Smoochie Poochies

            Luke walked into the coffee shop just down the street from his house feeling like today had an odd touch of destiny to it.  As the little bell attached to the shop’s front door rang, he felt as though that ring was exactly as it should be, and that his life had led him to this very shop for a very distinct, purposeful reason.  He had arranged to meet his friend Aaron there at precisely that time, and as Luke looked around, he quickly found his friend enjoying a frozen mochachino in a corner booth.  He took the hint and ordered the same for himself before he went to the booth and sat down.

            Aaron’s eyes brightened up when Luke sat down, and quickly jumped into conversation.  “You know, since we’ve been on the subject of dogs, lately, I’ve been meaning to tell you a bit about my dog.

            A waitress butted in, and gave Luke his mochachino. Luke took this opportunity to cut in before Aaron got into one of his long-winded rants again, “We’ve been talking of dogs? Well, as long as you think so, carry on.”  He took a long drag from his drink as Aaron continued with what he had to say.

            “I was on the computer last night, and all of a sudden, my dog came into my room and started throwing quite the fit. She was barking, yipping, jumping, knocking things over, spewing bio-hazardous farts at me, it was really a lot to handle.  I set my computer to the side, and was about to ask her was the matter was, and before I knew what was going on, she had hijacked my computer!  She opened up several pages, one was youtube, another was some email site, and I didn’t get a glimpse at the other.  She started blaring Deadmou5 from youtube as she composed this clever, biting email to an address I didn’t recognize.  I still don’t know where she heard Deadmou5 from.  I never listen to the stuff, myself, and it isn’t exactly the kind of music the PA system at the park plays as background music to people’s picnics.  Maybe she likes the name, what with the neat way they switched the ‘se’ for a 5, but that would only make sense if she was a cat.  Last time I checked, Yorkshire terriers were dogs.  It just bugs me, I tell you.  What is the world coming to when our dogs don’t listen to the same music that we do?” 

            Aaron finished his diatribe looking quite distraught, but Luke had no idea how to really respond to something like that.  So much information to process, so little time, and he’d only had a bit of his mochachino, so caffeine was running low still.  The best he could come up with was “So, you’re telling me that you don’t listen to Deadmou5? Who doesn’t listen to him, he’s all over the place, man!”

            Apparently, that was the wrong response.  Aaron huffed at him indignantly, sipped down the rest of his beverage while eyeing Luke with intense discontent, and left without saying another word.  Luke was fine with this development. Saved him the time of listening to whatever else that damned Yank dog was doing.

Suicide Hotline

Parties have always been kind of awkward for me, but not for the same reasons it would be for most people that say this.  You walk around, socialize, have fun, you know, the usual things at parties. Eventually, or right off the bat, people will ask you what you do for a living. It’s a very honest question; gives people insight into your life. After all, what better way to judge a person than their actions, and what does one do more frequently than their job?

            I like to tell them that I answer phones for a living.  While that isn’t untrue, I leave out some crucial details. The fact that I answer phones for an unconventional form of suicide hotline rarely gets mentioned unless people get really inquisitive, which is fun. I like those people. They’re rare.  Even then, they assume I help depressed little teenagers in skinny jeans get through their pimply, existential woes, which is another quasi-truth. It depends on the perspective of the listener, but then again, doesn’t everything? 

            You’re here, and I feel like spilling the beans would be fun right about now, so I’ll explain to you exactly what it is that I do. In fact, I’ll run you through what happened to me yesterday. No, I don’t think you’ll be bored, actually. It does start out with a phone call, but there’s so much more than that!

            I sat at work, in one of those plush, black office chairs that you see kids spin around on at the store. I do that, myself, but I bought the chair and brought it to work, which makes me cooler than those kids. That’s the story I’m sticking to, anyway.

            Anyway, I was sitting, or spinning I guess, in my little cubicle and the phone rang.  The higher-ups are nice enough to let us program our own ring tones on the phones, so I was a bit startled by Chop Suey blaring out of my office phone. It always catches me off guard while I’m spinning, I’d have thought I would be used to it by now. I answered, and introduced myself.

            “Hello, I’m Reto. You’ve reached This Is Not The End of The Line, what’s going on?”

            “Hey, Reto. You ever think of why they ever bothered making phones? Who wants to talk to anyone anymore? What’s the point?” The guy at the other end of the line sounded like the type I tend to talk to: tired, melancholy, probably around 20, but I’m horrible at guessing the age of callers until I meet them.

            “I have wondered that, surprisingly. But you’re using one now, right? I bet you had a reason, seeing as this number isn’t something people just happen to dial most of the time.”

            “Yeah, I’ve got a reason. I haven’t used a phone in months, this feels kind of weird. Actually, talking at all has become almost a myth to me. I don’t even speak in my dreams anymore.  I just heard about your company from a councilor, ironically, and thought I’d give you a call. What are your rates?”

