Squirrelly Wrath

            There was a squirrel outside of the Thompson family’s house that had lived there for years.  They called it Squinty Squirrel, for obvious reasons. Squinty was quite territorial at first, running at the kids when they came out in the front yard to play. It even bit Lisa once when she was on the swing set.  Luckily, squirrels don’t really bite hard, and it barely broke skin.  Still, little Lisa and her brother, Jerry, were hesitant to go out for months after that.

            After years of dealing with a rage-filled squirrel in the front yard, Squinty seemed to calm down, even became friendly.  Mrs. Thompson joked that Squinty had finally forgiven them for moving in, and would accept them as friends now.  In Squinty’s old age, she rode on the kids’ shoulders rather than bit them. Things were much better.

            Squinty couldn’t be old for long, though. Squirrels are not well known for their long life spans, and Squinty wasn’t one to deviate from that standard.  Jerry found her on the Welcome mat one morning, dead as George Washington.  He and the rest of the family were shocked. They knew Squinty was going to die at some point, but that kind of thing never really seems real until it happens.

            Now there sits a little makeshift head stone in the Thompsons’ backyard. “Squinty” is scratched into it, and it will stay there for years to come.

Brobots

            In the hallowed halls of fraternity Pi Sigma Phi, two fraternity elders chilled by the fireplace in the den.  The crackling fire pleased their ears and soothed their minds almost as much as the outrageous scotch they sipped at so absent-mindedly. The ice in their glasses clinked harmoniously with the fire’s crackling, creating a symphony for the pleasantly inanimate.  Even the old men managed to creak and groan in manners reminiscent of the antique chairs in which they sat. Had anyone walked by that room, which no one did, they would not have inspected the room with much attention, as there were no real signs of life at the superficial levels. 

            Suddenly, an idea struck Nigel, the elder sitting closest to the fire.

            “Why did we buy those Brobots, George?” Nigel asked quietly, breaking the mausoleum-like feel of the room nonetheless.

            “So we wouldn’t have to bother the poor brothers that are still going to college to get our drinks, and so I can be alerted to emails instantly upon receiving my beverages. The convenience of Brobo-servitude is overwhelming.” George replied haughtily between sips of outrageous scotch.

            “You could be right, but,” Nigel pondered, twirling his mustache at the same time, “ I can’t remember the last time I interacted with any of the current members. I haven’t even seen this season’s initiates, have you?”

            “Thankfully not. From what I gather, they are as insolent as we were. I don’t care to revisit those times.” A dark look came over George’s eyes. Nigel was not sure whether or not to press that issue further, so he stayed on his previous tack.

            “Yes…” Nigel continued, “but what I’m getting at is, it seems like no one interacts with other people anymore. We just talk to robots.”

            “Brobots.” George corrected him. “But you raise an interesting point. I’d like to raise a toast!” Moving only his drinking arm, George raised his half-full glass in the air. An observer might even swear that the rest of him was sewn into the chair, somehow.

            “A toast, with just the two of us?” Nigel asked incredulously, raising his glass at the same time. “To what?”

            “To eliminating inter-dipshit communications on the personal level.”

            “I don’t know if that’s a good thi-“

            George tapped his glass against Nigel’s before that thought could be completed. They drank, one bemused while the other was highly amused, and the toast was completed.

No, Jim

            “Jim,” Clara sighed, “We need to talk.”

            “We need to? I’m thinking maybe you just want to, but what’s up?”

            Clara sat down beside Jim on their torn, ratty couch and turned to look at his eyes as he tried to predict what she was going to say to him.

            “Is this about me yelling at the neighbor’s dog at odd hours of the night again? I know it isn’t the most neighborly behavior, but neither is having that fucking dog outside with its vocal cords intact.” His prediction abilities were never really what they should have been. Clara shook her head softly, and tried to keep herself from smiling and getting distracted from her point.

            “No, that’s not it. Come to think of it, though, I didn’t know that you were still doing that. You’ve gotten better at yelling without waking me up. Anyway, I wanted to talk to you about your drugs. I really wish you’d stop this crack binge you’re on now. It’s hurting all of us, you know.”

            “What?! Of all the things you wanted to talk about, you want to get on to me for that? I’ve done worse, you know. No, that’s not gonna fly, Clara. I’m not quitting. There’s not even a problem, I don’t even see what you’re worried about. It’s not like the time I was fucking your cous-“

            “Let’s not bring that up anymore. It’s a lot easier to forgive that when you don’t ever speak of that again. Mike still hasn’t quite gotten over you, you know. He asks about you, wants to know what happened between you two. I don’t know what to tell him anymore.”
            “I don’t know what to tell him, either. Why is it our problem? He was up for it at the time, so was I. I’m just not anymore, mainly because you asked me that he and I quit fucking. Haven’t I sacrificed enough?”

