"Small Town Inc Is Going Public," Joe Prosit

Today on Midwest Weird: “Small Town Inc is Going Public," By Joe Prosit.

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Joe Prosit writes sci-fi, horror, and psycho fiction. He has independently published six novels and two short story collections. He lives with his wife, kids, and dog in Brainerd, Minnesota.

Midwest Weird is an audio literary magazine from Broads and Books Productions. We’re the home of weird fiction and nonfiction by Midwestern writers.

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Episode Transcript:

This is Midwest Weird, an audio literary magazine from Broads and Books Productions.

We’re the home of weird fiction and nonfiction by Midwestern writers.

Today’s episode: "Small Town is Going Public," by Joe Prosit. Read by the Midwest Weird team.

On the edge of town, the city limit sign boasted Bluff Creek’s most recent mission statement: “Bluff Creek: Providing a quaint and comfortable space for residents and small businesses alike.” Prior to that, it said “Bluff Creek: Fostering community and business opportunities while maintaining rural charm.” And prior to that, it said simply, “Bluff Creek: A Nice Place to Live and Grow.”

If Mayor Paul could do it over again, he would have stuck with the original one. It was more outward-facing. More of a slogan than a mission statement. Or, if he could go back to the day last spring when they came up with the most recent mission statement, he’d get rid of the word “small.” It restricted opportunities and limited potential growth. Corporate even told them that day in the Chamber of Commerce conference room to “Think big,” and “Blow things up.” And yet, somehow they settled on a mission statement with the word “small” right in it. And well, that’s how he got where he was today.

Randy and Andi from Corporate arrived early. Ten minutes early, which was a bit earlier than the polite and professional five minutes early. He wasn’t ready for them. But there was no telling Randy and Andi from Corporate to wait. They were here and so the meeting would begin. Paul ran through all the niceties of offering them coffee or water or tea, which they refused, and asked all the banal questions such as “How are things in New York?” “How was the drive?” and “Any big plans for the weekend?” because of course bad news always came on a Friday.

“We’ll cut right to the chase, Paul,” Randy said.

“Paul,” Andi said. “The guys in New York have made a decision, and I’m afraid it’s final.”

“We wanted to come and tell you, in person, right away,” Randy said.

“This is just business, understand,” Andi said. “Nothing personal.”

“I know this is something you can manage with dignity and professionalism,” Randy said.

“Well? What is it?” Paul said. “You said you were going to cut to the chase. I know Bluff Creek has been underperforming, but our second quarter numbers were up. We’ve had a good summer with all the tourism dollars coming in.”

“That may be true, Paul, but…” Randy said.

“Your first and third quarter numbers, well, there’s just no coming back from numbers like those,” Andi said as she placed pages of reports on Paul’s desk.

Paul picked up the sheets and rifled through them. Bar graphs. Line charts. Pie graphs. Spreadsheets. “So what? We have to go through another rebranding?”

“Not a rebranding,” Randy said.

“Okay then. I’m being replaced? I mean, election season is right around the corner. I’d like to at least finish out my term,” Paul said.

Randy just shook his head side to side. Andi inhaled deep.

“It’s not just you, Paul. And it’s not something another rebranding is going to solve. We’ve tried the rebrandings, the mission statement seminars, the corrective action plans… And yes, we’ve debated about finding a replacement for you,” Andi said. “But the truth is, this town just doesn’t fit into Corporate’s business model and fails to achieve our future planning goals. Simply stated, Bluff Creek no longer aligns with our current marketing strategy.”

“Wait. So what are you saying?” Paul asked.

“You understand, Paul, being in management, the need for organizations to right-size. To correct personnel and asset imbalances,” Andi said. “It’s been a challenging fiscal year across the board. You know that. And, so, the folks in New York felt it imperative to streamline and release underperforming nodes. Try to see it how Corporate sees things. There’s often a need for constructive downsizing. Addition through subtraction. You understand.”

“No,” Paul said. “I don’t understand. I don’t understand any of this.”

Randy, having finally grown impatient, held a hand out to Andi, telling her he’d take it from here. “Small Town Incorporated is reducing Bluff Creek.”

“Reducing?” Paul asked.

“We are letting go of all personnel and liquidating all assets,” Randy said. “And Paul?”

Paul said nothing. How could he? The best he could manage was to keep the coffee from jittering over the brim of his cup.

“We do expect one hundred percent compliance,” Randy said. “No holdouts.”