            “That’s a great question!” I was kind of surprised at that. Most callers don’t care about the rates. It just doesn’t factor into their minds, I guess. I scrambled to find the into sheet that was supposed to be nailed to my wall.  “Uhhm, let’s see.  Most cases are just a flat fee of $40. If you want something spectacular or super-specific, that’s going to cost extra. The ‘extra’ depends on what you want, of course. We’re very accommodating. What was your name, again? I don’t think you mentioned it.”

            This kid wasn’t very forthcoming with info. I was going to have to entertain myself somehow: paper basketball time! By that, I mean to say I crumbled up old memos into balls and tossed them at random directions over my cubicle wall, seeing how far I could throw the memos, and how long it would take for someone to yell “Fucking stop it!” 3 points for me if they yell that exact phrase, 2 points for me if they yell something different. 2 points for them if I get something thrown back at me. It’s terrifically fun!

            “Sorry about that. My name… You know what, fuck my name. Call me ted.”

            “Ok, Ted-“ I said, tossing two memos at the same time.

            “No, don’t capitalize the t. It’s better this way. I can hear that shit, you know.”

            “What? Alright, that’s cool. Are you sure you want our services, ted?” No response from the peanut/cubicle gallery. Increase assault intensity accordingly.

            “Quit that shit, motherfucker!!!” Someone screamed at me from near the bathrooms. I smiled, trying not to chuckle into the phone because that would seem unprofessional. 2 points for me.

            “If I didn’t want your services, would I be calling? Like you said, that number doesn’t just randomly pop up. How do we do this? Is there a delivery service, or do I come to you?”

            “Oh, we come to you, ted.  We found out pretty early on that having suicidal people come to an office downtown isn’t a reliable business model.”

            “Right.” ted sighed. “Do you take checks?”

            “Taking checks from suicidal people also isn’t a reliable business model, ted. I’m sorry.  We take cash or credit card numbers, though.” A crumbled up memo hit me in the face. 2 points for them. Curses!

            “Oh, right,” ted said. “I’ve got that much cash on me.”

            “Excellent. What is your address? I’ll come over, and we can talk.”

            “4021 Belforth St., apartment 18. It has a King Burger sticker below the peep hole on the door.”

            “I’ll be there shortly.” I said, hanging up the phone.

            What I do isn’t entirely legal, in a strict sense of the word, so we tend to use a lot of disguises. Halloween passed only a week or two ago, so I quickly donned my Superman costume and ran out of the building, my red cape trailing valiantly behind me.

            When I got to ted’s place, I knocked on the door and simply let myself in. Convenience first, that’s our company policy. Don’t want the customer to be inconvenienced by the effort of opening their front door for us, and at that point, they usually don’t even mind the intrusion.  All of the lights were off, and the apartment was in a readily apparent state of disarray, so I couldn’t differentiate between garbage and possible humanity in the low light.

            “Hi! I’m that guy from the phone, Reto. Where are you?” I called into the apartment, hoping ted would have the decency to respond. Sometimes they don’t, and you have to poke around with a sharp stick until something groans at you. I call it jousting, but that isn’t the technical term.

            “Hey, Reto. I’m on the couch to your right.” I heard under a pile of clothes and what I guess were rent letters. I turned the lights on, pulled the clothes pile off of ted, and put on my ‘Happy Business’ face.`         

            “Any specifics?” I asked him.

            “No, just get it over with. I’m done.” ted mumbled.

            “With pleasure,” I happily replied, and shot him in the face.

            I’m always glad that people are not like chickens in this instance.  A shot to the face pretty much always kills people, much unlike the common story of decapitated chickens running around willy-nilly. I would have to do something else if I was killing chickens.  After contemplating that, I took $40 out of ted’s wallet, found out that his name was Dick Burger, and I saw why he wanted to go by ‘ted’. I returned to the office with another mission accomplished.

            See, people would have a problem with my working at a place that kills suicidal people. Think about the economy of it, though. Some people want to die, other people want to kill other people, but don’t because they either a) don’t want to go to jail or b) have morality issues with just going postal and killing random people. Each end of this transaction I take part in finds satisfaction. The one that wants to die, dies. The one that wants to kill someone gets to kill someone. Each action a major release of stress in one’s life.

            I’ve heard people condemn such actions as ‘evil’, but the concepts of good and evil are simply differences in perspective, aren’t they? Being good is merely an outwardly focused perspective (toward other members of society), whereas being evil is a more self-centered perspective. The company I work for serves a selfish desire of others, for they call us to arrange meetings, not the other way around. If we marketed or coerced business, the matter may be more clear-cut. As it is, though, can this suicide hotline really be so easily categorized as evil?

            I’ll leave that up to you.

Delicacies Devoured

            Fernando quivered with anticipation in the janitor’s closet. Though there was no light in the small room, he knew that Anastasia was brimming with excitement for what the evening held in store for them. With a gloved hand, he reached out and pulled her head towards his, and whispered, “Are you ready?”

            “Yes.”

            “You brought the alcohol?”

