Yesterday, I sent a contract update to a client and closed with the usual. Her response was "No questions asked." *lightbulb* Wouldn't that be a great start to a story!?
Well, yes it would, and since I know quite a few VERY talented writers, I thought "aha, a flash fiction prompt!"
The usual rules, albeit modified, apply:
1. Write a story using 100 words or fewer.
2. Start the story with "No questions asked"
3. You must use the whole
Thus: no questions asked or answered is ok but no questions were asked is not.
4. Post the entry in the comment column of THIS blog post.
5. One entry per person. If you need a mulligan (a do-over) erase your entry and post again. It helps to work out your entry first, then post.
6. International entries are allowed, but prizes may vary for international addresses.
7. Titles count as part of the word count (you don't need a title)
8. Under no circumstances should you tweet anything about your particular entry to me. Example: "Hope you like my entry about Felix Buttonweezer!" This is grounds for disqualification.
8a. There are no circumstances in which it is ok to ask for feedback from ME on your contest entry. NONE. (You can however discuss your entry with the commenters in the comment trail when results are posted...just leave me out of it.)
9. It's ok to tweet about the contest generally.
Example: "I just entered the flash fiction contest on Janet's blog and I didn't even get a lousy t-shirt"
10. Please do not post anything but contest entries. (Not for example "I love Felix Buttonweezer's entry!")
11. You agree that your contest entry can remain posted on the blog for the life of the blog. In other words, you can't later ask me to delete the entry and any comments about the entry at a later date.
12. The stories must be self-contained. That is: do not include links or footnotes to explain any part of the story. Those extras will not be considered part of the story.
Contest opens: 8:50am Saturday 10/8/16
Contest closes: 9am Sunday 10/9/16
If you're wondering what time it is in NYC: click here
If you'd like to see the entries that have won previous contests, there's an .xls spread sheet here
(Thanks to Colin Smith for organizing and maintaining this!)
Questions? Tweet to me @Janet_Reid
Ready? SET?
Rats! Too late, contest closed at 9am.
58 comments:
"No questions asked," she whispered as she lifted the sheet. I tentatively touched her thigh. She seemed… colder.
I never questioned what she did with her nights. As long as she brought it home to me, I guess I didn't care. Or, I pretended not to.
The disheveled hair. The torn clothing. None of it mattered. Because I loved her.
But this time I had to know.
“I probably shouldn't ask,” I hazarded, not making eye contact. “But where did you find this one? The river?”
“I said no questions!” she growled. “Do you want her parts or not?”
No questions asked. It’s the best return policy. I hate the judging looks when they ask why, or what’s wrong with it, or act like I should have kept a receipt.
No questions suits me. Hassle free. But I do worry about regret. What’s the opposite of buyer’s remorse?
I thought I wanted it at the time. A drunken impulse. But I can’t afford it. It’s better off with a different owner.
That’s what I tell myself as I set this one down in a cradle at the hospital’s baby safe haven. It’s for the best. No question about it.
“No questions asked, Ms. Smith. I promise!
Chitchat IS a bit awkward, what with the instruments.
I’ll just have to guess your vacation plans!
“Now, let’s get right to business. We’re going to remove them all, correct?
Wait – don’t answer that. I did promise, ha, ha!
“You’ll feel a little pinch – there! – and the anesthesia’s kicking in nicely.
Open wide. We’ll have them out in a jif, if you’ll stop struggling.
That’s right – relax - don’t try to speak.
“Here comes the last one – oof!
Just updating your chart now.
Teeth CAN be a bother, I suppose, Ms…Ms…
Schmidt?
“Shit.”
No questions asked, they said, so he bought the coffee maker even though the doctor told him no caffeine, and returned it unopened a week later.
Free trial and returns, they said, so he ordered the custom-made mattress and sent it back after sixty days.
Full refund, they said, so he purchased it, not caring what it was. He wouldn’t go like the woman down the street did, dead three days before anyone knew. He’d make sure the UPS guy visited six days a week.
He boxes came and went each day, no questions asked.
No questions asked.
No permission sought.
No future considered.
No secrets hidden.
No fights avoided.
No fucks given.
