Freaky Briefs: 75 Short Absurdities
Date: 2022-07-20 00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Horror; Humour; Anthologies
Description: From the madman who brought you Gleefully Macabre Tales, Dead Clown Barbecue, Everything Has Teeth, and Candy Coated Madness comes Jeff Strand’s latest and most twisted collection: Freaky Briefs. This time, all of the stories are flash fiction—very short stabs of pitch-black hilarity. Includes fan favorites like “The Douchebag Who Reneged on the Death Pact,” along with brand-new stories like “A Story For the Dude on the Plane Who Keeps Looking at My Laptop Screen.” Seventy-five tales in all, proving that you can pack of a lot of grisly fun into small packages. The stories... - The Douchebag Wh
Publisher: Independently published

Freaky Briefs

75 Short Absurdities

Jeff Strand

Freaky Briefs copyright 2022 by Jeff Strand

Cover art copyright 2022 by Lynne Hansen www.LynneHansenArt.com

All rights reserved.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the author.

For more information about the author, visit http://www.JeffStrand.com

Contents

Introduction

The Douchebag Who Reneged on the Death Pact

Fresh Fish

Clicking the Heart

The Wrong Dentist

The Skull Within

CraniumVision

Headspin

Oh No! Don’t Eat Me! (A Chocolate Bunny Tale)

Thrill Ride

The First Cannibals

What’s In The Box?

Jock Magnum, Manatee Hunter

Bernie

Beaks

The Guy Who Didn’t Want to Murder Anyone With a Hammer

Bummer Tarot Reading

Pull My Finger

Crazy Ralph’s Used Car Emporium

Home With a Future

The Tell Tale Heart II: Aftermath

A Story I’m Writing While Being Devoured by a Lion

Make a Wish

Long Sleeves

Fast Zombies vs. Slow Zombies

Scrape and Scoop

How’s My Driving?

Granny’s Got An Ice Pick

A Story for the Dude on the Plane Who Keeps Looking at My Laptop Screen

And There Was A Metal Hook

Box of Chocolates

The Frostbite Movie

Breakthrough

Ten Little Babies

Greasy Grimy Gopher Guts

The Night I Realized Halfway To The Pavement Below That I Was Not, In Fact, Superman

Helen Gets Permanently Traumatized

A Real Haunting

Vegan Training

Guillotine

Sherlock Holmes and the Murders at Camp Crystal Lake

Chick

Quicksand

It’s Drabble Time!

The Most Entertaining Man in the Elevator

Wrongful Death Payday

Jigsaw Puzzle

The Satisfying Crunch of Bones Beneath My Feet

All The Cheese in the World

Laundry Day

Not Enough Coins

Impressionable

Below Deck

The Cat Who Was Super Smart For A Cat But Pretty Dumb By Human Standards

The Blind Men And The Elephant: A Parable

Bradley Goes Crunch

Dusted

Intervention

Telemedicine

The Soupville Stabber Practices Social Distancing

Bunny Ears

The Tragic Tale of Slappy McWankerville

Abner Wederman, Ribald Ostrich

Last One In

Too Meta 2 Live

Steps

Santa Claus Kills 2020

Yak Attack

Job Reference

The Man Without Nails

Comeback

The Last Egg

Six Cents A Word

Encore

Making The Most Of It

After

Acknowledgments

“Bonus” Story

About the Author

Other Books By Jeff Strand

Introduction

I’m often asked if I prefer writing novels or short stories. I’ve probably given different answers at different times. Overall, I prefer having written novels, but short stories are often more fun, because I can be sillier, darker, and weirder, without having to commit to 300 pages of “WTF?” storytelling.

And the really short stories—flash fiction—are even more fun. I can do whatever the hell I want! Deranged narrators! Bizarre storytelling formats! Don’t like it? It’s over in a couple of pages and we’re on to the next one!

So I’d like to welcome to you Freaky Briefs: 75 Short Absurdities. The tales in this book overwhelmingly fall onto the “silly” side of my writing, almost as if it’s a grisly and demented sketch comedy collection. But not entirely. There’s the occasional more-or-less serious story, like “Long Sleeves,” in here to keep you off-balance. Still, if your familiarity with my work is limited to stuff like Pressure, Dweller, My Pretties, or Deathless, you may find this to be something of a jarring experience.