            “Of course.”

            “The gags?”

            “I never leave home without them, Fern, you know that.”

            “True, true. I’ve got the Zippos and everything else. Here we go.”

            With that, they burst into the Hilton hotel’s kitchen that they had snuck into, and attacked the kitchen staff.  Anastasia went straight for the incoming waiters, smashing their heads and necks with the very trays they brought in. Meanwhile, Fernando grabbed a small skillet from the nearest stove and a knife from the magnetic strip on the wall above it, and stabbed the cooks to death. The skillet was used as a shield to protect from the cooks’ knives, and any plates that sailed his way from Anastasia’s onslaught. As the kitchen staffs’ screams shot through the first floor, more waiters and attendants came to see what the commotion was about, and more waiters and attendants fell victim to Anastasia’s violent wrath.  Fernando found the security office connected to the office, killed the officer there in much the same way as he disposed of the cooks, and turned off the security alarms before they were even sounded.

            When people quit coming in the kitchen doorway, Anastasia turned and called to Fernando, “We’re good to go!” He ran out of the security office, threw the knife into a deep fryer, and ran out the door with Anastasia following immediately behind. When they reached the foyer, Anastasia dropped to her knees and pulled 6 bottles of everclear from her backpack. As she uncorked them, Fernando stuffed a rag in the top of each bottle. They then called the main elevator down, and it opened a few seconds later. Fernando smiled approvingly at the plush velvet walls inside the elevator, and lit two of the newly made Molotov cocktails.  Anastasia pressed the Floor #4 button, and ran out of the elevator as Fernando threw the Molotovs inside. 

            The two took the other elevator to the ballroom on the second floor. As soon as the elevator doors opened, Fernando and Anastasia had lit the rest of the Molotovs, and threw all four of them at the politicians and aristocrats that they had caught in the dastardly act of eating dinner. Amid the screams and demands of an explanation, the pair closed the elevator doors and went back down to the first floor. Fernando set the elevator’s walls on fire before exiting it, and both he and Anastasia sat and enjoyed the sight of the doors closing on the growing flames.

            “Now those, Anastasia,” Fernando said with a content sigh, ”are what I would call the delicacies of a ruined evening.”

            Anastasia sat still, searching for words, for a moment. “That was… amazing. Deliciously demented, darling. Doomy doom does wonders for dull evenings, does it not? But why did you ask if I had brought the gags?”

            Fernando chuckled, leaned back, and said, “Now, that’s for my favorite part. For our grand exit, we’re going to put those gags on ourselves, strip down to absolutely nothing but those gags, and run out of hotel trying to scream bloody fucking murder through the gags.”

            “Sounds fun, but why?”

            “Why not?”

Damn

            Oh, God, I hate doctors’ offices.  Why must everything be so white? Do they pretend that everything that goes on in here is all hunky-dorey, when it so obviously isn’t?  Not a person comes in that doesn’t have something wrong with them; even the hypochondriacs are afflicted in their own little way.  These walls taunt me.  The pristine-ness of the office and the coldness of their metal instruments mock me at every turn, I hate them all!  How can these things be so clean, so right, when they are in constant contact with the flawed, defective instances of humanity? How?!

            The doc drew some blood a few minutes ago, and just left me here to contemplate what might be wrong with me.  Oh, God, what is wrong with me? Why won’t they just tell me, is it so hard?  I promise, I can take bad news. It’s the waiting with the whiteness that I cannot stand!  He has my life in his hands, and I’m sitting here in this degrading front-robe thing, dangling my feet off of the little half-bed they have everyone sit on.  I can’t help but notice that the butcher at the grocery store I go to every once in a while uses this same kind of paper to wrap my ground chuck.   How’s that for irony?  How many people wind up going into that ground chuck I buy?  Why did I sign up for this?

            As I sat there, pondering my fate, the doctor came back into the room.  As I expected, he was holding a few pieces of paper, probably with the results of my blood work.  I didn’t say anything, but tried to read his facial expression.  He had that blank-yet-somehow-pleasant face that I always seem to see doctors wearing.  “Can’t I just have the results, doc? What’s the word?” I pleaded with him, unable to restrain the tremble in my voice.

            The doctor glanced at the papers, took a breathe, smiled, and said “Well, it isn’t as bad as we thought.  You won’t need a transplant, after all.  Just some vicodin for a week or two, and you should be fine.”

            “Oh, thank you!”

Rusty Mice

A rusty old gate sits upon its rusty old hinges at the end of the walkway

            Three blind mice are walking down a walkway near an old, abandoned house. They aren’t sure if it’s abandoned or not, but they do know that there are definitely no birds in it, which works out well in their favor. Somehow, all three of them manage to walk into a gate at the same time. Ross, who used to hang around the wrong sort of toads, was curious what he just ran into, and began licking it to see what, if anything, would happen.