No mercy granted.
No insults swallowed.
No punches pulled.
No charges laid.
No questions asked: no questions to answer. Instead, they perpetually linger, unspoken in the spaces between.
Mom: “I saw Karen’s boy yesterday. He’s a doctor now.”
Why couldn’t you’ve been something?
Dad: “Doctors make good money, more than mechanics.”
Why are you such a disappointment?
Me: “I ran into Aunt Judy.”
Whatever happened to Uncle Eddie?
Dad: “Really? Haven’t talked to her since that loser disappeared.”
Why was Eddie the only one who understood me?
Mom: (averts eyes)
Now that I think about it, why do I look more like Eddie than Dad?
Maybe some questions are better left unsaid.
No questions asked.
No “What’s the average length of admission?”
No “Will I at least get a private room?”
Mama was a journalist, for pity’s sake. For forty-two years she asked questions. Thousands of questions. Started off questioning local authorities and residents in her small town. Then big city folk. Then world leaders. And I followed in her footsteps. I’m trying to, anyway. But not to this. Not this. I couldn’t bear it. She couldn’t bear this. If she knew.
If more of her were left, I know the question she’d be asking now: “How can you leave me here?”
No questions asked, and life continued as usual.
Things were different now, very different. He still left for work every morning; she did carpool and endless piles of laundry. He still bowled on Thursday. She attended AA meetings on Tuesday night.
When the cries wakened them in the night, this baby got his atonement attention, not hers.
During the day, when she changed baby's diapers, the azure blue eyes defined the sins of her father.
The adoption had been a no-questions-asked affair.
She'd begun to look forward to Buddy’s Bar, right next door to the civic center where AA met.
No questions asked, through paper cups, we'd tell each other everything. The length of a piece of string bringing us together.
I'd sit still, hair curled round my ear, ready to distinguish your voice from the sounds of the paper sea. We were too new for complication, yet our words vibrated with conspiracy when fed through this umbilical line; every word ringing with delightful secrecy.
Later on, we'd contact each other, engage in dutiful exchanges, filter the details of more complex lives through the phone, ensuring that we didn't really keep in touch, ensuring no questions were ever truly answered.
“No questions asked.”
“Who’d they send in?”
“Guy named Malcolm.”
“Ah. He’s one of the outliers. From the no interrogating school of interrogation.”
“It was the craziest thing to watch. Our perp’s huge. We had a real David and Goliath showdown. Both of them staring, not saying a word. Nearly drove me crazy, but I kept quiet, didn’t blink either. Then our guy Malcolm said, “I know what the dog saw.”
“What’d the perp do?”
“That was the tipping point. Ashamed. He loved that dog yet buried the wife under the doghouse. A full confession. Dangdest thing. No questions asked.”
No questions asked, I'll be there.
We swore it, a blood oath between brothers, between beatings.
But my brother was always the needy one. And I've always been there, cleaning up messes, destroying evidence. Whatever loyalty required.
Just like I'm here, now. Watching thirty years of answers exhumed from his backyard as he portrays ignorance, shock, even grief. Cooperating with the investigation.
Diverting suspicion.
I feel the cuffs pinch, hear someone say I have the right to remain silent. But questions will be asked. And I realize we got it wrong.
We should've vowed, instead, to never answer.
NO QUESTIONS ASKED. ALL ANSWERS QUESTIONED.
“What’s that mean?”
“Dunno. Come on.”
I knocked. Inside, thumping. We exchanged glances.
A misshapen face. A wave inside.
“Jed, you really gonna -?”
“We gotta find out. Come on.”
Dim shapes in the trailer. The smell of circus socks.
“There’s that sign again.”
Eyes glittering, peering from a humped skull.
“Mister, what’s that mean?”
Eyes. Burning.
“I almost forgot. He needs a dollar.”
“Here, mister.”
A croak. Words rasping like snakeskin.
“He says your Ma did it.”
Dake frowned.
“How’s Pa talking to you? The man’s dead.”
The hunchback pointed at the sign.
No questions asked was what they should put on my tombstone. But it wasn’t going to be my fault if I died…. at least not completely.
