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  TOM’S TINY TERROR TALES

  By TOM SIMPSON

  Copyright 2002 by Simpson Enterprises

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  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  THE DRYER

  THE ENGRAVER

  MOTHERS DAY

  THE WEB

  PIGS DON’T LIE

  PURE PROFIT

  THE DRYER

  Dickerson did not want to be there. Sweat patches were growing from his massive armpits like wounds freshly bleeding. His three hundred and twenty five pound doughy body was almost flowing over the armrests of the straight back chair. I will not panic he kept repeating, audible only to the gleaming appliances glistening in the harsh florescent light.

  Patrick Dickerson could not remember ever being this tensed up. Even in the early years.

  The years he had tried to erase from his memory. He was a successful salesman. Up for promotion to district supervisor. That is why this trip was so important. He was to meet with the Southeastern regional manager at ten am the next day in Atlanta to finalize the deal. Only twelve more hours he thought and I can snub my nose at the other clowns at the office.

  He tried to shut his mind from everything but his coming glory. I deserve it he thought. I’m the one that always came in early and stayed after everyone had gone home. Nights and weekends, pouring over new product catalogues, making the last minute phone calls to close the order, faxing the necessary documents for overseas shipments. I tried the hardest, I deserve the best.

  The sudden quiet brought him abruptly back to his current environment and started the uncontrollable chills that had plagued him for the last forty five minutes. I have nothing to worry about, he boasted to himself. This is garbage. Why should I worry about something that happened twenty seven years ago? For Christ’s sake I’m thirty two years old. I am not going to let the nightmares of the past interfere with me now.

 

  Pushing his tremendous bulk out of the plastic Laundromat chair, Dickerson waddled towards the now silenced washing machine. Sounds from the past flashed towards him and then just as quickly zipped just beyond the outer reaches of his subconscious.

  “Fat Pat, Jelly Belly, come over here and take a lookie. You’re so fat and full of lard, the dryer is going to cook you like a gingerbread cookie.”

  He shut his mind to the taunting memories and slung open the washer door. That was years ago, a childhood scare. He reached into the washer and collected his multicolored socks and tent sized underwear. Placing his undergarments in the roll around basket he actually suppressed a giggle. Boy is this stupid he thought. Here I am at an all night Laundromat, washing last minute traveling clothes and worrying about something that scared me years ago. I don’t care if my housekeeper is on vacation. So, she usually takes my laundry home and does it. I’m man enough not to worry about an old childhood memory.

  This elation was only momentary as Dickerson turned around to face his old protagonist, the dryer. Memories flooded back as he stared at the large glass eyed monster awaiting him across the room. The Cyclops terror willed him closer, closer. The voices of distant past came hurling back at him as he again cringed in utter shock.

  “Let’s put the fat kid in the dryer and turn the heat all the way up. After we bake him we will all sit down for a real fun feast. We could even stick an apple in his mouth and make him look like the pig he really is.”

  The taunting of the neighborhood kids still echoed in his mind. He had fled with only a fraction of his sanity and his freshly wet pants to his apartment directly above the Laundromat. The smell of fresh piss and acrid sweat had smothered him as he hid in his mother’s closet till late that night. He had never ventured near the Laundromat since that day when he was five years old, but the ominous threat of the kid baking dryer still clung to him after all these years.

 

  This is absolute nonsense he told himself. The dryer is just another ugly machine designed to do man’s work. Walking stiffly, but on trembling legs, Dickerson approached his old nemesis and declared loudly to the deserted room.

  “I’m not scared of you. You are nothing but a hunk of painted metal. I am in control. I put money in you and you do exactly what you were built to do.”

  Feeling a little ashamed but more than a little relieved, he opened the dryer door and began loading his damp wash. See there is nothing to it. It’s an inanimate object. Forcing out another chuckle, he pulled four quarters out of his mammoth sized pocket and began feeding them into the coin slot.

  What a wimp I’ve been. Why should I be scared of something that was only in my imagination? Relaxing almost completely he saw he had left a blue sock clinging to the edge of the rolling basket. Patrick Dickerson reopened the dryer door and tossed the solitary sock in with its companions. A gulping sound from deep within the mechanism shadowed the high pitched squeal just starting to erupt from Dickerson’s body as his incredible bulk seemed to vacuum quickly through the open door. Two hours later, the faint scent of roasted pork drifted through the old neighborhood with just a hint of gingerbread mixed in.