Dinosaur Ghost Chapter 10: Trouble at the Creationist Museum

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The room cleared out when someone threw open the doors and shouted, “Dinosaur Ghosts are destroying the Heritage Foundation!”

As the crowd poured out of the auditorium, individual statements could be overheard such as, “Wow, this I gotta see,” and “Who had Heritage Foundation in the pool?  My money was on CPAC.”

Soon the room was empty except for Helen, who was methodically gathering up her things, and young Stumpy Wilkinson, who now approached her.

“There’s something else you should know. Something I forgot to  tell the panel of liberals.”

“Make it quick,” Helen snapped.  “I’ve got work to do.”

“It’s not just dinosaur ghosts we have to worry about.”

 “What are you talking about?” Helen said, unable to conceal her annoyance.

“There’s another monster,” Stumpy continued, “one completely separate from the dinosaur ghosts.  It’s from a different era. If my calculations are correct, it will arrive in our time within the next few days.”

“You best start making sense, Ass Boy,” Helen said.  She wasn’t sure why she called Stumpy Ass Boy.  It just came out.  All things considered, he had a normal-sized-and-shaped posterior, and his face was not at all ass-like.

“Have you ever heard of the missing link?” Stumpy asked.

“You mean an undiscovered species between human beings and apes?”

“Oh yeah, that is what that is.  Okay, this is slightly different.  This is a species between human beings, monkeys, and monsters.  I called it the Monkey Man Monster or MMM for short.”

“A Monkey Man Monster?” Helen said, shaking her head. “Is that like Bigfoot?”

“No. The Monkey Man Monster, or MMM for short, has surprisingly small feet. They’re quite dainty.”

“This is ridiculous.”

“I’m afraid they are very real and they are very dangerous. Not the feet, though. Just the rest of the monster.”

“And is the Monkey Man Monster also eating republicans?”

“You mean the MMM?  Inconclusive.”

“Then what what exactly does the MMM do?” Helen asked.

"You mean the Monkey Man Monster? Let me put it this way.  Just as the dinosaur ghosts have come back from extinction in order to take revenge on conservatives for their over reliance on fossil fuels, the MMM, or Monkey Man Monster--really it’s whichever you prefer--exists primarily to whack the shit out of people who don’t believe in evolution. Probably with a big club.”

“Republicans are really having a rough month.”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“I don’t have time for this,” Helen said.  She had packed up all the gadgets she needed to do battle with the dinosaur ghosts, but then remembered that she had forgotten to change outfits, so she had to unpack everything again because the outfit she wanted to wear was underneath all the doodads.  She then went into the nearest women’s restroom and changed clothes.

When she returned she was wearing a virgin white dress, cut low in front to reveal her cleavage, and cut short on bottom to reveal her thighs.

“Whoa,” Stumpy said, drooling a little.

“Now I’m ready.” Helen said.

“What are you going to do?” Stumpy asked her boobs.

“Well, if I’m going to sacrifice myself, I figured I better dress the part.”

Stumpy continued to stare at her boobs.

People filtered into the auditorium again, chatting about the spectacle they had witnessed. A paleontology grad student ran up to Stumpy excitedly.  “Dude, you missed it.  Dinosaur Ghosts totally ate the building across the street.”

“You mean it’s over?” Helen said.  “Where are they now?”

“The dinosaur ghosts? I don’t know. They took off,” the grad student said to her boobs.

“Damn,” Helen said, leaning over slightly, just for the hell of it.  “I guess my plan will have to wait.”

Less than twenty four hours after the collapse of the Heritage Foundation, Kevin “Grammy” Graham, 72-year-old founder and CEO of The Crafty Craftsman, now with 372 locations nationwide, stood in the center of his latest triumph, the soon-to-be opened Worldwide Bible Theme Park and Creationist Museum in downtown Kansas City, Kansas.  Years in the making, with no expense spared, the series of interconnecting structures, rides, and exhibits was guaranteed to be the new favorite vacation destination--a Mecca of sorts--for some of the most devout and willfully ignorant upper-middle class fundamentalist Christians in the country.

By far, the most noticeable feature of the park was the one hundred foot-tall replica of Jesus’s head (the white version), known informally as Mega Jesus. The sign out front featured a painting of a regular-sized Jesus with a word bubble pointed at his mouth, which read, “See the world through the eyes of Mega Jesus!” 

How could any visitor, young or old, fail to climb the spiral staircase along the inside of Mega Jesus’s neck, leading to the immaculate tongue where they might kiss the inside of his cheek, gaze at his majestic tonsils, or have a seat on one of sixty four perfect pearly whites.  A short elevator ride through the nasal passageway would lead them to the ocular center, the brilliant cerulean eyes of Mega Jesus, where for only twenty five cents, they could look through telescopic sights and literally see what Jesus sees--pretty much the whole park.  After that, why not take a quick dip in one of several tear ducts (bathing suits required), or, for a few dollars extra, go for a full baptism?  Ministers would be standing by.

And this was just the beginning.  Someday, Grahammy hoped to erect a body to support the giant head.  Expected to rise some one thousand feet in the air, if all went well, people from every corner of the state would able to look into the distance and witness the holiest skyscraper the world had every known.

Of course there were many other attractions to which visitors could avail themselves.  Children could play games like ‘Beat the Devil’ and ‘Seat of Judgment’ or enjoy any one of the many wonderful rides such as the ‘Siege of Jerusalem’, the ‘Carousel of Locusts’ (“Look Mommy, I’m on the plague!”), ‘the Cain-o-nator’, or sit back and enjoy a ride on the ‘Exodus Train’, which just seemed to go round and round. 

Teenage couples were encouraged to take a spin on the ‘Chastity Belt’, a giant spinning cylinder in which the couples were separated, strapped down, and then spun around until they were too sick to act on their basest impulses. 

But perhaps Grahammy’s favorite attraction was the Old Testament Creationist Museum, featuring wax figures of Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden, Moses parting the Red Sea, Aaron sacrificing a lamb, Abraham sacrificing Isaac, and Daniel in the lion’s den.  It also featured state-of-the-art three-dimensional digital representations of each of the six days of creation.  Grahammy imagined one of his new employees barking, “Step right up and see the universe created before your eyes!”