He approached me on the corner of desperation and sinless with an irresistible proposition. Not asking a single question, I climbed into his Jaguar. Then one medically induced coma later, I woke up inside a cellar.
After innumerable days of sweating bullets, puking my brains out, and shaking like a leaf, an Auntie Em wannabe walked down the stairs with a plate of cookies.
“Where am I?”
“Granny’s House of Tough Love. Cookie?”
"No questions?" asked the Interrogator.
Hyeon shook his bowed head.
"You must!" The Interrogator slammed his fist on the table. "Ask! Ask the question!"
Hyeon fought back tears, shaking his head more vigorously. "I can't," he tried to say, but the words wouldn't come. The Interrogator came close, leering over him. Hyeon gripped the sides of his chair. The Interrogator kicked the chair over, spilling Hyeon onto the floor.
"Get out!" he screamed as Hyeon scrambled to the door. "And send in the next contestant."
The Interrogator turned to the camera, smiling.
"'Jeopardy' from Pyongyang will return in a minute."
No questions asked at the scene.
One tiny room with a prejudiced mirror.
Two officers for the interrogation.
Three hours before I ask for a lawyer.
Four months to get to trial.
Five gunshot wounds, point-blank to the face.
Four hours for the jury to deliberate.
Three decades behind bars before I get the needle.
Two kids, abused, desperate, did the only thing they could to protect themselves.
One innocent man takes the fall.
No regrets.
No questions asked, and no fucks given.
The splotched wooden sign dangles over a crooked line of Jäger. Lucky for me, the glasses aren’t as crooked as Jimmy’s clientele. I move down the line easy, slamming the third cheap shot in front of a couple of tweakers, the fourth in front of some boozers. Both go down like fire. Neither burns hotter than the hooker next to me. She takes shots five and six with a wild laugh and a wicked grin.
“Want to get out of here?” I ask.
She points to the sign.
Well I’ll be fucked…
not.
“No questions asked?”
“Safer that way.”
“You knew all this time?”
“Yes and yes, I have often been a fool but only a sometimes idiot. I could count past seven even then. I know whose daughter she is and I knew where he was heading but you needed to know for yourself.”
“The emails and photos.”
“Yes, I was hoping you would open your eyes before it got this far. It will not happen again.”
“I thought it was bullshit.”
I hung up and rolled the body of her daughter abusing, late husband off the bow. The gators were waiting.
“No questions asked,” she whispered, “no lies told.”
“Dammit! Cut,” Phil cursed. “Line…anyone.”
“Ask me no questions, I’ll tell you no lies,” a sad understudy answered.
“Sheila, how the hell did you get this part?”
“Phil, knock it off, the boss don’t like nobody badmouthing her.”
“Fuck off Rocco…this is insane…she can’t remember one fucking line.”
“Who talks like that?” Sheila’s shrill voice sliced through the stage.
“You should, you mindless bimbo……”
The shot rang out as Phil flew backward, stage left.
“If any cop asks, you don’t say nothin’, capiche?”
“Ask me no questions, I’ll tell you no lies...hehehe.”
No questions asked. No hesitation. He allowed me to lead him away through a veil of fear. Ardently matching my stride, he moved to the rhythm of my heartbeat. I glanced at his dismal existence in the rearview mirror and considered it a victory. And the keening wails I kept muted in my head would be excised on the hour-long ride ahead. Seeing his own kind eased the worry around his liquid brown eyes; the hunger pangs momentarily forgotten. I gently touched his powerful neck then slipped the halter off. “You’re free.” This is the language of love. No question.
No. Questions Asked: 5
No. Clear Answers Received: 0
Q1- 911. What is the nature of your emergency?
Q2- Understood. What's your location, ma'am?
Q3- I assume you cannot speak freely?
Q4- Are you in immediate danger?
Q5- Last question. Does he have a gun?
A1- No, I don't really have time for a survey.
A2- I thought our landline was on the no-call list, but if there's a prize...
A3- Beats me. Maybe... once a week?
A4- Come now, don't be rude.
A5- That's no defense. She and I always--I've had enough. *click*
No. Vehicles Sent: 3
“No questions asked.”