The origin of this book goes back to the summer of 2016. I’d started a newsletter in 2000, shortly before my first novel came out, but it had fallen on hard times. For a while I’d been focused more on my blog, and then on social media, and my poor newsletter (on the once-mighty YahooGroups) became an afterthought. I kept thinking, “I should revamp it!” Though I didn’t keep track of how many times I thought this without actually revamping my newsletter, I assure you, the number was quite high.

Finally, in June 2016, The Jeff Strand Newsletter was re-launched, with the announcement that every issue would contain a brand-new piece of flash fiction! And, with very few exceptions, it did. Was this ever a pain in the ass? Yes. Often. But it allowed me to promote each issue of the newsletter with “Hey, everybody, here’s the latest story!” instead of “Hey, everybody, here’s your opportunity to click links and purchase my wares!”

The newsletter stories became my default choices for live readings. “Crazy Ralph’s Used Car Emporium” got a standing ovation, and for those not in the biz, standing ovations for authors reading short stories are not the natural order of things. (Do a YouTube search for “Jeff Strand Crazy Ralph” and there it is. The first couple of sentences are cut off, but they’re right here in this very book. Convenient!) At another event, after a really angry, unpleasant, flat-out ugly panel discussion that left the audience ill at ease, I stood up to give my reading, prepared to bomb harder than any author reading has ever bombed in recorded history. But “The Douchebag Who Reneged on the Death Pact” was exactly what the crowd needed, and the convention organizer thanked me profusely afterward for breaking the tension.

The plan was always that I’d eventually compile these stories into a book. I hadn’t decided if I would wait until I had a sufficient number of stories from the newsletter, or if I’d reach a point where I thought, “Screw it! I’ll just write the rest of ‘em!” It turned out to be the latter, and so twenty new stories were written specifically for this book.

Anyway, I’m proud to present Freaky Briefs. Plow through the entire book in one sitting, or read one before bedtime every night for seventy-five nights. Or, hey, flash fiction makes good bathroom reading. No judgment here! Just enjoy!

The Douchebag Who Reneged on the Death Pact

My name is Zeke, and yes, I’m the douchebag who reneged on the death pact.

Nobody is angry with me. They’re all dead. When you renege on a bet or a dare or something like that, people can get really upset, but when you decide not to join everybody in a group suicide, one nice thing is that you don’t have to face any consequences, at least not from a social standpoint.

I do feel like a jerk, though. And a coward. Because, ultimately, I didn’t gaze deep inside myself and proclaim, “I have discovered that I want to live!” No, I lost my nerve. When everybody else did it, it looked like it hurt, and I totally wussed out.

The method was part of the problem. Typically, a death pact involves something like poisoning. Everybody drinks at the same time, and, sure, maybe they grimace because the poisoned beverage doesn’t taste very good, but there are no shrieks of agony. If you use a gun, yeah, it’s gross, but you’re dead before you feel anything.

In this case, my fellow residents of the underground bomb shelter just stabbed themselves a whole bunch of times.

Not one person said, “Gosh, this doesn’t hurt nearly as much as I expected.” Oh no, they were all wailing and crying and spurting, and it was just flat-out awful. I’m not saying that you would have been as cowardly as me if you’d been here, but I can pretty much guarantee you would have felt a bit squeamish.

By the way, we didn’t have any knives or swords or meat cleavers or anything that would have made the self-stabbing process go smoothly. Due to extremely poor planning, our bomb shelter had no knives or spoons, just forks. So everybody was trying to kill themselves with a fork. Do you know what’s not easy? Trying to kill yourself with a fork. You can do it, obviously, but it’s challenging and messy.

Not metal forks. Plastic ones.

It also didn’t help that of the other twenty people in the bomb shelter, only two or three of them went with the more efficient method of trying to slam the plastic fork right into their throat. Some people went for their heart, some people went for their belly, and some of them went for arms and legs, presumably figuring that they’d eventually bleed out.