“Yes. Of course. I understand,” Paul said.

“One hundred percent, Paul,” Randy said again.

“One hundred percent,” Paul concurred. “They’ll comply. They’re good people. They’ll listen.”

“You're a good man, Paul,” Andi said.

As Andi packed up her briefcase and got out of her chair, Randy kept his eyes locked with Paul’s. “One hundred percent,” he reminded the mayor.

Paul wasn’t sure he had the strength left in his voice to verbally respond, so he nodded while the tears rolled down his cheeks.

“There’s always one,” Andi said as the two left the office.

#

The congregation was comprised of the entire town population. Which wasn’t large. Much smaller than what the city limit sign proclaimed. The dwindling number of residents was both a cause and a symptom of the town’s demise. But at this point, it didn’t matter much. The ones that got out while the getting was good would count themselves lucky. And the ones that remained would soon have nothing to say on the matter.

Most Sundays, Pastor Wendell dressed in slacks and a sweater with just the black collar and white tab of his profession peeking above the cable-knit. Only on holidays, he wore the full vestments. Holidays, weddings, and funerals. Today, he was adorned in full regalia: a white flowing robe with a hem that hovered inches above the carpet, a long, green, embroidered sash as directed by the church season, and a thick cross made of Jerusalem olive wood hanging from his neck.

“Let’s begin with an invocation,” he said and silenced the muttering of the congregation. He named the Holy Trinity, said thanks for the day, requested their souls be blessed, and closed their collective prayer with an “Amen.”

The congregation, regardless of their denomination or religion, echoed the Amen.

“Every small town is the same,” Pastor Wendell skipped any confession and absolution, hymns, and readings, and went right into the homily. After all, this service differed from any other. The normal order of service just wouldn’t do.

“Every small town is the same,” he repeated with effect. “Every small town is unique. Every small town has a Main Street. In some places, it’s called First Avenue, or Washington Boulevard, or River Street. Something significant to the town’s geography or history. It was Maple Street where I grew up. Every small town has something that caused the town to rise out of the sod to begin with. Perhaps it was the flowing rapids of a river turned into a damn. An iron ore deposit that brought industry. Or maybe just train tracks where a grain elevator could be built to allow for the export of agricultural commodities. Every small town has a dive bar. An Irish Pub where I grew up. A bar named after the highway that bisects the town like the Ten Stop over in Naperville. Here, it’s Tipsy’s Tavern. And yes, Otis, I’ll admit to seeing the inside of your place from time to time.”

Some of the congregation gave a polite chuckle at that.

“Every small town has a flower shop,” he said and met Sarah Eventide’s eyes.

“Every small town has a bank,” Pastor Wendell said and nodded to Mister Embry who ran 1st National Bank of Bluff Creek.

“Every small town has a greasy spoon diner, and I can tell you all that Mary’s Cafe over on Second Street serves up the best eggs benedict you’ll find in any small town across America,” Pastor Wendell said and earned a pain-and-pride-laced grin from Mary in the third pew.

“Every small town has a football team that at least once in its past went to the State Tournament. And in our town? We’ve been there four different times and were a field goal away from bringing home the hardware back in Ninety Seven.” Coach Treemont beamed at that.

“Every small town is the same. And every small town is unique. Every small town has a year it was founded. And every small town, eventually, will have a date when it is no more,” Pastor Wendell said. “Well, brothers and sisters. It’s my unfortunate duty today to preside over that later date.”

Everyone knew why they were gathered here today. No need to come out and say it. Everyone came to this funeral wearing black and knowing full well what awaited them. All the same, this last line delivered by their long-standing minister broke through a few levees holding back tears.

“We have loved our small town. I’ll be so bold to say that we’ve loved one another. Although, if what Father Henry has heard in his confessional booths over in Saint Pat’s is true, perhaps not as much as we should have.”

A wink to Father Henry told the catholic priest and everyone else gathered there in the protestant church that this was a joke they could all laugh over. They did. Reserved and quickly muted.

“Others may ask for more from a town such as ours. As is their right as investors, owners, and administrators. We can’t begrudge them that. We might not agree with their decisions, but we can’t let animosity rule the day. Not on a day such as today,” Pastor Wendell said. Solemn now. Somber as the day required. “So when we depart here today, and we all will depart, go in peace. Go in peace, and praise the Lord.”