The struggling entrepreneur peered at the seven-figure check through bleary eyes. His name—Jorg Faust—was spelled correctly, which was odd, considering he hadn’t filled out an application. The loan officer was odd, too. A dapper man with vestigial horns.
“Don’t you need to check my credit score?”
The banker grinned, horns waggling. “Nope.”
“What about repayment?”
The banker shook his head. “This isn’t a loan. Remember?”
Jorg grasped at wisps in his hungover fog. An ocean of beer. A chatty bartender. A promissory note on a cocktail napkin. For the sale of one gently used soul.
“No questions asked,” mantra while dancing on the sun in Baghdad.
Kaleidoscope: Bradley rolling, ball bouncing, kid chasing, me slowing.
“Drive!”
“Sir? A kid!”
“IED, DRIVE!”
Retch for hours, scour my hands a hundred times. Can’t clean the blood for the bleeding.
Next day – next – same patrol. No questions asked.
#
Kid survives me, gnaws my brain, gulps my life-force. Me and Johnny self-medicate.
Neighbor boy, little cutie, kicks ball, races toward it. SUV runs stop. I grasp boy, thrust him away, thud against car.
Driver yells. At me! I black out bloody beating.
Another vet jailed. No questions asked.
No questions asked.
At four, Amber returned my favorite sparkly glitter pen while I wasn't looking.
At eight, Amber “found” her little brother's bike behind the tool shed.
At twelve, Amber sneaked her big sister's new blouse back into her closet while she was at school.
At sixteen, Amber arrived home in the back of a police cruiser.
At twenty, Amber was sentenced to probation plus restitution.
At twenty-four, Amber served two years in state prison.
At twenty-eight, Amber's grave is bare, so I cover it with flowers.
I'm sorry Amber.
My beautiful baby girl.
I should have asked questions.
“No?” Questions asked.
“Ms. Mark timidly votes against banishment.”
“Yes!”
“Mr. Point strongly in favor. Mr. Dash?”
Em answered, “Yes, because -”
“Because the press don’t use it!” Apostrophe interrupted.
“Less confusion. I vote no.”
“Even with Mrs. Period’s vote, the Oxford Comma is officially banished.”
Mr. Period replied, “I am disappointed with Mr. and Mrs. Parentheses, Hyphen and Semicolon.”
“I ain’t part of the Parentheses family; you assterick!”
“Ms. Mark, your girl and you can go to Wite-out.”
“Who blabbed about my affair with Mr. Period?????”
Pandemonium erupted. A revote was quickly cast. All were happy again.
Well, almost all.
“No questions asked you said.”
“Yes, of course.” Della eyed the disheveled woman leaning against the return counter, a pumpkin tucked under one arm. She clutched a small cage containing – were those mice? Della suppressed a shudder. “We’re happy to refund your purchase price if you’re not completely satisfied. But for quality control purposes, we’d appreciate some feedback.”
The woman shrugged. “The thing’s obviously defective. Midnight? Who’s ready to go before midnight? And glass shoes? Utterly impractical.”
“Ah, I see.” Della counted out the refund. User error. Typical. Really, some fairies shouldn’t even be allowed to operate a magic wand.
‘No questions asked’ is no way to do business.
She flashed wads of cash and told me to bake 200 pies. She knew about my debts. She knew about my daughter, the one I don’t talk about. I’m a pastry chef. They don’t teach this scenario in culinary school.
“Make your famous crust, use your own boxes,” she said. “We provide the filling.” No questions asked.
I didn’t imagine my pies were headed across the border. I didn’t know those soldiers would die. I asked no questions.
By the look of these suits at my counter, I’ll be answering plenty.
August sun poured in the window setting the kitchen and his brain ablaze.
Sifting through his childhood had demanded Jack Daniels. No questions asked this morning’s hangover hurt in all new places coffee and aspirin wouldn’t fix.
Grandma was lemon furniture polish and rose water dabbed on embroidered handkerchiefs, sweet southern iced tea and squishy hugs smelling of fried chicken and starched aprons. She hadn’t lived in this farmhouse but was of it, from it, woven into each other into one entity. Her shadow lit every inch of every corner.
No, he couldn’t sell. She’d have to get over it.