Grahammy was certain, however, that the museum’s appeal would stem mainly from the Noah’s Arc Exhibit.  Children would love to play on the still-massive scale model arc, ride the backs of stone elephants and crocodiles, and behold just how many animal statues Graham’s designers had managed to cram onto the thing.

 Graham and his partners had debated endlessly on what to do about the dinosaurs.  People had no problem believing that Noah could fit two of each of the nearly eight million species of animals on Earth on a structure that measured 300 cubits by 50 by 30, but Noah himself must have asked himself how the hell he was going to fit all those dinosaurs on his already crowded boat.  After much prayer and soul-searching the Lord had evidently given him the go-ahead to nix the prehistoric beasts.  That’s why, in Graham’s replica, he had submerged all the dinosaur models up to their necks in the surrounding whirl pool and positioned them to stare up at Noah, silently begging him to let them on board.  Everyone knew what happened after that.

Graham stood on the Arc, and wrapped his arm around the statue of  Noah.  This was truly as close to Heaven as a person could get in this wicked world, and in a few hours the rest of the world was going to know it too. 

He only wished the right wing of the Supreme Court hadn’t recently been eaten by dinosaur ghosts before they could rule on his case. In Billinglsy VS the Crafty Craftsman, Graham had hoped the court would decide once and for all that a company could claim a religious exemption from contributing a share of health insurance premiums to homosexual employees.  His argument: by helping to keep gay people alive, he was in fact contributing to their lifestyle, a notion he found unconscionable.  Now, he was almost certain to lose the case.

He tried to push the negative thought out of his mind.  Today was going to be a grand day. Soon the gates of the park would open and Graham would be surrounded by a comforting throng of like-minded individuals. 

Staring in the direction of the park gate, he failed to notice the water churning below him in an unusually aggressive manner, nor did he observe the emergence of two great beasts who had been denied a place on his arc.  A shadow fell over him then, a pair of shadows, that cast him into their darkness.  Slowly he turned, and his expression became a mixture of horror and confusion.  He’d prayed this wouldn’t happen.  Not today.  But here they were.  Dinosaur Ghosts, and...Were they holding hands?
go to chapter 11

Dinosaur Ghost Chapter 9: Think Tank Tumped

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“I don’t know how I could have been so wrong,” Helen said.  She buried her face in her hands.

“It happens to the best of us,” Eric said.  He eyed the television longingly. 

A football game was about to start, and it seemed like they’d been sitting at the table for hours, talking about the same things over and over again.  The dinosaur ghosts are eating republicans.  Why are the dinosaur ghosts eating republicans?  How do we stop the dinosaur ghosts from eating republicans?  Blah Blah Blah.  He rolled his eyes. 

Not three feet away, there was a perfectly good couch and a perfectly good television set. Unfortunately, both were walled off by perfectly good yellow police tape, put there not by police, but by Helen, to prevent her from accidentally stumbling into her late boyfriend’s favorite spot in the apartment and bringing back all those painful memories.  Even worse, James’s second favorite spot in the apartment, the bathroom, was also off limits, which meant Eric had to go down the hall and use the bathroom of some guy named Tito whenever he needed to drop a deuce.

“Somehow they’ve managed to penetrate that invisible membrane between the third and fourth dimensions,” Helen continued. “If I could figure out how, I bet I could find a way to stop them.”

Eric leaned in close.  “Hey, Baby. You wanna take this to the bedroom?”  He raised and lowered his eyebrows suggestively.

“Eric!”

“What’s the big deal? We’ve done it before.”

“A girl likes a little romance.  Besides, this isn’t the time.”

“It’s never the time,” Eric said angrily.  He stood up from the table.

Helen looked at him incredulously.  “We just had the time last night.  And then we had the time again this morning.”

“Yes, Helen, but now is a different time.  It’s game time, Helen, and I wanna watch the football game.”

Tears flooded Helen’s eyes.  “I can’t have football on in the house,” she said.  “It’s just too soon.”

“Aw, everything is too soon.”

“What does that mean?”

“I don’t know!” Eric shouted.

Helen’s grief turned to anger.  “What is this, Eric?  What are we doing here?  We’ve spent the last three nights together.  Where is this going?”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Eric said, his anger turning to fear.  “We’re just two people bonding over our troubles and a paranormal phenomenon in which dinosaur spirits wreak havoc on...”

“Is that all this is to you?” Helen interrupted, her anger turning to outrage.  “Just some fling?”

“Um, I don’t think, I mean, I didn’t mean...” Eric stuttered, his fear turning to backpedaling.  “It’s just... Oh, Helen.  I don’t think I can do this anymore.”

Again the tears came rolling down her face.  Her voice got all squeaky.  “Are you breaking up with me?”

“I didn’t even know we were going out.”

“Get out!” Helen shouted, her sadness transforming into rage.  She’d been on a serious emotional roller coaster lately.

Eric started to say something, but decided against it. He turned and quietly walked out of the front door, leaving Helen with her smoldering resentment, which would likely convert to depression at any moment.

“No,” she said, slamming her fist against the table.  “Eric is just another silly little boy obsessed with sports and afraid of commitment.  I’m sick of them all.”

From that moment on, she told herself, she had no time to waste on the likes of him.  She had dinosaur ghosts to stop from eating any more republicans.

She stared at the arrangement of thingamabobs spread across the table.  One of these doohickeys was going to help her blast those damned dirty dinosaur ghosts back to the Paleozoic era.  She picked up a screwdriver and went to work.

Three days later, having made the short drive to Washington D.C., she popped her head in on a rather heated debate between different factions over at the Heritage Foundation.  There, she sat through much screaming and accusatory innuendo, with the majority attributing the recent spate of dinosaur ghost attacks to Obamacare, taxes, and a massive governmental conspiracy to cover-up actions following the attack on the embassy in Benghazi.  After several minutes, it became obvious to Helen that she’d come to the wrong place. 

