephew, Matthew, needed that money.

Chad couldn’t turn his back on this mystery.

Should he tell Melissa what happened? She would feel guilty for the brutalities that Chad suffered. Matthew might grow up to pick a fight with a mob boss. Did Chad want Melissa to know that David cheated on her?

He couldn’t just let it go, though.

His cellphone rang. He answered.

Qasim’s thick, Russian voice breathed through the phone’s speaker as hot air from an oven. “My friend. We must speak.”

To be continued . . .

(Author’s note: The next installment of this miniseries shall arrive next Monday. This Thursday, I will post to this blog a separate short story called, “Pills.” See you then, and thanks for reading!)

You can catch my novels, such as Daughters of Darkwana, on Kindle.

I publish my blogs as follows:

Short stories on Mondays and Thursdays at martinwolt.blogspot.com

A look at entertainment industries via feminist and queer theory, as well as other political filters on Tuesdays at Entertainmentmicroscope.blogspot.com

An inside look at my novel series, its creation, and the e-publishing process on Wednesdays at Darkwana.blogspot.com

Tips on improving your fiction writing Fridays at FictionFormula.blogspot.com

 Movie reviews on Sundays at moviesmartinwolt.blogspot.com

Between a Grizzly and Her Cub: Part 7

Chad expected Ernie’s directions to lead to a stripe club. Chad assumed that all mobsters kept their offices in strip clubs. Chad arrived instead at a modest, two-story set of offices. White paint. Blue trim. A fountain.

He parked his Prius, which now sported a shattered windshield, rear window, and driver’s side mirror.

He took a moment to prepare for the meeting he planned. He used his cellphone to call Valdus Qasim’s own. Ernie looked up the number earlier when he looked up the mobster’s address.

One ring. Two.

A young woman with a New England accent answered. “Qasim’s Waste Management Solutions. How may I help you?”

Waste management? Chad groaned against the cliché. “Um, I’m looking for Valdus Qasim. I thought this was his personal cellphone.”

“This is his personal number,” the woman said. “I’m his personal clerk. How may I help you?”

Chad exited his beaten vehicle. “Is Mister Qasim in his office?”

A pause passed. “Did you make an appointment to see him?”

A plaque on the wall next to the building’s front door offered a list of offices. One office (“Qasim’s Waste Management Solutions”) sat on the second floor. Chad headed for the nearest stairwell.

“I don’t,” Chad said. “But—”

“May I ask who’s calling?” the woman asked.

He went the honest route. “Chad Heel. I’m David’s brother.”

“Does Mister Qasim expect you?” She sounded as if she spoke just as much to Chad as someone else who stood near her.

“No,” Chad said, “but I’ll pay Mister Qasim fifty dollars for five minutes of his time.”

She didn’t hesitate. “Mister Qasim’s time commands a far higher wage than that.” Her voice suddenly sounded as if it came from the bottom of a well. “Would you kindly tell me what this is about?”

“I’m on speakerphone, aren’t I?” Chad exited the stairwell, entered a short hall. “Mister Qasim? Are you there?” He marched past the doors, sought out Qasim’s office.

He overheard, through his phone, a half muted conversation. Then, “My apologies, sir, but we don’t accept calls from solicitors.” She disconnected—

—Just as Chad entered her office, caught her with her hand on the phone and a startled look on her face.

A large, Russian man in an expensive suit stood behind her. His gunmetal-gray eyes scanned Chad.

Chad swallowed. “Mister Qasim?”

The other man stomped into Chad’s personal space. “Mister Heel.” Not a question.

Chad nodded. “I need a moment of your time, sir.”

Qasim narrowed his eyes. “Hold my calls, Debra,” he told his clerk.

She paled, nodded.

Qasim’s thick finger, covered with wiry hairs, coaxed Chad to follow him.

Chad overheard the clerk (Debra) scoop up her phone with a frantic sweep of her hand.

The Russian (Qasim, most likely) led Chad down a hall and into a small office. He waved Chad inside—before he and three other men (who appeared as if by magic) followed him inside the room.

Chad guessed that “Hold all my calls” served as a code phrase that instructed Debra to call in some backup.

The shortest of the three newcomers, an Asian man with a scarred face, slammed the door.

Chad glanced about the empty, windowless room . . . while the four men spread themselves, surrounded him.

The thin man with a tattoo on the side of his neck grabbed Chad, spun him, and slammed him chest-first against a wall.

Tattoo Neck held him in place while two other guys (a broad-shouldered Mexican and an albino) thoroughly searched Chad, presumably for a weapon or wire. The broad-shouldered guy took Chad’s wallet.

“He’s clean,” Albino said with a buttery, southern accent.

Tattoo Neck spun Chad so that he faced the big Russian, who stared down into Chad’s eyes.