“No Questions Asked” was playing softly when he entered the room. Her eyes gave tacit approval as he drew back the sheet and slid in beside her. And though her body remained cool and stiff beneath his fevered caresses, he thought a quiet moan escaped her lips.
At first light, he bathed her gently and brushed her hair to a high sheen. He was applying the final touches to her makeup when his assistant’s discreet knock told him it was showtime. Slipping the satin pillow under her head, he adjusted his tie and wheeled the casket into the viewing room.
“No questions asked, no lies told!”
Mama’s #1 rule drummed in my head as I confronted her closed bedroom door. Questioning her “business,” was risky. Emergency room risky.
No matter. The drug paraphernalia scattered about provided answers.
When she didn’t come out, I went on to school. Back home, the silence stretched.
I sat in bed wondering, Was she even home?
Three days later, my answer came. I contemplated the closed door.
What would she want me to do?
What she taught me, I decided. Maintain the #1 rule.
I ate, slept, attended school.
Eventually, the stench was gone too.
“…no questions asked! Dial---”
Johnson’s head jerked up from his inspection of the one kilogram package. He jotted down the phone number. Fisher & Fisher Moving might be just what he needed. Glancing over the stained warehouse floor, he determined he’d need...six chests. Make it seven; then he could move the packages, too. He dialed the number.
“Hello, Fisher & Fisher Moving? This is Craig, from the furniture warehouse. I started this week. Some chests. Seven. No, they’re not ready…an hour. Sorry? Martin's sick today. Jeff’s with a customer, but if you’d like…? Alright. See you then.”
“No questions asked,” she agreed. Weak handshake.
Pursed my lips, and she ducked her head. I calculated her frailty, imagined those skinny claws climbing cement walls, holding a Glock steady.
I rubbed the back of my neck. “And you’ve definitely done this before?”
She blinked.
I sighed. “You just don’t seem the … type.”
Bit her lip. “Sorry.”
We paid premium for this? “What’s your m.o.?”
Her hands clasped. “Habits.”
“Habits?” I snorted, wriggling shoulders, trying for an itch.
Shy smile. “You touch your neck.”
…Curious tone.
Itch burning. Climbing.
Agony!–
“And, aren’t my handshakes the worst? Oh sorry –question.”
No questions asked as the body camera would eventually confirm. The press who are present at the scene now their report will start with “A routine traffic stop…”and end with “another police officer has died.”
For those of us who have worn the uniform, the badge and carried the much more significant weight of responsibility than the actual weight of a gun, there was never a routine traffic stop.
A parked marked police cruiser, engine running, emergency lights on, dash cam recording and a dead officer in a puddle of his blood in the street. No questions asked. God Bless.
"No questions asked, my ass." Rolly's voice is cold, flat in the drainpipe.
Deke peers at the small, still body. "The news said the family just wants to know."
"You liked prison that much?"
"We didn't do this."
"Guilt stains, man. Everyone can see it. Doing good now won't wash it out."
Deke crouches, pulls an old towel from his bag.
"I'll be at the diner." Rolly stomps off.
Deke covers the child, except for one hand, a pale, delicate flower dried into a curl of goodbye.
Deke fingers the quarter in his pocket. The diner has a payphone.
“No Questions Asked”
And a good thing, too.
“Coroner Confident”
I knew what to do.
“Natural Causes”
The verdict was in.
“Police Satisfied”
I swallowed a grin.
Days and weeks
I hid away
They thought I cried;
I cried “Hurray”.
The headlines shrank
The story waned
I strode outside -
My freedom gained
My widow’s weeds
Wore out and then
My party dress
Wore out again
Months and years
Filed quickly past
Surfaces
Smooth as glass
The underside
A pock-marked soul
Slow corrosion
Takes its toll
Fraught with fears
And guilt unmasked
Another death
No Questions Asked
No questions asked in the comments, just an obituary in the Guardian. I listened to the songs he had written, thinking of the first time we met, backstage. I saw his face and waved in recognition, which startled him because he didn’t know me yet. Then we met in his native Donegal. He stood by the road; my friend and I gave him a lift. He was proud to know two girls from Holland who spoke Irish. Last time I saw him the family band got back together for a final concert. He was ill; he died. No questions asked.