Across the street, she found another meeting already in progress, this time at a liberal think tank, the Center for Progressive Progress.  A young man was making a presentation to a panel of distinguished experts chaired by none other than Harlington University’s dean of paleontology, Dr. Brenda Bellingham, she who had once blocked Helen from matriculating in her department way back in chapter 1.

“Darn it,” Helen said, taking a seat in the back row.  “Not this bitch again.” 

“Let me get this straight,” Mrs. Bellingham was saying condescendingly to the young man standing before her. “You maintain that the recent spate of dinosaur-related hallucinations are in fact actions perpetrated by actual dinosaurs.”

“No, Professor, they are the ghosts of real dinosaurs. My data shows conclusively that these dinosaur ghosts are extremely pissed off about how their remains have been used to wreck the environment.”

Professor Bellingham lowered her head into her hands and sighed. “You’re referring to the burning of fossil fuels?”

“Yes, you see over the course of millions of years, buried organisms such as the dinosaurs were slowly converted into fossil fuels such as coal, oil and natural gas.”

“I am aware of how fossil fuels are created, Mr. Wilkinson.  And what evidence do you have to support the assertion that this has infuriated the dinosaurs?”

“I’ve provided each member of the panel with my report,” Stumpy said. “As you can see, starting on page 15, one of the conservative journalists killed, Herman Bainbridge, had recently started his own business based on wasting fossil fuels.  Rock Benson, the cable news pundit, did a show deliberately obfuscating the debate on climate change the day he was killed.  Two days before the Supreme Court was attacked, the conservative majority handed down a ruling that said that since global climate change isn’t mentioned by any documents associated with the founding fathers, then the government has no obligation to do anything about it.”

“And the gun nuts?” One of the other panelists asked.

“Those guys all drove gas guzzlers.”

“I still don’t understand why these so-called dinosaur ghosts would resort to such drastic measures,” Dr. Bellingham said.  “I mean, I know they’re natural predators, but still.”

“Well, imagine if your dog died and you buried him in your back yard.”

Professor Bellingham got a far-off look in her eyes and her voice went all squeaky. “Fifi?” she said.

“Exactly.  Now imagine if someone came along, dug up Fifi, processed his remains and then poured them into the engine of an SUV.”

Dr. Bellingham struck her palm with her fist.  “Those dirty doggy-desecrating dirt balls!”

“Well, that’s exactly how the dinosaur ghosts feel.  That’s why they’ve come back from the dead to seek their revenge.”

“But everyone burns fossil fuels.”

“Yes,” but it’s the conservatives who are hell-bent on keeping it that way.” Young Stumpy unfurled a map and placed it on a waiting easel. “This map of the US shows every confirmed dinosaur ghost attack to date.  Each red mark indicates an attack location.  As you can see, the heaviest concentration of red is here in D.C., but there are also several spots in Detroit and many down in southern states where foreign auto plants have set up shop.  You’ll also note that in recent days, even some southern democrats have been eaten, all of whom, I might add have supported burning fossil fuels in one form or another and blocked legislation limiting carbon emissions.”

“And what is your take-away from all this?”

“We have to stop burning fossil fuels as soon as possible,” Stumpy said. 

The spectators stood and applauded.

“That’s not good enough,” yelled a woman on the back row.  “We have to do something now!”

Stumpy shielded his eyes from the floor lights as he tried to make out who was yelling at him.  “Well, at this rate,” he said, “pretty soon there won’t be any republicans left to block legislation.”

The spectators chuckled and chortled in appreciation.

“That’s your solution?” Helen said, stepping from the shadows.  “You’re going to sit back and allow innocent people to die.” She checked herself.  “Innocent-ish people.”

Dr. Bellingham registered the identity of the new speaker.  “Now Ms. Fonzarelli.  You know you aren’t allowed within fifty feet of me.  I have a restraining order in effect.”

“I promise not to come any closer,” Helen said, “but I’ll be darned if I sit around and let people die without doing something about it.”

“And just what do you propose we do?” Dr. Bellingham asked.

Helen reached into her backpack and pulled out one of her homemade devices.  The panel gasped. 

“Now, Ms. Fonzarelli.  There’s no need to get violent.  Put the gun away.”

“Oh this isn’t a gun,” Helen replied.  “And it’s not capable of hurting people.”

“Whew,” said Dr. Bellingham.

“I call it the Ethereal Specter Disrupter, aka the Ghost Roaster, or the Ghost Toaster.  I can’t decide which sounds better.”

“What does it do?”

“It whacks the shit out of dinosaur ghosts.”

“And just how do you propose to find these dinosaur ghosts?” Dr. Bellingham asked.

“I’ve got a plan for that too.”

Across the street at the Heritage Foundation, members had finally come to a consensus.  The final wording of the official report stated that upon re-invading Iraq, the dinosaur ghosts would greet the Americans as liberators and would, in all likelihood, help them build an oil pipeline across the region.

They were all very pleased with this handy piece of scholarship.  What they didn’t know was that two enormous shadows had just fallen over the building, and that within a few moments, the entire structure would be no more.
Up next: chapter 10

Dinosaur Ghost Chapter 8: A Heaping Helping of Prehistoric Justice

Dinosaur Ghost is now available for free as a pdf!

The reporter stood in front of the convention center, microphone in hand.  Her red blazer perfectly accentuated her lustrous auburn hair.  “Channel three action news reporting.  The city is abuzz tonight over a purported attack on a downtown gun rally.  Eye-witness accounts vary, but reports suggest that nearly all of the three hundred people killed or wounded in the melee suffered from wounds that were either inadvertent or self-inflicted.  One policeman I talked to suggested that this may be a case of mass hysteria.  Meanwhile, city officials tell us they are in the process of testing the water supply for psychedelic hallucinogens, and more than one person, including reporters at this network, including me, right now, speculated that this may be the work of Al Qaida.

"We go now to Washington D.C. where Senator Buck McStain took questions from reporters just moments ago.”