            “This tastes a lot like rusted metal. Maybe it’s a gate!” Ross said to the other two mousey friends, Jorge and Sally. They weren’t as enthusiastic about licking things as Ross was, but they did learn a few things from his habit from time to time. This was one of them.

            “Don’t tell me you actually licked what we bumped into?” Sally asked, and heard Ross nod that he had, in fact, licked it. “I swear, you’re going to get some sort of disease some day, and your tongue is going to fall off! What are you going to do then? You can’t go around gumming everything, that’s just wrong.”

            Jorge tended to stay out of the conversation when Sally and Ross started discussing whether or not to lick things, which happened pretty frequently. It didn’t help all that much that he didn’t speak English, either. He had been an ancient kung fu master in a previous life, and while that didn’t translate all that well into being a mouse, he did enjoy hearing the other two mice talking to each other. They had picked him up after watching him fend off a trap door spider that he couldn’t even see when it was out of its trap door (he’s blind, remember?). They liked the protection Jorge offered, and he enjoyed the sounds of their voices, so it worked out pretty well for everyone. He had also somehow found a neon green bandana and wrapped it around his head, covering his eyes. He couldn’t tie anything else they had found, so Ross and Sally wondered if maybe someone else had done that part for him. Since Jorge didn’t speak English, though, they would never know the truth for sure.

            While you were reading about Jorge, Ross had begun climbing the gate, licking and inspecting more of it. “Ah, just as I had thought!” Ross called down to his comrades, “It’s an old rusty gate with rusty old hinges!”
            “Why is everything so rusty?!” Sally yelled in his general direction. “That seems a bit redundant, doesn’t it? If the gate is rusty, wouldn’t the hinges be rusty, too? Surely they would all oxidize at the same rate? How can you taste age, anyway? Old iron and new iron should taste the same, minus the rust.”

            “Who are you to question oxidation rates of gates and accompanying hinges? We’re fucking mice, what do we know about oxida- on that note, what the fuck is that word? Also, you wouldn’t know how old iron OR new iron tastes, since you don’t lick anything in the world that isn’t edible. Here I am, trying to find out some useful information, and you question me. Why? I’ve licked a great many things in my life, and I know what’s what. Why, I remember the time-“

            And then poodle he had called a gate ate all of them.

Jake's Place

Jake’s Place used to be a bar out in East Texas. It used to be, because nothing is in East Texas anymore. Only rumors of that old bar still exist, must like the rest of the East Texas/Arkansas/Louisiana area only remains in rumor since the Mexican takeover of the southern portion of the U.S.A.

Some people claim to have known the Mexicans would revolt and make a move against America, but that doesn’t change the fact that they didn’t say anything, and now most of the southern states now belong to Mexico. They can say what they want, but no one could have known that the Mexicans had developed nuclear weapons, much less that they would be willing to use them against American civilians. New Mexico, SoCal, Arizona, and most of Colorado were overtaken easily, but the Texans were prepared and itching for a fight. The Arkansonians joined the fight since the Texans were already throwing down the gauntlet, and their fighting merely spilled into Louisiana. Most of the residents there moved out quicker than cockroaches escape a kitchen light, transforming Louisiana into a vacant battleground for the Mexicans, Arkansonians, and Texans to fight for to their hearts’ content. The Americans put up a good fight, too good a fight if you asked the Mexican military. Texas and Arkansas didn’t even get a helping hand from the national army, the central government was too lethargic and apathetic to send aid. What those civilians were doing down there was nothing short of incredible.

When the Mexicans decided that they were tired of trying to take the South, and wanted to actually take it, they decided to nuke Texas, shocking the Southern states into submission. The attack was well coordinated; they hit Dallas, Corpus Christi, and Texarkana all within the same hour, leaving nothing but desolation in what was Texas, Arkansas, Louisiana (which had been ravaged by the war beforehand more than any other place), and most parts of Oklahoma. The American government ceded the lands Mexico demanded without pause or guilt afterward. Some wonder if the war was instigated by our government, but no one outside of the institution will ever know. One thing ex-residents in the area do know, though, is that no one will ever go to Jake’s Place again.

White Wash

            Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a pigeon flying my way. “What the hell?” I heard myself ask no one in particular. I wasn’t supposed to get a homing pigeon for at least another week and a half, and this wasn’t an area where pigeons simply found themselves wandering into sight of anything. They tended to be shot, unless I warned everyone that a pigeon was coming about a day in advance. People around here really aren’t big fans of pigeons; I never got around to asking why.

            “What happened, Wallace?” Tylar asked as he ran in from the room behind the observation room I was in. I wasn’t as quiet as I thought I was, this could be bad.

            “Oh, nothing, Tylar. Don’t worry about it.” I scratched my head and sighed, hoping to convey some sort of weariness or disinterest in whatever might have happened without hinting at what actually occurred. Please don’t ask me what you’re about to ask me. We don’t have to do this, I thought to myself, silently this time.