Pastor Wendell left the pulpit for the altar just below the cross at the front of the church. Next to the altar was a plastic red gas can with “Small Town Inc.” printed on the side. He fought with the safety nozzle for a bit, but the congregation kept their respectful peace as he got it loose. Ushers came to the first row of pews and gave the first attendee in the row a nod. The folks stood up and orderly filed out while Pastor Wendell doused the altar. When he dropped the match and the gasoline caught flame, a few less disciplined folks glanced that way. When he rolled on top of the altar and his vestments roasted, they averted their eyes. When he started screaming in agony, some scrunched their eyes tight. A few covered their ears. But they all filed out of the back of the sanctuary.

Smoke rolled from the eaves of First Lutheran as the townsfolk gathered on Main Street. Mayor Paul bade them closer in a larger circle around him.

“What did you think of the service?” Otis asked Sarah as they shuffled shoulder to shoulder to the center of Main and 1st Avenue.

“It was really beautiful,” Sarah said.

“The ending maybe wasn’t as dignified as Pastor Wendell intended,” Otis said.

“No. I suppose not,” Sarah said.

“Listen up everyone,” Mayor Paul called to the crowd. “I know this isn’t how any of us hoped things would end. I know we all had our hopes and dreams wrapped up in this town. We all have homes here and your plans may have eventually led you out of Bluff Creek. For others, our hopes and dreams are made out of brick and mortar. But I know it’s going to be hard for all of us to watch those dreams go up in smoke. So what I propose is that we help each other out as folks in small towns tend to do. Nobody should be forced to liquidate their own hopes and dreams. So, do your neighbor a favor and pick up the torch for them. Everyone take care of someone else. Make this as quick and painless as possible. That way you don’t have to go through the hardship of doing it to yourself. Understood?” Mayor Paul said.

“I’ll take care of ‘Love in Bloom’ if you do ‘Tipsy’s.’ Deal?” Otis said to Sarah.

“Okay,” Sarah said.

“Well, might as well get started. Corporate set cans and bottles on each street corner,” Mayor Paul said. “Let’s get to work.”

And like the stoic midwesterners that they were, they kept their upper lips stiff and saturated each home, school, church, and business in the corporate-provided gasoline.

#

Randy and Andi watched from the bluffs overlooking the town. They leaned on the hood of the rental car from New York and traded a pair of binoculars back and forth.

“Been a dry summer,” Andi said. “This part shouldn’t take long.”

“As for the next part?” Randy asked.

“There’s always one,” Andi said.

#

No one resisted the firebombing of Bluff Creek. And Andi was right. The drought that had gripped the region left the grass yellow, brittle, and eager for the flame. Within minutes, every window along Main Street was busted out and vomiting orange flames and black smoke. The firetrucks stayed in the garage and the volunteer firefighters only aided in the destruction. They did the police station while the police torched the fire station. A draw in the long standing rivalry usually conducted over chili contests, county fair dunk tanks, and Christmas toy drives.

Sarah never made or used a Molotov Cocktail before. Most residents of Bluff Creek hadn’t. But Jimmy from Main Street Muffler and Auto showed others how to fill the glass bottles with gas from the cans covered in the corporate logo and how to stuff a rag into the neck. He was careful to explain to Sarah how to hold the bottle sideways so as to light the rag and not the gas that had leaked onto the bottle where she had to hold it. He even used his Zippo lighter to ignite the strip of an old t-shirt.

“Go ahead,” Jimmy said. “Give ‘er a heave.”

Sarah nodded quick, afraid of the burning bomb in her hand, and gave it a good throw. She played softball through high school and still had a decent arm on her. The Molotov Cocktail sailed through the air and shattered the big picture window that looked into Tipsy’s Tavern. A neon beer light crashed down with the big wedges of glass. Flames rose up.

“Is that it?” Sarah asked.

“Best do another,” Jimmy said and handed her a second. “Just for good measure.”

“Do I have to?” Sarah asked, but Jimmy was already lighting the rag.

She let her eyes drift two blocks down. ‘Love in Bloom’ was already engulfed.

#

The fires grew as fires did and soon required no more assistance or encouragement. Every structure in Bluff Creek was an inferno. Even Veterans Memorial Park burned. The residents, those who chose not to self-immolate, were restricted to the blacktop. They gathered again at the intersection of Main and 1st, ashen and greasy from their work. Their faces, as marred and dour as they were, remained poised. After all, their hardest work was yet to come, and per Corporate’s guidance, this wasn’t work that could be outsourced, delegated, or delayed.

