In this scene from the story Manhattan Monsters, an undead softball team is in a playoff game in Manhattan’s Central Park. The action is shown through the point of view of Gaspar Levesque, a lawyer working for the Attorney General.
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Gaspar paced behind the bench as he watched the game. He expected something bad to happen at any moment.
Ida stood behind the batting cage, swinging a bat to loosen up. The score was tied at three, it was the next to last inning and the Manhattan Monsters had a runner on second base with one out. A hit could give them a one run lead.
Their opponent, the Church of the Holy Grail, took the game very seriously, as if a loss to a team of unsaintly undead would cast a doubt on their sanctity. The church team wore unusual uniforms, blue cassocks with white surplices.
On the pitcher’s mound, the minister of the church stared at the catcher. The batter stared at the minister. In the bleachers, a choir of stout women sang hymns and stamped their feet.
The minister blessed the softball and threw the pitch.
“Ball four,” the umpire called.
The undead batter grinned and shuffled off to first base.
“I’m sure,” the minister growled, “there is a passage in the Bible that says all umpires are condemned to Hell.”
As she walked up to home plate, Ida winked at Alex who sat in front of Gaspar.
The minister’s lips moved as he called on heavenly assistance.
The choir stamped their feet harder, shaking the metal bleachers.
Suddenly, Gaspar saw a fleet of vans swarm towards the field. He gulped. Here it comes. The vans skidded to a stop and Federal agents dressed in blue windbreakers jumped out and ran towards the field. One agent held up a gold badge and shouted, “Freeze! Everyone stay where you are.”
The minister glared at the agents. As they crossed the baselines, he yelled, “Begone, thou devil’s spawn! How dare you interrupt God’s judgment on our state of grace? Get off the field until the game is over.”
Gaspar’s mouth dropped open. He saw a specter flitting around the pitcher’s mound.
“Shut your mouth or you’re in trouble,” the head agent said.
“Don’t you tell me to shut my mouth.” The minister hurled the softball at the agent. “I am the vessel of God’s divine words.” The ball slammed into the agent’s chest, staggering him for a moment.
“You son of a bitch!” The agent charged the mound and tackled the minister.
“Hey! Both teams are in blue and white,” another agent said. “Which one are we after?”
“Follow the leader,” a third agent said. “Move out.”
The infielders hoisted their cassocks and ran to the aid of their minister. They dived on the two men rolling around on the ground. Three more agents reached the melee and jumped in.
The choir stormed from the bleachers. They had the wrath of god in their hearts and dark frowns on their faces. They formed into three ranks, eight across, linked arms and advanced towards a group of agents corralling the team members on the bench. They sang Handel’s Hallelujah Chorus as they advanced like a Saxon shield wall. The women reached the agents, disengaged their arms and used the sharp corners of their hard-covered hymnals to jab the agents in the chest or crotch. The agents fell back.
On the sidelines, a journalist jabbered into a recorder while her cameraman filmed the action.
One agent, braver than his mates, took a running leap into the chorus and dragged two women to the ground. Other agents poured through the gap in the shield wall and, working in teams of two or three, handcuffed individuals. Gradually, the tide of battle turned and the choir’s singing grew ragged as it changed from Handel to cursing.
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Want to read more? You’ll have to get a copy of Tunnel Vision.
There are twenty humorous fantasy and scifi stories in the collection.
Thinking of a little summertime reading, or perhaps you just want an escape during the rush hour commute while trapped on the train – this collection of Hank Quense’s stories are for you. The tales read easily and will make you laugh out loud at times.
Although a fan of serious science fiction and fantasy, I’ve loved Quense’s humorous work for years. From drunken physics students causing their building to vanish to an odd Dwarf or the undead thrown in for good measure, the stories entertain without effort. Burga the Warrior-Cook? A Knight-Accountant? Can’t be too careful in pursuing a degree these days; might just need that second layer of expertise in these trying times. His satire is right on; Quense has a knack of having his, for the most part clueless characters say either just the wrong thing at the wrong moment, or the right thing to make the scene work perfectly.
Oh, and did I mention the hostile aliens?
Read on, Dear Reader and find out for yourself.
Tracy Byford