            “Come off it, Wallace! Something happened, and I want to know what’s going on. I was bored to tears just a minute ago, and now you’re saying you get surprised about nothing going on in this room, too? Bullshit.” Tylar had that look in his eye. He thought he was playing Sherlock Holmes again; all that was missing was a tobacco pipe. Lord help us if he ever got his hands on a pipe like that; we’d never see the end of “Detective” Tylar.  

            “Like I said, it’s nothing.” Then an idea struck me. Maybe I could turn this around, and change his reaction before he even had time to react. “It’s just that… I saw the coolest thing just now. I’m not sure exactly what it is. You want to take a look? It’s a bird, I know that much. I’m thinking it’s one of those finches, you know? But I’m not sure.” I was hoping to beat hell that Tylar didn’t know a pigeon from a finch. As far as I knew, he was never into bird identification.

            Tylar meandered up to the porch, stood beside me, and cast his imperial gaze upon the landscape, hoping to catch sight of this mysterious flying thing.  He had come to the rescue, and was certain the problem would solve itself soon enough now that he was on the case. But at that moment, the horizon darkened and seemed to move towards us. Neither of us could see exactly what was going on, but we knew we were in for a terrible reckoning if we stayed on the porch any longer. As the things from the horizon charged closer, I frantically searched for my binoculars. Tylar ran to sound the severe weather alert –the only kind of alarm we allowed to be under his supervision- and soon everyone would wonder why the hell thunder sounded so much like the flapping of wings. I found my binoculars, and looked towards the ominous mass heading towards the town. I was horrified when I discovered that untold numbers of pigeons were swarming the city from afar. Where had they all come from? Why were they acting like this? How had they learned militaristic flight formations, and how in the world could they have fashioned those tiny green helmets that the albino pigeons wore? My first guess was that the helmets were a sign of the albino pigeons’ leading positions in the attack, and I was quickly proved correct. They led strafing runs across the city until every square inch of the poor place was covered in pigeon waste. Within minutes, everything had been turned white. So terribly, awfully, revoltingly white.

The pigeons had only begun, despite whatever I may have thought after that. After the fecal shower, the pigeons flew into the people’s homes, and took all of the food they could find, leaving us with nothing. This is why I hate pigeons today.

How Surprising

            As Susan and Roy gazed at the stars from the bed of Roy’s pick-up truck, they sighed contentedly and made occasional small talk about the wonders of life. That night had gotten off to a wonderful start, and it seemed to only be getting better. Each had taken the night off of work, Roy from his construction job, and Susan had cancelled band practice for the night. It was their night, and they were enjoying it to the fullest extent. This was their 1-year anniversary for dating, and camping just seemed like the natural thing to do.

            The two gazed into each other’s eyes for minutes at a time, and she couldn’t help but giggle at the pure serenity of the moment. He thought for a fraction of a second that she was laughing at him, but he knew better. He just smiled, and made a remark about how lucky he was to have her in his life. They shared a kiss, and continued to star gaze.

            Suddenly, Roy was overcome with the urge to tell Susan one of the last secrets he had kept from her.  He knew this would bring them closer together.

            “Susan?” He whispered.

            “Yes, Roy?”

            “Remember that time you showed me you penis?”

            “Of course! It was a very delicate time for me.”

            “I just wanted you to know that surprised the shit out of me.”

            “I know, honey. I know. You took it so well at the time, though.”

            “Thank you. It reminded me of one of my cousins. One of them has a penis, too, you know.”

            “Really?” Susan said, sitting up and looking at Roy. “Which one? I had no idea any of them did.”

            “You remember Paul? I introduced the two of you at that party last August, and he comes around sometimes to play Halo and drink? He’s got one.” As if to punctuate his statement, Roy took out a cigarette, lit it, and took a long drag from it.

            “Wow. I never would have guessed. I won’t bother him about it, though. That’s his business.” Susan said, pensively. “Still, it’s good to know this kind of thing about your relatives. Thank you, darling.”

            “You know you make me open up, baby. I can’t hide anything from you. I’ve been keeping that in for a while, and thought you should know.” And with that, he offered her his cigarette. Without a word, she took it, and finished it off.

At the Store

            The word “Baklava” always made me think of lobsters.  I don’t know why, but maybe it’s because I’m a lobster, myself.  We don’t really have a whole lot of imagination, but I hear things talk about stuff from outside this invisible box that I’m in.  They tied something around my claws, which is irritating at first, but everyone gets used to it.  All the other lobsters in here have them on their claws, too.  You should see some of these guys, too; they’re huge! It’s a good thing they can’t pinch me, because I have a tendency to say stupid things to other lobsters.

            The weirdest thing about living in this thing is getting used to eating without my claws, I think.  I wasn’t really sure how that was going to work, at first, but after a while, I got the hang of it.  Hunger is a great motivator; you learn that when you’re stuck in something you can’t see.  Sometimes I wonder if we should start having names, but then I remember that there’s a reason we don’t have names.  I don’t know what it is, but there’s a reason.  I would ask the other lobsters, but they might get offended.  They are just touchy like that.  It’s very hard to tell what will get you screamed at before they start screaming at you.  I wonder if the ones that get picked out of the box-thing tell that to whoever is around, wherever they go. 

