It's No Picnic by Kenneth E. Myers Page A

intimidate, cawing as if to cow. Then—he looked at Eli, still fast asleep and chanting away, saying, “What’s he mumbling on about?” all the while actively scratching away at that brow.
    “He’s chanting, a madman is trying to kill me ,” Alex said.
    Now Smith, the chief detective, seemingly not trusting a word Alex said, went over to Eli, and leaning down close to the chatter—heard, “…is trying to kill me. A madman…”
    “What do you suppose that means,” Smith said.
    “I suppose it means a madman is trying to kill him,” Alex said, ironically.
    Now Smith, outwardly a bit mad himself, said, “I’d like to know who this madman is.”
    “You and I both pal ,” Alex said coolly.
    “What?”
    “I’d like to know too.”
    It was then Smith turned to the officer in charge, directing him to call a unit to pick up Eli, of course, leaving the officer to sort out the details. The officer picked up the phone, making a call to the station, afterward, informing Smith that a unit would arrive soon.
    In the meantime, Smith continued to question Alex, asking, “So, what brought all of this on?”
    Alex paused…slowly brushing back a handful of hair to get a better view of things, saying, “Well, I went to get a cup of coffee this morning…”
    Then—Eli jumped up, interrupting Alex; pointing, saying, “Him, the eyes, they were on fire, he reached down, clawing, digging in so deep as to tear the skin from the body, ripping into the chasm of the chest, puncturing the aorta; spewing forth an ocean of blood covering me…”
    Of course, Eli had nothing on but a pair of pants, leaving it quite apparent he had suffered no such injury or harm. Yet, there he stood, taking asylum in the mind, spewing forth highly expressive invectives; seemingly naming none other than Alex as a madman. But keep in mind, when wanting to name a madman; it helps if those invectives are sound.
    Now the rising oratory changed, shifting, clutching face to fist, going from simple lunacy to violence, prompting Smith to say, “Cuff him.”
    With that, two policemen wrestled Eli to the ground, placing him in cuffs.
    Moments later, a unit showed up. Alex, Smith and the two policemen with Eli in tow went to greet it. Alex expected a squad car; instead, they sent an ambulance. He went round back of the ambulance, seeing one of the two men, asking, “Can I be of assistance?”
    “No thanks. I believe we have it,” said the man dressed in all—white.
    Curious, Alex read the name on the partly open transport doors:
     
    —S U N N I E R P A S T U R ES—
     
    Everybody stood around looking at each other as the ambulance pulled away; bewildered complexions painting faces, uncertain casts coating eyes; each seemingly asking the other to break the silence. Of course, it was Smith that coughed up the first word, asking Alex, “So, how did you say it ended?”
    “Well, as I told you, I brought him back to the house and called the police,” Alex said, evenly.
    “Okay, okay. We’ll follow up,” Smith said, surely, “Oh, and Alex, here’s a copy of INP . You never know, you might just need it.”
    Oddly, the police seemed uninterested in what transpired. Perhaps it was obvious to the trained eye. Maybe years of working in the same place had jaded them. Whatever the reason, they were soon gone, leaving behind Alex and a shadow.
    It, whatever, appeared suddenly, as always, but of a different character; this time with a bold entrance echoing through the head like a chorus in a cavern.
     
     
     
    S OMEONE M UST H AVE S AID S OMETHING T O S OMEBODY, S OMEWHERE— S OMETIME, for now, Alex found himself inexplicably, on trial.
    The room was silent, so much so that it deafened the spirit, each hush seemly taking on a life. How could they stand it?
    Everybody was present making possible speech of everything. Yet, not an utterance held forth, not even the hum of a nervous person, each remaining silent, until he walked in.
    As the old man walked across