            “Seriously? You threw out TV from the balcony three days ago because you said it called you “Dersley”, and you “wouldn’t be associated with no numb-nuts motherfuckin’ Dersley”. I missed American Idol last night because of you and your crack. You know how much I love that show!”

            “…Oh. I was kind of wondering why we weren’t watching TV right now. I found the remote a few minutes ago.”

            “That’s not going to work anymore, Jim.”

            “That’s ok. My answer’s still no.”

White Dress, Red Cart

            “Huh, look at that one.” Hobo #1 said to Hobo #2

            “What, the one wearing white, with that cart?”” #2 said, squinting to see what his friend was pointing at.

            “Yeah, that one.” Hobo #1 grunted at #2.  He wiped sweat from his forehead, wishing they were still under that overpass a few miles back.  At least they had this game to keep them company.

            “Hmm. She’s tough. Since she’s wearing all that white, and pushing a red shopping cart, I’d guess that she watched too many movies when she was growing up, and paid too much attention in her fuckin’ English classes. She’s trying to project this image of purity with that white thing she’s wearing- I don’t know what they call ‘em anymore: camosile, blouse, trench coat? What? Anyway, that red shopping cart, lemme think. She either shops at Target (fuck that place, by the way), or she’s still paying too much attention in English class, and she’s saying that she’s in the market for passion, lust, sex… she’s probably a prostitute. That white shit she’s wearing is a front. Cops trust women in white.”

            “Especially when there’s a water hose somewhere close!” Hobo #1 exclaimed, laughing heartily as they walked. “You’re too good at this, #2. I was gonna say she likes wearing white, and doesn’t think it will get dirty at all, even if she’s walkin’ around outside like that. What’s with her, anyway? Who walks on the service roads like that? She looks like a decent enough woman to know not to do shit like that.” The two hobos kept walking, watching the woman walked in the opposite direction.

            “I’m tellin’ you, man. She’s a whore. Look at that red shopping cart, and the way she parades her ass around like it owns the place.” #2 said. He, too, was starting to wish they were still at that overpass a few miles back. Why the hell had they decided today was Let’s Walk Down The Freeway Day? Panhandling on the freeway sucks unless your tits are big, and the two hobos had no tits to speak of.  They weren’t going to get any money out here, and they knew it.

            “I don’t see any ass parading, like you’re saying. And she might shop at Target! That was your first guess, right? Don’t go sayin’ bad stuff about people you don’t know.” Hobo #1 said, punctuating the statement by smacking #2 on the back of the head.

            “But I know her. It just took me a minute to know that I knew her.” #2 mumbled, rubbing his head and leering at Hobo #1.

            “What? Since when do you know a woman? Why didn’t you say shit about this before?” Hobo #1 smacked #2 on the forehead this time as he spoke.

            “Because I paid her for sex last week. You don’t know everything I do, man. I used to be a senator in El Salvador, I bet you didn’t know that. Were you ever a senator in El Salvador? No? I didn’t think so.”

            “WHAT? You never told me that! I think I would have recognized you if you were a senator. Does El Salvador even have senators? I thought they were just… a group of people speakin’ Spanish at each other, or somethin’.” Hobo #1 scratched his head, trying to remember where the hell El Salvador even was. Wasn’t it a city in Mexico?

            “They had a senate. It collapsed about 213 years ago, in favor of a dictator.” #2 said, with a cryptic glint in his eye.

            “You fuckin’ idiot! I know you aren’t older than 47, how the hell would you be in a senate over 200 years ago in some El Salvador town, shit. El Salvador isn’t even a real place, probably. I think you made that place up! Senator, my ass. Look at this, you’re makin’ me drink, man. Here I am, tryin’ to quit, and you’re makin’ me drink. Sad state of the union, #2.” Hobo #1 took a large flask out of his ragged jacket, unscrewed the cap, and took a long drag from it. Belching, he put the cap back on, and returned the flask to its original hiding spot.

            Hobo #2 sighed, and put his hand on Hobo #1’s shoulder. “You’d never understand, amigo. Just keep that in mind, wherever your mind goes. I don’t know where it’ll be in a few minutes.” With that, #2 uttered a few mystical phrases, kicking Hobo #1’s soul out of his body, and allowing Juan De Los Cinco Diablos’ soul to transfer from the body of #2 to Hobo #1.

            “Hmmm, I didn’t know he’d been keeping tequila from me. That bastard.” Juan muttered, drawing the flask out of the pocket and draining the rest of the tequila.