            I don’t remember what I was doing before I got stuck in this thing, either.  Along with no imagination, the memory of us lobsters is a tad on the poor side, relative to guys like, say, squids, or sunfish.  Man, those sunfish are smart! You wouldn’t know it, just by looking at ‘em, but they are smart as hell, especially for looking like they were chopped in half right after they were born.  I thought they’d all be traumatized because they don’t have a tail, but they get along just fine.  Never met one that was mentally unstable, I’m proud to say.  The clownfish give the sunfish a bad rap.

            But wait, who’s picking me up, now?  I’m out of the box! This is amazing; I didn’t ever think it would happen to me! Wow!  I’m not crowded by other lobsters, but- oh, damn.  Now I’m in some sort of other invisible bullshit.  At least there’s water in here, that was nice of them to do.  What the hell is macaroni? These tall things eat macaroni? I hope that doesn’t mean I have to try it. Fuck macaroni.

Hiding

            “Holy shit, they’re coming, they’re coming! Hide your kids, hide your wife, hide your husbands!  I hate being right sometimes!”  The Jeffersons heard someone screaming outside their house.

            Fred looked up from his morning paper, slightly irritated that someone had the gall to break his routine with such nonsense about hiding husbands.  How could anyone want to hide Fred? His mustache was too marvelous to hide.  He was relatively sure some people would even take offense to his not being in public view at some point during the day.  Curious as to who would be spewing such drivel, Fred got up his favorite chair, and went to the front door.  He threw it open and asked the world “Who the hell thinks anything is coming? Why would you think that? Who’s coming?”

            A short-ish man in a dark purple sweat suit and an aluminum foil cowboy hat ran up to Fred’s front door, panting loudly.  “Name’s Ernesto.  The nudists are coming. I seen ‘em. Out that way. I like your mustache, guy.” Ernesto punctuated the statement with an enthusiastic pointing down the road.

            Flabbergasted, Fred didn’t realize that he had dropped his newspaper. It had been folded up in his hand, by his side.  “Dear God, please tell me you’re joking.”

            Shaking his head furiously, Ernesto replied “There are dozens of ‘em, man. Maybe hundreds, who knows? No way I stopped to count them all, I just ran.  Everybody needs to know.”

            “Damn straight, they do! We need to prepare! As you were, Ernesto. Godspeed!”  Without further ado, Fred shut the door and got his rifle from the closet right beside the door.  He made sure it was loaded, and went outside, running the direction Ernesto had come from, mustache twitching in anticipation for what would soon come. The nudists had to be stopped at any cost.

Doubts

            Smith ran her fingers through her hair, looking distraughtly at the frog that was perched on top of her work table.  How it had even found the place she worked at, she didn’t dare to guess, but it had found her, nevertheless.

            “You know why I’m here, Ms. Smith.”  The frog croaked.  Despite not being human, the frog had an air about him that reminded Smith of those stereotypical government agents that pop up in all kinds of movies.  She suppressed a snort of laughter as she imagined him with sunglasses and a badge.  Laughing wouldn’t help the situation at all.

            “Are you serious? You’re a frog!  How did you find my job? Isn’t there some other woman out there you can pester for romantics?  Go ask Lucille, she’s gullible enough to go through with this.  Why me?”  Smith tried to keep her voice down while still conveying her intense frustration at the frog.  If anyone saw her talking to this thing, she’d have to have another meeting with Mr. Lowry.  Last time they met, he said he’d fire her if she had to come in one more time.  This was not good.

            “Ms. Smith, you are the only one in the world with the right kind of magic to break me out of this curse. I’ve told you this countless times, and you still refuse to be the good Samaritan.  You Americans…” The frog shook his head with apparent disdain for Ms. Smith’s decisions thus far.

            “That’s just some line of crap you got from reading fairy tales, and you expect me to just go along with you? You’re a frog!”

            “Yes, you said that already. But if I am merely a frog, how did I read those fairy tales?  Regular frogs can’t read, you should know that, what with your expertise in frogs and everything.”

            “I will NOT be mocked by a frog! You have a point, though. If I do this, will you leave me alone?” Smith asked, running out of options and time.  If this frog would just go away, she could go back to her life.  Sure, there were cameras around, but anything can be doctored now.  And it wasn’t as though her reputation could sink much worse than it already had, after announcing that she was a vegan.  Why did everyone look down on vegans, seriously? She never understood that.

            “Absolutely. I want this to be over with as much as you do. Frogs are not allowed to drink Starbucks coffee. I’d sue for discrimination, but I cannot find any lawyers willing to work with a frog, either. It’s truly an awful existence.” 

            Smith contemplated a life without lawyers or expensive coffee, and struggled to find a downside.  She struggled very hard, if only for a minute or two, and finally concluded with “What the hell, I’ll give it a shot.” And gave the frog a quick kiss in the top of the head.