Senator McStain, an 85-year-old curmudgeon, limped down the capitol steps to greet the throng of reporters.  He wore a white suit to match his thinning hair, which blew loosely in the breeze.

“Senator, Senator,” the reporters shouted as they heaved their respective microphones into the senator’s face.  “How do you respond to reports that dinosaur ghosts have attacked the Gun Rights Association?”

“I think we should invade Iraq.”

“But Senator,” asked a reporter from the Washington Post, “What does Iraq have to do with dinosaur ghosts?”

“Don’t worry, we’re going to get to the bottom of this,” the senator replied, “and we will continue to get to the bottom of this until we bring these perpetrators to justice.  You can count on it.  I have spoken with several highly placed officials in the intelligence community, and if what they are telling me is true, the United States may very well need to re-Invade Iraq by the end of the week.”

“Senator, are you suggesting that these dinosaur ghosts are Al Qaida operatives sent from Iraq?”

“I’m not suggesting anything,” Senator McStain said, “other than the fact that Al Qaida operatives within Iraq may very well have perpetrated a terrorist attack on the United States.”

Cut to the reporter for channel three.  “There you have it,” she said. “A highly placed U.S. official has called this a ‘terrorist attack perpetrated by Al Qaida. 

“In other news, the United States Supreme Court ruled today that guns are actually people, and are therefore entitled to equal rights and full protection under the law.  Now let’s check in with Candy at the sports desk...”

“Shut it off, ”Helen said. “I can’t take it anymore.”

Eric turned off the television set.  He sat down beside Helen at the kitchen table.  She continued to fiddle with one of her thingamajigs. 

Eric took the device out of her hand and examined it.  “What is this thing?” he asked.

“It’s a project I’ve been working on.  I call it a Decayed Matter Reanimator Locator.”

“You made this?  What does it do?”

“It finds dinosaur ghosts.”

“Hey, we could use something like that.”

“I still can’t get over it,”  Helen said, a tear rolling down her cheek.  “It’s like they rose from the dead through the force of sheer hatred.”

Eric put his hand on her shoulder.  “We’ll get through this.”

“The thing is, I know they aren’t actually a part of our world in the strictest sense,” she said.  “They aren’t real like you and me.  They’re leftovers from another epoch.  Through some freak occurrence in nature, they can observe us, and we can observe them, but I’m certain they can’t actually impact our lives directly unless we let them.  Those men at the gun rally shot themselves.  The journalists died in freak accidents.  Both James and the security guard from the zoo died of a heart attack.  I think if people took the time to face the ghosts, they would see that they’re actually quite harmless.”

“That’s good,” Eric said.  “I don’t want to be harmed.”

Helen picked up another one of her doodads, one that looked like a ray gun, and aimed it across the table. “Yeah,” she said, “But you better believe I’m going to find a way to hurt them.” She pulled the trigger and sprayed water onto the table.  She then turned the barrel toward her mouth and shot a spray of water in there too.  “Yum,” she said.

Meanwhile, far away in the halls of justice, the esteemed members of the Supreme Court of the United States of America were having their bi-weekly hotcakes and sausage breakfast.  They ate in their underwear, as was customary, so as not to spill syrup on their robes, while they discussed various cases before the court.  The justices tended to focus on current deliberations, but occasionally some resentment lingered after a particularly contentious decision, and this was such a day.

“Even for an argument based on original intent, the decision made no sense,” Justice Sotomayor said as she chomped down on chicken biscuit.  “Why would the founding fathers put in special protections for guns?  What’s next?  Equal rights for screwdrivers?”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Justice Scalia roared, as was his habit.  “The original wording of the second amendment, before it was revised, stated, and I quote, ‘blah blah blah, the right to keep and bare arms shall not be infringed, and the right of arms to keep and bare people shall not be infringed either.’ Or, to put it another way, guns are people.  Case closed.”  He shoveled a pile of grits and bacon into his mouth and then chased it with a big slurping gulp of grape Kool-Aid.

“At this point,” Justice Sotomayor countered, “guns have more rights than women.”

“Yeah,” said Justices Ginsberg and Kagan in unison.

“The fact of the matter is,” said Scalia, “we are not to go beyond the intent of the founding fathers, and the founding fathers clearly believed that guns were more important than women.  That’s why they mentioned guns in the second amendment and they didn’t mention women at all.  Maybe that’s why they’re called founding fathers and not founding mothers!” He elbowed Justice Thomas and cackled, “am I right, Clarence?”

Justice Thomas opened his mouth as if to speak, but stopped when Justice Ginsberg pulled her fork back with her thumb and catapulted a chunk of cantaloupe through Justice Scalia’s gaping mouth, where it lodged in his throat.  He sputtered and clawed his neck, finally expelling the obstruction when Justice Alito delivered a swift karate chop to the belly.  

The breakfast then devolved further when Chief Justice Roberts stood up and shouted, “Food fight!”  Soon the entire room, including all nine justice’s underwear, was covered in bacon grease and Aunt Jemima’s Private Reserve.  This was why supreme court justices never wore their robes at breakfast.

Amidst the flying hotcakes, no one noticed that the walls of justice were literally crumbling around them, until that is, they found themselves faced with a pair of hissing, spitting, roaring dinosaur ghosts.

“What would the founding fathers think of this, Antonin?” Breyer cried.

Justice Scalia removed his miniature copy of the constitution from his garter belt and began frantically flipping through pages.  It should be here,” he said.

“This is why I believe in loose constructionism,” Breyer shouted as he dove under the table.  A set of jagged spikes crushed the dessert bar where he had been standing.

Justice Sotomayor somersaulted over the swinging tail of the Tyrannosaurus and cartwheeled to safety.

 Justice Kagan looked dead in the eye of the dinosaur blocking her path to freedom.  “To hell with this,” she said.  Using her head as a battering ram, she charged the unsuspecting stegosaurus, passed through the ghost as she would through an open door, and then literally passed through an open door to safety.