“No questions asked.” The blackened sign dangled on a twisted nail. Insulation leaked out of the hole that had once been a ceiling to some—a floor to others. A pile of rubble stirred, a head then a shoulder birthed out. Dust-covered eyes blinked open. The last thing they saw played like a movie reel—A co-worker, wild-eyed, screaming. The quiet one, who never joined in office chats—you hardly knew he was there—a blast, heat then darkness. What happened? Who knew? Why? The sign tottered. The eyes looked. “No questions asked.”
"No questions asked” he said.
He lies.
Going back to him became my jail sentence; he became my inquisition, I became his slave.
He lies.
I should have stayed away, protected from him and his truth.
He lies.
Now I’ll get out in twenty to fifty years,
with good time served.
"...no questions asked," the sign flashed.
"Why not?"
ZAP!
Another One Bites the Dust blasted through the speakers.
"My strength is weakness, my weakness strength..." the sign flashed.
"What does that mean?"
ZAP!
Music.
Dying world here, life through that door.
"But how?"
ZAP!
"Let me try," Bryanna said.
"Are you crazy?"
ZAP!
Bryanna hugged her teddy.
"We're all that's left."
Bryanna stared at the sign she couldn't read. Too young for school.
"Abracadabra!" she yelled.
The earth trembled, fell away.
"Open sesame!"
The door opened. Welcome to the Casbah played.
Bryanna jumped in, no questions asked.
“No questions asked she says.” My spade slams into the hard dirt, hands vibrate from the impact. I snicker, glance over my shoulder at the blood-soaked sneakers.
“She hands me a dollar. A measly buck. No explanation, just hands me a stinking dollar.” I step out of the shallow hole and kick the shoes into their grave.
“If she wanted me to get rid of her body, she should have paid me some big bucks, not with those enlarged photocopies of C-notes. Can’t fool me twice. What’s a buck gonna get me?”
“Twenty-five to life,” the cop behind me whispers.
True Story
8:30am, I wake her up.
I lay out a coordinated, blue (matches her eyes) outfit for preschool.
She is frowning; I can tell this affronts her incomparable sense of haute couture.
9:15am She's ready;
wearing Cheetah checked leggings, a mermaid swimsuit, tutu, her robe, nose-plug necklace, a flowing scarf and one each of her favorite shoes.
9:30am, I drop her off.
I pin a note on the scarf, "This was not my idea..."
11:30am: I pick her up.
A new note attached; "Your daughter has a creative sense of style, we are proud of you!
No questions asked."
No questions asked meant not having to hear answers I already knew.
(Are you happy? Are you coming home tonight? Who is she?)
No, I didn't need those answers.
A pair of dragonflies flitted past the living room window, the flash of iridescent wings catching my eye. I'll have to do the yard work now. I really hate yard work.
"Ma'am, I know this is difficult, but I need you to look at the photo. Is this your husband?"
I blinked at the glossy rectangle, bringing it into focus.
"Yes. (Where did you find him?)”
No questions asked, they said when I called.
He’s one-year-old, I said, and he’s had all his shots.
Don’t worry, they said. We’ll find a good home. This isn’t the pound.
Which made me feel better.
I carried him inside, stroking his head for comfort. Mine. Not his.
A door opened and a man appeared. I expected a lab coat.
“My wife left, I had to file bankruptcy . . .”
The man raised his hands. “No questions asked.”
I handed him over. Eyes begging, then pleading, as the man carried him away.
“Dada,” I heard.
The door slammed shut.
"No questions asked, right?"
The demon nodded. "Name it, and it's yours."
The man bit his lip, drew a crumpled photo from his breast pocket, smoothed it with a loving touch.
In the photo, he lay on a hospital bed, on the covers, holding a rail thin man, kissing him, holding hands.
"One day," was his request.
The demon handed it back. "Sorry. I can only handle those requests if they're in house. But if you wait, you'll have much longer than a day."
Tears stood in the man's eyes. "But I thought--"
"You were lied to."