            “Thank you!” the frog croaked, as it began glowing like a rave party.  It slowly rose into the air, rotating as it did so.  It shook violently, and a flash of light permeated the entire office space.  When the light subsided, an albatross sat exactly where the frog had been perched just moments before. Smith quickly grabbed it by the neck, and threw it against the copier on the other side of the cubicle.

            “What the fuck?! You give me this spiel about being human, and you’re really an albatross?” She screamed, momentarily losing any cares about not looking like she was talking to animals again.

            “I thought I WAS human! I had my doubts, but I really thought I was!  How am I going to get some Starbucks now?  I don’t remember being a bird before, but can you blame me for trying?” If a bird could smile sheepishly, Smith had a feeling this one would have.  That didn’t help its case at all, though. She was still going to be fired when Lowry found out.

So Creamy

            The ice cream truck rolled down Acorn St at 4:08 pm, like it did every Tuesday and Thursday, blaring that same old ice cream truck song that sends all the kids into violent frenzies (not quite the same as ‘friendsies’, mind you).  Within seconds, children and their parents rushed to the sidewalk, the children vibrating with excitement, and the parents looking for solace in their wallets.  The truck of frozen goodies stopped, and everyone rushed forward, forming the customary blob of people, rather than the single-file line that would have made a lot more sense.

            “Good day, everyone! What’ll it be? Do you want something new and exciting?” The ice cream truck driver opened up the side of his truck and announced his business to everyone, and the kids yelled their yearning for new things, especially the exciting ones.  They were so excited.

            “I just made a bunch of this flavor that no one else has, and you guys are gonna be the first to try it! This is so awesome!” The driver knew how to pump up a crowd of toddlers and children, that was certain.  With a flourish, he pointed at the sign above his window.

            “Get your vampire dicks!  They’re cold, they’re hard, they’re satisfying! Guaranteed to taste better than Father Brian’s dick, and with none of the guilt or associated therapy!”  His mirthful laughter began to clash quite obviously with the horrified glares from the adults.  None of the kids got it, except for Little Johnny, of course, who laughed his ass off, as well, so they all started staring at the driver and at Johnny.

            “Excuse me, sir,” one of the parents said, his voice obviously restraining the verbal thrashing he wanted to give the driver, “but my name is Brian, and I have two children. I find your insinuation that I engage in sexual acts with minors to be incredibly offensive, not to mention the name of your new product. “ Brian paused to breathe for a second, and the driver’s laughter got a bit more hysterical (“YOU’RE Brian?! Baaahahahaha!! Watch out, kids!”).  “I am almost speechless, but I have to ask you, why did you think this was a good idea to sell to children?” Brian concluded his question with his arms crossed over his chest. 

            “Oh come, now, Brian. Is it really that bad to want a break from all the routine?” The driver spoke in between dying bouts of laughter, “I was just trying to fix some boredom around here, and I think these are doing just the trick, don’t you? I did it on a dare.”

            “Oh, really,” Brian asked. “Who dared you? You must have sick friends, and I feel sorry for them. I truly do. If this is how you get off.”

            “I did.”

            “You did what?”

            “I dared me to do it! Like I said, trying to break up some boredom,” the driver said. “But if you aren’t happy with my services, I’ll go somewhere else. Good day!” Without further ado, the ice cream truck fled the scene, and many a child in that neighborhood bothered their parents for vampire dicks for the following week.

I Can't Say What I Want To

            This straight jacket is tight. I think they did that on purpose, but it definitely wasn’t necessary.  I wasn’t going to hurt them, I just get animated when I talk.  Can’t they get that? Fuck!  ‘The good doctor will see you shortly.’ They said. ‘I don’t give a fuck if it’s the bad doctor, I’m fine.’ I told ‘em. Did they listen? No, they don’t listen to shit. Especially when it’s coming from me.  So fuck ‘em, I don’t have to talk to ‘em.  They’re all thinkin’ they’re gonna save me, or some shit like that.  What’s to save?  Who are they to be the saviors, should the need arise?

            “They need you, Barney.” Said the sloth from the ceiling.

            “Ah, you’re wearing your hat today, Sol! I know I ask you this every time, but do you really want people likening you to the Cat in the Hat? Get a bowler hat, or something. That ridiculous hat’s only going to get in your way.” I figured I may as well talk to Sol, he won’t hurt me.  He’s not looking to change the world; he just lives in it.

            “I like this one, thank you very much.  I think it suits me better than that… what kind of fashion style is that jacket you’re wearing? Are you Prozak Man, now?  Anyway, you can’t just fight this place.  The pads are here for a reason.”  If a sloth could smirk, this one was.  It was hard to tell between that compact little face of his, and that hat.  Sol scratched himself nonchalantly as he waited for Barney to take his surroundings into consideration.