Justice Roberts watched Kagan's successful escape and attempted the same, but with very different results.  Instead of empty space, his face flattened against a mound of taught, scale-covered muscle.  With a flick of a large hoof, he flew against a wall.  Justice Ginsberg used this momentary diversion to slip unnoticed behind the dinosaur ghosts, where she too escaped.

Roberts, Alito, Thomas and Scalia, through some unspoken concurrence, formed a semi-circle of machismo near the coffee and juice table and readied themselves for battle.

Justice Kennedy froze, unable to decide whether to follow Ginsberg or join his brethren on the right as they focused on weaponizing butter knives and cocktail forks. He looked back and forth from one side to the other.  “Which way should I go?  Which way should I go? Which way should I go?” He asked himself as he tap-danced in place.

With a swish of its tail the stegosaurus crushed a support wall, and his escape route was sealed in a rush of falling debris.

Kennedy joined the rest of his clan, all of whom slowly backed away from the approaching Tyrannosaurus.

“Sic Semper Tyrannosaurus,” Justice Roberts cried.  He began hurling melon with all his might.  The stegosaurus caught the pieces on its spikes and then proceeded to devour this delightful new form of vegetation.  It munched quietly as its carnivorous compatriot devoured the Chief Justice.

Justice Thomas opened his mouth as if to say something, but then evidently decided against it, just before he too was eaten.

“You wanna piece of me?”  Alito said, slapping his chest as he approached the tyrannosaurus.  “You wanna piece of me?”  The  tyrannosaurus evidently did not want a piece of him as he ate Justice Alito in his entirety.

“I changed my mind!  I changed my mind!” Kennedy cried, but he too was gobbled up by the tyrannosaur.

“Screw you, you prehistoric bastard,” Scalia roared.  “I sentence you to death!” He took one last swig of Kool-Aid and then charged the dinosaur ghost with his cocktail fork.  

Within seconds, the carnage was over.  The dinosaur ghosts roared in celebration of their victory and then disappeared in a puff of smoke.  The room was empty, except for Stephen Breyer, who sat shivering beneath the breakfast table.

go to chapter 9

Dinosaur Ghost Chapter 7: They're Real and They're Eating Republicans

Dinosaur Ghost is now available for free as a pdf!

Helen found Eric in his office, boxing up his things.

“Oh Eric, I’m sorry you lost your job.”

“Are you kidding me,” Eric said.  “I’m sorry about your boyfriend.” He gave her a hug.

“It was the ghost, Eric,” Helen said.  “It was the dinosaur ghost.  I don’t understand why it would want to hurt James.”  She crossed her fingers.  “He was such a sweetheart.”

“Is there anything I can do for you?” Eric asked. 

“There is one thing,” Helen said, wiping tears from her eyes with a wad of used tissue she found in her pocket.  “You have to help me figure out what’s going on.  We have to figure out how and why the dinosaurs have come back from extinction, so we can stop them before they kill again.”

“Okay, I’ll help you,” Eric said.  He tossed his award for outstanding Paleontology into the cardboard box.  “It’s not like I have a job anymore.  When do we start?”

“I was thinking about this in the car on the way over here,” Helen said.  “Can you do a web search of recent suspicious deaths in the area?”

Eric sat down at his computer and began tapping away at his keyboard.  He scanned text for the next few minutes.

“Here it is,” he said.  “I’ve got two suspicious deaths in the last month.  Herman Bainbridge, a conservative syndicated columnist, was killed in a freak car accident, and Rock Benson, the TV pundit, was killed when his hot tub exploded.  Hey!” Eric said.  “I know that guy.  He’s the conservative blowhard and pitchman for gold and reverse mortgages.”

“James was a blogger for Red State,” Helen said.  “That’s the connection.  They were all members of the conservative media elite.”

“But why would the dinosaur ghosts target republicans?” Eric asked.  “It doesn’t make sense.”

 “That’s a good question,” Helen said.  She paced in front of his desk.  “Why would they do that?  Why come all the way back from extinction after millions of years just to target people with a particular political affiliation?  What is it about republicans that they hate so much?”

“Maybe they hate white people.”

“No,” Helen said.  “There are still plenty of white liberals, and as far as we know, they aren’t being targeted.”

“Rich white people, then?”

“Ever heard of George Soros?”

They sat quietly contemplating the situation.

Gradually, they became aware of an argument taking place down the hall.   Dr. Watson was yelling at someone.  Eric and Helen exchanged glances and then followed the voices.  The door to Dr. Watson’s office was slightly ajar, and they could see him standing there, stroking his beard and pointing his pipe at someone.

“Come now, Samson.  Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m telling you it was a dinosaur.  It’s eaten three of my elephants so far this month.  Hell, it tried to eat two of my custodians.  My security guard took one look at the thing, and dropped dead of a heart attack.” Dr. Sampson (the zoologist from chapter 2) stormed into view.  “That man only had three days left until retirement.”

“I think maybe those fraternity boys you told me about went and spiked your zoo’s water supply.”

“I thought about that,” Dr. Sampson said, “but I checked.  The water’s clean.”

“I’m sorry, Old Boy, I simply haven’t got time for this.  My bloody TA lost my stegosaurus.”

Helen ignored Eric’s frantic hand gestures and barged through the door.

“Now, see here, young lady,” Dr. Watson sputtered.  “You can’t barge in here like that.” A spark of recognitions passed through his face. “Wait a moment, I know you.  You’re Thompson’s harlot.  What are you doing here?”

Helen ignored him.  “Dr. Sampson, do you know if that security guard was a democrat or a republican?”

“He was a founding member of the John Birch society,” Dr. Sampson replied, “but I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”

“Oh, it matters a great deal,” Helen replied.  “Dinosaur Ghosts are real, and they’re eating republicans.”

“You’re mad,” Dr. Watson said.  “Thompson, escort this woman off the premises immediately.”

“You forget yourself, Dr. Watson.  I don’t work for you anymore,” Eric said.  “Besides, you should listen to her.  She’s been right about everything so far.”

“Why would dinosaurs eat republicans?” Dr. Sampson asked.

“That’s what we want to know,” Eric said.  “But it’s definitely true.  We did a Google search and everything.”