With Mayor Paul again in the center, they shuffled together to hear his directions.

“Well, I’d hoped I’d never have to do this. Hoped we’d never come to this day. I think we all hoped things had gone differently. But there’s no sense in looking back now. Not with any regret or remorse. As Pastor Wendell said, we shouldn’t let animosity rule the day,” he said. A moment passed. The delay he knew wasn’t allowed. His eyes glanced up to the bluffs of the town’s namesake. A glint reflected off a distant pair of binoculars. “I’m told they added water to the jugs so it shouldn’t burn too bad going down. Since I’m mayor, and since I’m responsible for the well-being of this town, I guess I’ll go first. But before I do, I just want to say I’m sorry.”

Finally, emotions got the best of the folks of Bluff Creek. The circle closed around Paul. Everyone in the first row wrapped him up in hugs. Those in the second and third rows stretched over and patted his back or tussled up his hair. The circles beyond that touched the innermost circles. Together, they cried.

When that was done, they backed away, careful not to knock over the white plastic jugs of bleach labeled “Small Town Inc.” set up like tombstones across the intersection. When everyone was equally dispersed and within reach of a jug, Paul rose his own jug high above their heads.

“To the other small towns out there,” he toasted. “May they have better luck than we did.”

He poured from a few inches above his open mouth. The clear noxious fluid splashed over his cheeks and burned his eyes. He coughed and spat once, but was determined to finish the job. He had to be an example for the rest of the town. And he was. Others followed in the same manner. Jug held high. Fluid washing over their faces. Baptisms to bookend those held in First Lutheran or Saint Patrick’s.

When Otis tipped his back, a good amount of the bleach went into his lungs instead of his gullet. Instantly, he dropped to his knees in an irrepressible hacking fit. His jug fell to the street and landed on its side. The fluid glug glug glugged onto the blacktop as he coughed and fought for air. Even while he struggled, he reached over and sat the jug upright. He didn’t know how much he’d need but refused to run out before the job was done. Otis put a hand on his knee to climb back to his feet. As he did, he couldn’t help but take in the scene around him.

Friends, family, patrons of his bar, distant acquaintances, and rivals alike drank to their deaths. Many vomited up blood and bile. Others bled from their eyes while lying on their backs. But they all complied. They all did what they were told by Corporate. All of them except…

“Sarah?” he said.

She stood a few feet away, her jug of bleach clutched near her breast, her eyes wet but her lips dry.

“Sarah, you have to drink,” Otis said.

She shook her head side to side in short shivering movements. “I never wanted this,” she stammered.

“None of us did,” Otis said. “But that doesn’t matter. Now drink up, just like the rest of us.”

“But…”

She wasn’t going to do it. He could tell just by looking at her. And, well, that just couldn’t be allowed.

“Hey!” Otis called to the others still on their feet. “She’s holding out! Sarah’s not drinking!”

Coach Treemont was to Sarah’s right, bending down to vomit and then bobbing back up to chug more bleach. Otis knocked the jug from his hands. He grabbed Coach and shoved him in Sarah’s direction. Mary, who would never fry up the county’s best eggs benedict ever again, had made the bold decision to swallow her death slow, sip by sip. Otis ripped the jug from her lips and pointed her toward Sarah.

“Look! She’s trying to get out of it!” Otis announced.

“You have to drink, Sarah,” Father Henry said, having heard the ruckus.

“Don’t you think you’re any different than the rest of us,” Coach Treemont said.

“We’re all doing it, so you have to too,” Mary said.

“Take sup, child,” Father said.

“Yeah, or as they say in my line of work, bottoms up, bitch,” Otis said.

“But… but… I’ll move!” Sarah said as if the idea had only occurred to her now. “I know Bluff Creek is over. I don’t have to live here. I’ll go to a different town. I don’t even have to sell flowers. I’ll do whatever they want.”

“You’ll do what you must,” Father Henry said.

“And you’ll do it now,” Coach Treemont said.