            “Who taught you sarcasm? I thought you were on a strict no-sarcasm diet.  That shit’s bad for sloths, you know.  That’s the kind of stuff that’ll make the trees pee in your face, and you know you can’t get out of the way. You’re a sloth.  What do they need me for, anyway? Who am I to them? I ain’t special.”  The lone light on the ceiling was starting to fuck with Barney’s eyes, he had to squint to keep them open.  Sol seemed to waver for a split second.   Maybe the new meds had some odd-ass side effect they didn’t tell him about?

            Sol shook his head. “No, they just gave you saline that time.  You were dehydrated like a raisin when you came in here, remember?  And you’ll know what they need in due time. No need to rush, you’re st-“ Sol’s hat fell off, and he fell silent.  A knock on the cell door followed that with uncanny succession.

            “Hey! Who are you talking to in there?” Someone yelled at him.

            “I ain’t said shit.” The hat whispered at Barney’s feet.

Stop Me If You've Heard This Before

            Stop me if you’ve heard this before.

            There’s someone after me. I don’t know who it is, or why they want me so badly, but they have been chasing me for days. They got my family last week, my friends before that, and I’m not the first person they’ve done this to. I stopped here because my car ran out of gas, and I was hoping I could spend a few hours here to rest. Do you have an extra room, or even a closet, that I could sleep in? I can’t remember the last time I got some good sleep. They’ve been trying to track me down for a while, now. I thought they were gone, I thought I had lost them, but no. No, they know me. They know who I am, they know where I lived up until Monday (I can’t live there anymore), and they have been on my trail since then. I’m not even sure where I am right now, where is this?

            Wait, don’t tell me. It’s probably better that I don’t know. If I don’t know, it’s less likely that they’ll know I’m here. If I know where I am, I can be influenced in which direction I take, and they can pick up on that. God, how long have they been watching me?! Alex tried to warn me, why didn’t I listen? I should have. Things would be different. The world lost a good person in Alex, and they will feel that loss soon enough, I just need some ground! Why didn’t I listen to you, Alex? They’ll pay, I promise they’ll pay. But I’ve fucked up so bad.

            The shit of it is, you don’t even know who they are, either. Probably don’t care, either, I’m sorry for babbling like this, I must sound crazy. I’m not crazy, I’m just in deep shit right now. Really deep, deep shit. I just need your help, please. Just one night. Even a few hours would be great, I’m so tired of running.

            You haven’t heard that? No crazy guy spewing something like that came around here recently? Ok, thank you for your time, and I apologize for the inconvenience.

            He’s not here, boys, let’s move out!

Backlit Silhouette

            Randy awoke with a stir and sat up, perfectly alert, in his bed. Had he heard something on the guest bedroom down the hallway? He sat very still, and continued to listen. It wouldn’t be the first time he had thought he heard something in this house. It was a very old house, and he had just moved into it a few weeks ago. He still wasn’t used to all of the noises it made; the random creaks and squeaks when there was no one around, the pitter-patter of raccoons in the attic, and whatever other sounds a house seems to make as it stands on its plot of land, protecting those inside from those outside. Still, that noise didn’t sound like a house noise.

            He listened more intently, wishing there was someone else in the house to ask for a second opinion, but he lived alone. Some people questioned why he bought a 2 story house for himself, but Randy had the money, and he liked having family and friends over. He provided the gathering place as long as everyone else helped get party goodies. A squeak emanated from the floor below him, as the house seemed to apologize for getting him up at this time of night. He’d get used to this place yet. The homey feel of the house had dragged him into it, and he wasn’t about to let it go. Randy shrugged, and laid back down with a sigh. He thought about checking the clock to see what time it was, thought better of it, and rolled over to get some more sleep.

            As he was pulling his blanket back over himself, he heard the TV turn on in the guest bedroom down the hallway. It wasn’t turned on to a channel he received, and only sent sounds of static floating down the hallway, in that bone tingling way that only static noise can really achieve. “What the fuck?” Randy said to no one in particular, as he got out of bed and meandered into the hallway. He didn’t turn the hallway light on; the door to the guest bedroom was wide open, and the TV in it emitted enough light for him to see fairly well. An ominous feeling crept up his spine as he quietly came up to the guest bedroom. Who could possibly do that? Randy thought to himself, I locked the doors before I went to bed, I know I did. He summoned up his courage, and threw himself into the room, ready to take on whatever had caused his TV to spew static into his house, getting him out of bed. He looked around the room, and found nothing. There was the TV, on a static channel, and a futon, exactly as he had left it. Nothing was out of place. He looked at the window to see if it might be open, and was shocked to see a backlit silhouette of a person in the window. Randy could only make out make out a pair of golden eyes that seemed to glow with their own light. The silhouette stood still, glaring at him, and he felt as if it was staring through his soul. How is this possible? He has to be floating! His eyes, what are his eyes? Randy tried to comprehend that last thought as the window between him and the silhouette violently shattered, and he was dragged outside, through the air. The last thing he knew was the gold in those eyes.