“I’ve heard quite enough,” Dr. Watson said.  “I want all of you out of my office.”

A few minutes later, Helen, Eric, and Dr. Sampson walked through the parking lot, each carrying a load of Eric’s belongings.

“No one will ever believe us,” Helen said.

“I believe you,” said Dr. Sampson.  “I know what I saw.  And I know two custodians in a mental hospital who will vouch for your story as well.”

“That doesn’t really help,” Helen said.  “I only wish we had some idea where the dinosaur ghosts were going to strike next.”

Meanwhile, across town, the annual meeting of the Association of Gun Rights Advocates was coming to order.  President Wade Lafollette stood at the podium, situated beneath a large banner featuring Yosemite Sam firing his pistols into the air.

Lafollette banged his gavel.  “This meeting will come to order.”  

Noise in the convention center gradually subsided.

“It’s such a fine thing to see so many fine Americans strapping heat,” he began.  The audience roared its approval.

“I want to say this in front of all the proud members gathered here today.  Guns have rights.  Guns deserve rights.  They have a right to be owned by every red-blooded American.  They have a right to be fired by those Americans.  And we’re about this close to getting the supreme court to declare that guns are people, with equal rights and full protection under the law.”      

Massive applause followed.  A couple of celebratory shots rang out.  Someone screamed.

“You guys be careful,” Lafollette warned.  “And everybody make sure to turn off your cell phones.  The media has a field day every time one of us accidently shoots himself.” 

There was grumbling of approval.  The gunshot member was carried away on a stretcher with a gushing leg wound. 

Lafollette continued.  “Don’t get me started on the liberal media.”

A chorus of boos emanated from the crowd. 

“They treat every mass shooting as if it was the gun’s fault.  Well, I say if people weren’t shooting up movie theaters and elementary schools with guns, they’d be doing the same thing with crossbows.” 

The audience cheered. 

“You know, people tend to forget all the good things guns do, like bringing food to the tables of our forefathers, and maintaining our hand-eye coordination.  How come the dang media don’t report that?” 

A mixture of cheers and boos came from the audience.  It was unclear to them whether they were supposed to boo the media or cheer the guns.

“And why are they always out trumpeting statistics showing that people with guns are more likely to kill a family member than an intruder, no matter how many times you tie a string to a hundred-dollar bill and use it to lure neighbors through the front door?  Do you know what I say to that?  We need to stop listening to statistics and math and start listening to our trigger fingers.  That’s what we need to do.”

The audience applauded wildly.

Another member accidentally shot himself and was wheeled away.

“Dang it,” Lafollette said.

Suddenly, the great double doors at the front of the auditorium flew open.  A cold wind rushed into the room.  A string of eerie looking mist swirled in the air above the crowd.

“What the?” Lafollette said, just as a pair of terrible lizards appeared in the miasma. 

One stood on two legs.  It had a large head and ferocious teeth.  Along side the monster stood a four-legged stegosaurus, whose tail cut through the air with spikes as sharp as swords.

Instantly, everyone in the room pulled out their guns and began firing in the general direction of the two dinosaurs.  The room filled with gunshots and thick gray smoke, blood and spattered curses.  The dinosaurs shrieked, twisted in  the wind, now heavy with lead. 

“Take that, you son of a bitch,” Lafollette shouted as he emptied both chambers of his  trusty derringer into the side of the Tyrannosaurus.  “And that’s just the one I hide in my underwear.”  He pulled back his suit jacket to reveal a pair of six shooters.”  

Men on both sides of him dropped in a hail of gunfire. 

The stegosaurus turned at him and hissed.  A spike flew just over his head, tussling his hair, but leaving him no worse for wear.  “You call that a draw.” Lafollette sneered.  He drew both revolvers at once and emptied both barrels, all twelve shots in rapid succession. 

Across the stage, he heard the sound of people screaming. 

A bullet whizzed past his ear, and then another.  A third grazed his elbow.

“Dag nabbit,” he shouted. “Don’t shoot me.  Shoot the dang dinosaurs!”  He pointed one of his pistols in the direction of the two dinosaur ghosts.  With his chambers empty, his guns useless, he felt he had no choice but to defend himself the last way he knew how; he threw each gun in the direction of the Tyrannosaur, hoping to knock it unconscious.  Instead, the pistols sailed through the dinosaur’s head without it even noticing.

The next bullet caught him beneath the belt, dropped him to the floor.

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” he said, his voice a hoarse whisper.  Another bullet caught his shoulder, knocked him flat on his back. 

His last sight was that of a pair of floating dinosaurs looking down at him, looking down at all of them, all those men with guns, now lying bleeding and riddled with bullets, while they--the dinosaur ghosts-- remained, unharmed, and towering above them.  

Both dinosaur ghosts roared at once, but it wasn’t the roar of anger, or pain, or terror; that would have been more satisfying to Lafollette.  Instead it was a mocking sound that would follow him into the grave: it sounded like they were laughing.
go to chapter 8

Dinosaur Ghost Chapter 6: Dangerous Emissions

Dinosaur Ghost is now available for free as a pdf!

Rock Benson swirled his martini and smiled.  He enjoyed the luxurious splendor of his twenty eight-foot stretch Hummer.  The hot tub was his favorite part.  Setting his glass on the side, he eased himself into the bubbling cauldron.

Rock’s career had been soaring ever since Obama took office. Hundreds of thousands of disaffected white people seemed to have sprung out of the proverbial woodwork, and they tuned in each night to watch his stiff-lipped, hard-fisted, knee-jerk reaction to the events of the day.  His talk show, Rock Bottom, was now one of the highest rated “news” shows on cable.  (The network’s legal department insisted on using quotation marks whenever describing their programming as news.)

But it was this part of the day, after taping, that Rock loved best.  Now he could close his eyes and replay that evening’s show against the backdrop of his eyelids, and in transcript form.

Cue Music that relies heavily on timpani and bass drums.