“No questions asked. I hate Mr. Denton as much as you. And you’re not the only student whose ‘pretty neck’ he’s admired, either.”
I shuddered, thinking about my unworn choker, lonely in my jewelry box after he’d touched it. “And the effect is temporary?”
“Absolutely. Barely get him loopy enough for administrative leave.”
I was hoping for fired, but his K-12 tenure was iron-clad. “Let’s do it.”
Later that afternoon, when they removed Mr. Denton’s jaundiced body, my only regret was the discovery of the nearly empty jar of opioids in his desk drawer, an unasked question answered.
No questions asked. That was a mistake. A wizard always asks questions.
Especially of pretty girls and small favours.
"I can't cast this spell."
"You wrote it."
"Yeah—"
"And this is yours, right?" She held up a glass favour.
It was.
"So cast the spell."
"It's too complex."
"Then what good is this?" She threw the favour across my office.
It didn't shatter.
I stooped to pick it up. "Everyone knows the spell I wrote. Everyone knows this is my favour." I closed her fingers around it. "Only you and I know I can't cast it."
"Yeah?"
"So bluff."
No questions asked. These words from the Personals explained why I now stood before Apartment NCC1701. With trembling hand, I knocked.
A cranial ridge came into view before fierce eyes roamed over my blue skin, to the twin antenna and lastly to the Andorian Ale I carried.
“Password?” he barked.
“Bat'leth” I squeaked.
Swiftly he was on me but I was ready, and waiting. Hungry eyes morphed into surprise and then...to nothing as his body sagged to the floor.
With a smile I wiped the bloody blade on his Klingon leathers, happily adding another Trekkie to my collection.
"No questions asked.
Married, single, young or barely old enough, I take them.
One had legs so long you needed a road map to mark the spot, know what I mean?
Another, had boobs fuller than my hands and I've got big hands. Look at my hands, big I tell you, big.
I prefer blondes, like my daughter.
Whoa, is that brunette for real? Look at that ass. Quick, give me a Tic Tac, I'm a star. I'll take her."
Billy slid the photos across the desk. She rifled through and smiled.
"Good?"
She raised her hands.
No questions asked.
“No questions?” asked my boyfriend. “’Cause I’ve got some.” A domineering point at my sofa. Ooooh! I obeyed, sat, tingling with anticipation. My man has a fetish?
“Last night was our anniversary.”
“Anniv-“
“One month! You canceled our date.”
Uh-oh. He knows my ex came over? “Lemme explain –“
“Quiet!”
Sir, yes, sir! I’d never played submissive.
He paced. An interrogating cop. “I saw the mask in your bedroom. The whip. Handcuffs.”
I’m so busted.
“I understand you couldn’t tell me.”
Uhh, yeah.
“Your secret’s safe.”
Safe?
“So, you’re a superhero?”
Gasp! “You’ll never meet Mom, but I love you.”
"No questions! Ask Ed." His honor bats away news cameras and descends the courthouse steps.
Ed opens his limo door.
"Thanks a million,"
"No sweat." Glamorous life of a seneschal. "You given any thought to what I asked the other day?"
Limo's moving. Reporters pinpricks in the distance.
"Yeah, no. I mean, y'know I appreciate everything you do for me, but I'm just not at the point where I can show that appreciation with money. You understand, right?" Of course he can't. For reasons entirely unrelated to embezzlement charges.
Ed's cell in hand. Evidence one text away. Send.
"No questions."
“No questions?”
Asked and answered. Twice. Even the glib-faced ticket taker couldn’t screw this up.
“First, the blue pill, then the green.” I roll my eyes so far back I almost can see the hordes queueing behind me.
Smirker Boy stamps my hand. “Enjoy your Bond versus metal-mouth villain Cinemascape.”
I step into a coffin-like pod.
Can’t see which pill is which.
Worst case scenario? Some lame Sandler comedy.
I swallow one, then the other.
Floating on plastic. Swim trunks pinch my thighs.
Billboard hypes Amity Island.
A grey shadow edges into my vision.
And now that two-note theme song.
No questions asked, no receipt, no problem. That is the shitty policy – I hate the damn policy. True, we simply send garments back to the sweatshop for a washing and mending, but there’s paperwork.