They came for her with fingers hooked like claws and sneers baring their teeth. She screamed and threw her jug of bleach at them. A wash hit Otis in the eyes and he cried out. She threw an elbow and hit Mary in the temple. When Sarah fell, she sent a shoe into Father Henry’s crotch. Coach Treemont wrapped the back of her shirt up in his fists, but she writhed and pulled free. As she ran, Otis tripped over a blood-red and bleach-white corpse. Treemont shoved passed the few that remained on their feet. They fell like trees rotted at the roots in a windstorm. As she ran, blood and bleach stained and cleaned the street simultaneously. When she neared the curb, she stumbled and fell to the sidewalk outside the burning husk of Love in Bloom. Molotov Cocktails tumbled and rolled next to her. It was too late to save the flower shop, but perhaps the bottles of gasoline could still be put to use.

Mary was the first to catch up to her. Sarah grabbed a bottle, shattered it against the concrete, and aimed it skyward as Mary fell on her. The shards plunged deep into Mary’s neck. Hot, thick fluid rained on Sarah’s face. Between the curtains of flowing blood and the pall of black smoke clouds, Sarah saw nothing until Coach Treemont ripped Mary’s corpse off of her. The broken bottle lifted from Sarah’s slippery grip with the body. But another bottle was close by. This one already with a burning wick. It crashed against Treemont’s face and ignited just as eagerly as the ones she’d thrown into Tipsy’s Tavern. Treemont’s arms whirled as he stumbled backward, into Father Henry, and for the second time that day, holy vestments met a hellish end.

As Sarah picked herself up from the curb, she rose above all the other residents of Bluff Creek. They lay about, poisoned, burned, or cut and bleeding. All of them. Besides her. And besides Otis. He sauntered through the corpses with a pocket knife flipped open and aimed toward her face.

“You know, back when we were in school together, I had the biggest crush on you,” Otis said. “And to think I helped you burn down your shop.”

“Stay away from me, Otis,” Sarah said as her hand searched the sidewalk for another Molotov Cocktail. None within reach. None that weren’t already tiny bits of burning broken glass. She got up and faced him anyway. “Just drink your bleach and go away. What happens after that is none of your business.”

“We’re a community, Sarah,” Otis said. “We were all in this together. And now we’re all going out together. You agreed to it when you signed your contract with Corporate, same as I did. Be a woman of your word.”

“I don’t care what the contract says,” Sarah said as they circled each other, she empty-handed and he with a pocket knife. “I know I signed it. I know you signed one just like it. But none of us wanted this.”

“What we wanted… that doesn’t matter anymore, now does it?” Otis said.

“Then drink your bleach,” Sarah said.

“I’ll see that you drink yours first,” Otis said.

He charged, knife held high over his head for an attack, but his right foot landed on an empty jug lying sideways on the ground. It shot out from under his boot. He flailed back and his skull cracked hard against the blacktop. Sarah charged too and grabbed another discarded white jug along the way. When Otis tried to sit up, Sarah landed on his chest and pinned his arms down with her knees.

“Drink up, Otis. It’s what you're best at,” she said and went pouring out the clear liquid.

At first, he held his lips tight. When he did, she aimed the stream into his nostrils. When he gasped, she aimed it for his mouth. When he hacked, she grabbed another bottle and

continued the deluge. When he vomited blood, she washed his face clean. When he quit fighting, she jammed the bleach between his teeth and held the jug in place. Her hand formed a tight seal between his lips and the bottle. Its walls sucked in and popped out with each glug. When it ran dry, she threw it aside and looked down Otis’ throat to see a pool of bleach in the back of his mouth.

Sarah didn’t see the gleaming polished Oxford loafer coming for her ribs. It hit her square and hard and took all the wind out of her lungs. She rolled to her back, eyes up, and saw a gust of wind carry away the black smoke clouds. Sunlight blinded her for a moment before two figures came between her and the glare. They leered over her in matching black suits.

“There’s always one,” Andi said.

“Thought we might have two this time,” Randy said. He had a gun and the gun was aimed at Sarah’s forehead.

“Well, Sarah. We have to say, we’ve been watching you and really like what we’ve seen,” Andi said. She opened her briefcase and retrieved a stack of papers and an expensive ballpoint pen.

“Corporate’s very happy. Love the tenacity. The can-do-it-tive-ness. A real go-getter,” Randy said.

“You have ‘management’ written all over you,” Andi said, setting the papers and the pen on her chest.

The pen rolled to the pavement while Sarah panted fast and shallow.

“Well? What do you say?” Randy asked and then added suggestively, “Mayor Sarah?”

Sarah’s fingers floated over the bleach and blood-covered crevices and rocks of Main Street till they found the pen.

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