Rock: Good evening, Ladies and Gentlemen, I’m Rock Benson, and you’ve hit Rock Bottom. Tonight we have two special guests, each representing an opposing view on a controversial topic. Is Global Warming real or is it liberal bunk? We’ll present both opinions and then let you decide. First up is Professor Jeffrey Nerdlemeyer, head of climate science at Harvard University. He thinks global warming is real. Thanks for being here, Mr. Nerdlemeyer. Tell us your opinion.

Professor Nerdlemeyer: My name is Silvermeyer, Dr. Silvermeyer, and it’s not just my opinion.  Global climate change is very real, and overwhelming evidence suggests that human activity has exacerbated the problem.

Rock: Then why am I cold right now?

Professor Nerdlemeyer: You’re sitting underneath a vent. As I was saying, greenhouse gasses, like those released from burning fossil fuels, trap sunlight in the atmosphere, sunlight that would otherwise be reflected into space.

Rock: Space? That seems a little farfetched, don't you think?

Professor Nerdlemeyer: Excuse me?

Rock: This isn’t Star Wars, Professor. It’s 2014.

Professor Nerdlemeyer: I’m not sure what you mean.  As I was saying. The trapped sunlight warms the planet, which is why the poles are melting, ocean temperatures are rising, and every year is the warmest year on record. The consequences of all this could be catastrophic.

Rock: Are you aware that other scientists suggest that you're making all this up, and even if your aren't then we’re all screwed anyway, so why bother doing anything?

Professor Nerdlemeyer: I don’t understand why some people refuse to believe in the greenhouse effect.  It’s something any seventh grader can prove at a science fair.

Rock: (Laughing) Nice try, Professor. Now it’s time to talk with a real scientist. Dr. Kooky Westerball is a professor of Scientific Studies at the Online Institute of Port-O-Prince. Doctor Westerball, you’re a doctor, is that correct?

Dr. Kooky: Yes, Rock. I have a PHD in Factitious Anomalies from The Tennessee Valley Creationist College. I also hold several other advanced degrees, including an MBA, an MFA, an MBFA, a BFF, and an LOL, from various online programs based at junior colleges throughout South America.

Rock: Pretty impressive. Why don’t you tell our viewers why Mr. Nerdlemeyer is a liberal propagandist looking to make a fast buck perpetuating the myth of Global Warming?

Professor Nerdlemeyer: Wait a second. How could I possibly profit from this?

Rock: Come on, Professor.  You’re just out to sell your book.

Professor Nerdlemeyer: But I don’t even have a book.  And even if I did, it’s not like I would get rich.  At best I’d sell a few thousand copies, and maybe make enough to support myself for a year or two.

Rock: You had your shot, Rich Boy. It’s Dr. Westerball’s turn.  Go ahead, Doc.

Dr. Kooky: Well, Rock, it has been constitutionally proven by world renowned Scienceologists—these are professionals fluent in Einstonian Geometrics, Quasi-Judicial Influenzas, and Bi-Curial Menstruations—that global climate change is easily attributable to normal Paleozoic fluctuations of the Ionosphere—just like the Ice Age suffered by Ray Romano and his friends in that movie Ice Age.  Also, current temperatic abstractions can be traced back to the fact that God is mad about gay marriage.

Rock: (Fascinated) Really? I had no idea Ray Romano was gay in that movie.

Dr. Kooky: He was the way I watched it.

Rock: Well, folks, there you have it. Two renowned scientists with two completely different takes on the whole global warming myth. Personally, I don’t know what to think. I’m stumped.

Dr. Kooky: I thought you were Rock.

(They laugh while the professor buries his head in his hands.)

Rock: Well, that’s it. Thanks for joining us.  Tune in tomorrow night, when, once again, you’ll hit Rock Bottom.  Goodnight, Everybody!

Cue drum music.

Rock pushed the button for the retractable roof and watched as a beautiful night sky opened up above him. He tossed his empty martini glass out of the moon roof, then stood up to see if it landed on a homeless person. Unfortunately, the street was deserted. Settling back into his bath, he reached along the edge of the hot tub until he found a Cuban cigar and a solid gold Zippo lighter with diamond inlays.

With the swarm of bubbles tickling his nether regions, Rock failed to notice a long tail slithering through his legs.  With his eyes closed, he failed to spot the six-foot spikes jutting out of the water.  With his ears full of wax, he failed to hear the giant armored plates scraping his upholstered ceiling.  With his mind so wrapped up in thoughts about himself, he completely missed the seventeen-ton shimmering stegosaurus, now scratching its butt against the side of his hot tub.

It was unfortunate for Rock that his stretch Hummer lacked the prehistoric vegetation that once constituted the stegosaurus’s diet. The enormous reptile had to settle for raiding the mini-fridge, where it quietly devoured a platter of expensive French cheese and escargot. And it was to Rock Benson’s greatest misfortune that at the precise moment he sparked his Cuban cigar; the Stegosaurus let loose a potent blast of flatulence that incinerated him.
Go to chapter 7

Dinosaur Ghost Chapter 5: This Poop Gets Complicated

Dinosaur Ghost is now available for free as a pdf!

Helen and Eric spent the rest of the afternoon taking selfies in front of the dinosaur ghost poop.

“This is awesome,” Eric said.  “We’re going to be famous.”  He put his  arm around Helen.  “Smile,” he said. 

Helen tried to smile, but her anxiety level was rising.  Oh my gosh, he’s so cute, she thought.

Just then, her iPhone started playing “La Cucaracha.”  Looking down at the phone, she saw James’s face glaring up at her.  As in all photos, he was sticking out his tongue and using his fingers to make devil horns over his  forehead.

 “I’m sorry, Eric.  I have to take this,” she said.

“No problem,” Eric said.  “I’m going to post these photos to Twitter and Instagram.”

Helen walked a short distance away and pressed the answer button.  “Hey, Baby,” she said in a voice normally reserved for talking to actual babies.

“Don’t ‘Hey Baby’ me, Babe.  Where the hell are you?” James asked.  She heard a sound and knew he was crushing a beer can against his forehead.  A golf match played in the background.