The hoary crone of 2F is hauling her imminent exhibit A in. Every Tuesday, Senior Tuesday, she appears and acquires a charming outfit for 40% off and returns the outfit the following Saturday.
Tinder connections. Musty copulating. Eradications. Cringe.
“Corn syrup! Food dye!” She declares though I’m not asking.
Another married man absent from breakfast.
Dammit, another return no receipt.
I hate my job.
“No questions asked?” I said. “Not even one?”
“Nope.” He looked pleased with himself, like when he went mute after I asked if I was beginning to look fat.
“So, let me get this straight. This is our fifth anniversary of dating, third living together. After a romantic dinner you take me to Lover’s Leap, tell me how much you love me and how excited you are about the big change about to take place in our lives. Still no questions, not even one?”
“Nope.”
One question answered.
“He fell.”
Raising a baby on your own can’t be that bad.
“No questions asked is what you want,” the woman said before the class. “Questions have always been our downfall.”
She clicked through the slideshow. Images of the Greats projected onto the screen. The Joker. Magneto. Lex Luther.
“We all seem to suffer a common calamity,” She went on. “At the moment of certain victory, we divulge our plans’ greatest weaknesses.”
Her students stared blankly.
“You see, Occam’s razor doesn’t apply to world domination. People must know our genius.”
Someone in front raised a hand. “Why do they ask questions anyways?”
“Because the fuckers are more curious than they are heroic.”
No questions asked?
-No; questions asked.
Still, I'm sure you hid it well.
-Still I'm sure you hid it. Well?
Of course! We agreed the diamond belongs to me.
-Of course "we" agreed? The diamond belongs to me!
What, is this a twinge of conscience I hear? A laugh!
-What is this? A twinge of conscience! I hear a laugh.
You'd better not have brought the police--
-You'd better not! Have brought the police!!!
You've been found out?
You've been found. OUT!
"No questions asked," said Mr. Bear. He was big and lumpy, with small hard eyes.
"What did I do wrong?" squeaked the nameless stuffed mouse, peeping out from the pillow fort.
"No questions!" roared Mr. Bear, his voice hollow in the child's chest.
"Sorry, sorry." The mouse burrowed under the pillow.
"No talking, either. You've been BAD." Mr. Bear jumped on the mouse, and they wrestled together as a child's voice breathed, "No, no."
A voice came from outside: "Only bad children are still awake." The door started to open.
A child crawled under the pillow, clutching a stuffed mouse.
No questions asked--a reasonable expectation while shopping you'd think but--'Are you gonna stab anyone with this?'.
A pause, then an ill considered jibe, 'No--it's been weeks since I murdered anyone and only because he short changed me'.
'Assistance required at till three...'
Bugger!
Bottleneck at the checkout, irate customers, accusations, tempers flair, someone's late with their medication--and there's a knife.
At Batt Bunter and Benchroft, Solicitor and Attorney at Law, justice is metered in coin. How will you be paying is the topic of concern. Guilt or innocence--that's a case of no questions asked.
No questions asked.
The answer to this shithole mess. The woman laughed. The boy pointed, spoke what he saw, not what he was taught. The delusion falters so they must burn.
I watch, loathing the homogenous crowd in their variety of colors, despising my own silence and cowardice.
Drones, bauble heads, parasites, and idiots surround the pyre in jubilation, hating the boy and the woman, hating me without even knowing.
Flames devour the woman, the boy, all of our voices and possibilities.
Two die screaming as the crowd cheers in victory. Sameness returned to them.
No questions asked.
No questions asked,
No judgment passed,
‘Til light of life winks out at last.
The cowled figures finish the incantation. “Be transformed, Brother Ezekiel,” says the Elder.
--
“I’ve got one for you, Zeke.”
“On my way, Jan.”
The screams are audible from the hospice parking lot. “I left her to die,” wails the wild-eyed resident of room 203.
Zeke nods, breathing in pain, breathing out peace. Over the hours, the man’s own ragged breaths come easier, then stop.
“You’re a gentle soul, Zeke,” says Jan.
If she’d seen him on the battlefield 20 years ago, she would know better.
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