Broad Shoulder handed Chad’s wallet to the Russian, who opened and examined it.

His eyes lingered on Chad’s driver’s license. “You are David’s brother.” He produced a rusty chuckle. “I am Valdus Qasim. I noticed that your wallet does not contain the fifty dollars you promised me.”

Chad offered a sheepish smile. “Do you accept checks?”

Qasim’s meaty, oversized hand crashed against Chad’s shoulder with nearly enough force to put him on his knees.

“You barge into my office?” Qasim slowly shook his head.

“I just want to know what happened to my brother, David. He wrote you a large check, tore it up, and turned up dead.”

Qasim managed to step even closer to Chad. His breath pulsed, oven-hot. “Why should I know anything about that?”

Chad forced himself to meet the larger man’s eyes. “I just want the truth.”

A terrifying smile crept across the Russian’s face. “You wouldn’t talk to police?”

Chad thought of Detective Redwood. “Rather not. Don’t like them.”

“That’s a shame, my friend,” Qasim said. “You will deal with them soon. You break into my office, threatening me. Very serious.” He turned to Albino. “Serious, no?”

Albino’s red eyes drilled hot holes through Chad’s soul. “Very serious, boss. We felt threatened by this guy, got carried away protecting ourselves.”

Qasim turned to leave. “See that you do.” He slammed the door behind him.

Tattoo Neck’s elbow slammed Chad’s neck. Chad collapsed, couldn’t breathe. A shoe struck his stomach. Another crashed into his kidney.

A pair of hands grab each of his ankles and drag him into the middle of the room.

An avalanche of fists rained upon him. He felt them even after he lost consciousness.

. . . When he awoke—handcuffed to a hospital bed—Detective Redwood sat across from him.

The cop wore the smarmiest of shit-eating grins. “Mister Heel. How do you feel?”

He felt as if someone pounded his bones with a rainstorm of bricks. “Fine. Where am I?”

Redwood gestured towards all the medical equipment that surrounded them. “An aquarium?”

Chad flicked his tongue around his mouth, detected several spots where teeth previously rested.

“Mister Heel,” Redwood whispered, “you are under arrest for the crimes of breaking and entering, assault, and vandalism. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will . . .”

To be continued . . .

 You can catch my novels, such as Daughters of Darkwana, on Kindle.

I publish my blogs as follows:

Short stories on Mondays and Thursdays at martinwolt.blogspot.com

A look at entertainment industries via feminist and queer theory, as well as other political filters on Tuesdays at Entertainmentmicroscope.blogspot.com

An inside look at my novel series, its creation, and the e-publishing process on Wednesdays at Darkwana.blogspot.com

Tips on improving your fiction writing Fridays at FictionFormula.blogspot.com

Movie reviews on Sundays at moviesmartinwolt.blogspot.com

Between a Grizzly and Her Cub: Part 6

            (For those of you who took me at my word that I would post a new, short story last Thanksgiving, my apologies. My family made it clear that if my focus drifted from them to my laptop, they would gut me and feed my entrails to a pig.)

Chad parked his Prius in front of the motel. Ernie’s previous statement, Chad realized, proved true. The motel did look like a great place to buy meth, if Chad enjoyed that sort of thing.

He killed his engine, stepped out of his car, locked it, made sure he locked it, and entered the motel’s lobby.

The stench of mold and urine slapped him. A man with no fewer than fifteen facial piercings sat behind a desk. A gumball machine offered faded gumballs that looked as if they spent a long prison sentence inside the machine.

“Help you?” the clerk asked. It sounded more like a grunt than English.

Chad showed the clerk a picture of David. “Have you seen this guy?”

The clerk’s eyes flickered towards and away from the picture. “You a cop?”

Chad shook his head.

“Bugger off.” The clerk redirected his attention towards a porno mag on his desk.

“He’s my brother,” Chad said. “I need to know if he’s been here.”

“Then ask him.” The clerk’s eyes never left his magazine.

“Can’t,” Chad said. “He’s dead.” He waited until the clerk finally looked up at him with a bored expression.

The clerk shrugged. “What’s it worth to you?”

Chad forced his thoughts from his overdue bills and eviction notice. “Fifty bucks?”

The clerk snorted and returned to his magazine.

“Seventy.” Chad wondered if his wallet even carried that much cash.

The clerk held out his hand.

Chad opened his wallet, counted his cash. Eighty bucks. He slapped seventy of it into the clerk’s hand.

The clerk stuffed the money into his pocket, continued to read his magazine.

Chad waited, bounced on the balls of his feet. “Well?”

The clerk nodded slightly.

Chad felt an urge to strangle the punk. “So? Has he been here?”

The punk turned a page in his magazine. He nodded again.

“Did he have anyone with him?” Chad asked.