“I told you,” she said.  “I had to do that thing.  With the dinosaur bones.  You know, to help me get into grad school.” 

She looked over at Eric.  He was smiling and dancing around while talking into his cell phone. He was obviously celebrating.  She wanted to go celebrate with him.

“Yeah, well, I need you here,” James said.

“But James, this is important.”

“Oh, and I’m not?"

"Of course you are."

"If that's true, you'll come home right away.  I can’t find the remote control anywhere, and I’m sick  of watching commercials.”

“Did you look under your butt?” Helen asked.

“What did you say?”

“Nothing, it’s just that the last time you lost the remote, you were sitting on it.”

“Damn it, Helen!  I’m not sitting on the remote.”  There was a sudden pause on the other side of the call.

“James?  Are you there?”

“Okay, this time I was sitting on it, but the next time it could really be lost. I need you to come home right away.”

“Baby, please.”

“Don’t ‘Baby, please’ me, Babe.  I said, come home right now.”  The call ended.

“Darn it,” Helen said.  She gazed up at the sky and screamed, “I am so sick of my boyfriend!”

“Thompson!  Who is this person?”

Helen was startled to discover that another character had stumbled into their scene.  He looked to be in his early sixties. He had thinning hair and a white beard that he stroked in between puffs off a rather elegant walnut tobacco pipe.

“That’s Helen, sir.  She’s been... helping me.”

“I see.  Perhaps if you weren't out here getting “helped” by some harlot, I wouldn't be missing a bloody stegosaurus!”

“Now, see here...”  Eric began.

“No, Thompson, you see here.  You see here this instant.  You’re fired!”

“What?” Eric looked as if he’d been punched in the stomach.  “Please, Dr. Watson.  Allow me to explain.”

“I think you have explained quite enough, Thompson.”

“You asshole!” Helen cried.  Even as she spoke she could hardly believe the words coming out of her mouth.  She went over to Dr. Watson, grabbed the arm of his tweed jacket, and began leading him toward their discovery.  “Eric has done nothing wrong here.  If you would just close your mouth for one second and listen, you would realize that Eric has made the paleological find of the century.”

“Helen, there’s something I have to tell you.” Eric said.

“No, Eric.  I won’t let him do this to you. Dr. Watson, come look at this. It’s right behind this boulder over here.”

“Helen, I've been trying to tell you.  Look at your phone.”

“What about my phone?” Helen released Dr. Watson.  She glanced down at her phone.  It looked fine.

“Check the camera roll,” Eric said.

“And just what is it I’m supposed to see?” Dr. Watson asked.  He was standing by the boulder.

Open your eyes, why don’t you?  Helen wanted to say.  She continued to scroll through her pictures.  What was it she was supposed to see?

“I've had quite enough of this.  Thompson, I want your office cleaned out by the end of the day.”

The pictures! There was Helen, and there was Eric, but where was the poop?  It had vanished from every single photo.  It was almost like you couldn't take pictures of ghost poop or something.  

She dropped the phone and ran to the boulder.  

Eric hung his head.  

Dr. Watson hopped in his jeep and drove away.  

Helen searched the area, but it was no use.  It wasn't just the pictures.  The entire poop had vanished.

Eric came up next to her. “There goes my career.”

Helen nodded as if realizing something.  “Of course it disappeared,” she said.  She searched her bag for one of her thingamabobs and then used it to scan the vicinity.  “The poop was just a temporal imprint.  Like ghosts themselves, their poop is only visible for a short time before it returns to the ghost netherworld from whence it came.”

She gathered her gear and started walking to her car.

 “What are you doing now?” Eric asked.

“I have to go.”

“Wait,” Eric said, running after her.  “What are we going to do about this?”

Helen stopped, leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.  “I’ll meet you at your office later.  We’ll get to the bottom of this, but there is something I have to take care of first.”

“But... but... but...”

Helen slammed the door of her Volvo and drove away.

“But I don’t have a ride,” Eric said softly, but there was no one around to hear him.

Back at her apartment, Helen dropped her purse on the kitchen counter and called out to James.

“James,” she called, “we need to talk.”

She followed the noise from the television into the den.  A professional badminton game was playing (one of James’s ten favorite sports), and a bucket of chicken bones (gross!) rested on the floor beside his recliner.  James was no where to be seen.

He must be in the bathroom, she thought.

“James,” she said, going to the bathroom door.  “I've made a very important decision.  When you come out of there, we need to talk.  Is this going to be a long one?”

Looking down, she noticed red liquid sliding under the bathroom door.  “Oh no,” she said.  “The water turned red again.   I’ll call the super.  James, don’t try to fix anything.  James? Do you hear me?”  She reached for her cell phone, and started scrolling through a list of names.  She could see the bathroom light through a crack in the door and heard water running in the bathtub.  “James, turn off the water.  You’re making a huge mess.”

She reached down to turn the knob, noticed the door was ajar, and gave it a gentle push.  She gasped when she saw James on the toilet, slumped over, another bucket of chicken bones resting beside him.

Running to him, she called out,  “James! James, wake up!”

Red water continued to overflow the bathtub.  James is dead and the pipes are broken: this is too much for me to deal with right now, she thought.  She pressed two fingers against his neck and confirmed her worst fears: he didn't have a pulse.  And what happened to your shirt? 

A trio of slice marks ran down the front of his wife beater, almost as if some kind of large animal had attacked him.  She lifted his shirt, probed his rolling belly fat, and found three scratch marks, not deep enough to end his life--that appeared to be a result of a heart attack--but clearly visible.  Whatever did this wasn’t human, she told herself.

It was difficult to see through all the steam rising from the hot water faucet, but she managed, with shaking fingers, to tap out the numbers 9-1-1.  Looking up, she stared at the steam-covered mirror.

“What is your emergency?” A woman’s voice asked.

Helen continued to stare at the mirror, unable to speak.  In crude, rudimentary scrawl, someone had written in the steam.  It was difficult to read, but Helen clearly recognized the single word and understood its implications.  This is what it said: ROAR.
Continue to chapter 6