“You didn’t pay for that,” the punk said.

Chad, for the first time in his life, grabbed another human being by the neck. He jerked the punk over the desk, glared fire into his face. “Answer.”

A fat, shirtless guy with a baseball bat strolled inside through the front door. “We got a problem, asshole?” he asked Chad.

Chad felt too angry to feel afraid. He redirected his attention towards the fat guy. “If you plan to take another step towards me, you better lube that bat first, because I swear to God I’m gonna shove it up your ass.”

The big guy blinked. He clearly never expected that response.

Chad’s attention returned to the punk—who now held a pistol.

The punk cocked his weapon, pushed its cold metal against Chad’s face.

They stared at each other.

“You want to deal with me,” Chad asked, “or the FBI?” The words meant nothing, but he hoped they would give the punk pause.

The punk paused. “Your brother brought some whore here. Same whore every time.”

Chad forced his face straight. He dreaded these words since he learned about this motel.

David cheated on Melissa.

Don’t jump to conclusions, he told himself. Just forget about it for now. The pistol pressed against his head helped.

“Anything else?” Chad asked. He wondered how he would leave. The guy with the bat blocked the only door.

The punk grinned. “The bitch was Russian. Nice ass.”

“That narrows it down.” Chad said. His cellphone rang.

Chad wished his hand wouldn’t shake so hard while he placed the phone to his ear. “Hello?”

“It’s Ernie," his called said. "I identified Valdus Qasim.”

Chad licked his lips. “No. Keep your men back. I have the situation under control.”

He glanced from Punk to Fat Guy to see if either of them bought the trick. They seemed to consider it.

Ernie paused. “What?”

“I said keep your men back!” Chad roared over the phone. “I don’t want a fucking mess in here. Understood?” Please get what I’m doing here, Ernie.

Fat Guy and Punk exchanged a concerned glance.

Ernie paused even longer. “Are you in some kind of trouble, Chad?”

“Just tell me what you learned,” Chad marched as if he didn’t feel the slightest bit threatened (though his legs shook) towards the big guy and the door he blocked.

Ernie swallowed. “O . . . kay. Valdus Qasim’s Russian mafia. Lives here in Fort Myers, Florida. FBI keeps trying to arrest him, but they never can. Seems that witnesses against Qasim disappear.”

Chad felt the blood drain from his face. How much deeper could this rabbit hole go? What awaited him at the bottom?

He stood nose-to-nose with the big guy whose bat could crush Chad’s skull. “You gonna move out of my way, you Snicker Pie-eating shit stain?” Chad felt impressed with himself. His voice never even quivered.

The big guy stared down at him . . . then stepped aside. “Don’t come back,” he whispered. His breath reeked of weed and cheap beer.

Chad forced his feet to carry him at an unconcerned pace towards his Prius. He climbed in and locked the doors. “Sorry about that, Ernie.”

“Do you need me to call the police?” Ernie asked.

Chad thought about Detective Redwood. “I’d rather you didn’t.”

“Look. Chad. You need to step away from all this. Valdus Qasim’s bad news.”

“I have to know the truth.” Chad started his engine.

The big guy with the bat trampled through the door and towards Chad’s car. His bat swung—Bam—and caved a portion of Chad’s hood. Another swing smashed the windshield into a latticework of broken cells.

Chad threw his Prius into reverse, flew backwards out of the parking lot.

“What’s happening, Chad?” Ernie’s concern pulsed from the cellphone.

The fat guy threw his bat, which shattered Chad’s driver’s side mirror.

“Everything’s fine.” Chad shifted to drive.

The punk raced through the motel door. He raised his pistol.

Chad stomped the gas, blasted out of the dirt parking lot. The air congested with gray-colored filth.

Bam. Bam. Crash.

Chad’s rear window shattered. Glass poured across the backseats.

“Are those gunshots?” Ernie asked.

“Yes.” Chad flew through a red light. A car honked at him. “Where do I find Valdus Qasim?”

“You can’t be serious,” Ernie said. “That guy’s dangerous. Stay clear of him.”

“I’m going to ask him what happened to my brother. He has no reason not to tell me.”

“The hell he doesn’t!”

“Just give me an address, Ernie. Please.”

To be continued . . .

 You can catch my novels, such as Daughters of Darkwana, on Kindle.

I publish my blogs as follows:

Short stories on Mondays and Thursdays at martinwolt.blogspot.com

A look at entertainment industries via feminist and queer theory, as well as other political filters on Tuesdays at Entertainmentmicroscope.blogspot.com

An inside look at my novel series, its creation, and the e-publishing process on Wednesdays at Darkwana.blogspot.com

Tips on improving your fiction writing Fridays at FictionFormula.blogspot.com

Movie reviews on Sundays at moviesmartinwolt.blogspot.com