As you may have guessed, most of us weren’t particularly smart. I suppose that’s why we were trapped in an underground bomb shelter when there wasn’t a nuclear holocaust happening aboveground—we’d accidentally locked ourselves inside during an apocalypse-themed birthday party for my buddy Frankie. We’d run out of cake on Day Two. The shelter had yet to be stocked with food, despite Frankie having bought it a few years ago. (He said he didn’t know what kind of rations he’d be hungry for when the bombs dropped.)

We were still on Day Two. You can’t really starve to death after two days, especially when you’ve had red velvet cake earlier that afternoon, but nobody wanted to face the nightmarish days ahead of being pretty hungry. So a vote was taken: Should we make a death pact, or should we wait to be rescued? The vote was 18-2 in favor of waiting to be rescued, but the rules of the vote were convoluted and illogical, based on an outdated premise like the Electoral College, and somehow “death pact” won.

There was concern that a tummy might start grumbling at any moment, so the forks were immediately distributed. On the count of three, everybody started stabbing.

It took seven hours for the last body to fall.

Of course, people kept asking if I was going to participate. I’d just nod and smile and say, “Oh, sure, sure, just figuring out the best place to start.” If somebody raised an eyebrow at me, I’d poke myself, not hard enough to break the skin. One poke on the back of my hand really hurt—I don’t recommend doing that.

Finally, I stood there, surrounded by unsightly dead bodies. I felt like a total cretin. Untrustworthy. Not a team player. The kind of guy who would watch all of his friends stab themselves to death yet not stab himself to death as per the agreement.

I know, I know, you’re judging me harshly. It’s okay. Your disdain is justified. Glare all you want.

You’re probably saying, “Well, at least you’ve got plenty of food now.” I assure you, the idea of resorting to cannibalism never occurred to me, at least not until you hypothetically brought it up just now. And now I’m thinking that nineteen dead bodies will feed me for a good long while. There’s no food in the shelter, but there’s lots and lots of salt, so I can preserve the bodies until I’m ready to start dining. Wish I had a way to cook them, but you can’t have everything, I guess.

What’s that sound?

Oh, hey, somebody cut the padlock on the bomb shelter door! I’m saved! And I didn’t even get to eat—I mean, have to eat the bodies of my closest friends.

I’m not disappointed by that.

Really, I’m not. I’m relieved. Totally relieved. In fact, I can’t stop saying “Whew!” Look at me wiping my forehead right now to demonstrate how relieved I am.

You know, my rescuer seems distracted by all of the bloody corpses. I bet I can get in one quick bite...

Ooops. Wasn’t quick enough. Maybe if I wipe my mouth he’ll stop gaping and pointing at me with accusation in his eyes.

Nope, he’s still doing it.

Awkward.

Fresh Fish

It had been a forty-five-minute wait for a table (the restaurant didn’t take reservations), but fortunately, Ryan had been easy to talk to and he looked just like his profile picture. Granted, he didn’t look very good in his profile picture, but Sue had been prepared for him to show up looking even worse.

She was delighted as the hostess took them to their table, which had a perfect view of the water at sunset. Magical. She had no plans for a long-term relationship with Ryan, but the romantic atmosphere increased the chances that she might get some action later tonight.

The server, Dan, brought their margaritas. “Our special tonight is plank-grilled salmon with a habanero glaze. If you like your seafood to have a kick to it, it’s absolutely delicious. And you know we have the freshest fish anywhere. This salmon is so fresh that its family is still mourning it.”

“I beg your pardon?” Sue asked.

“Its family is still mourning it. That’s how fresh the salmon is.”

“Oh. Hmm. Habanero glaze sounds like it might be too spicy.”

“One of our other specials is a pan-seared rainbow trout with garlic lemon butter. So fresh that the other fish in the vicinity are still shell-shocked from watching him get caught.”

“They’re what?” Ryan asked.

“When you’re swimming through the lake and one of your best friends suddenly has a hook rip through his face, and then he’s yanked without warning right out of the water and you never see him again...well, it takes time to recover. Our trout is so fresh that his friends haven’t had that time. They’re still discussing how it all happened so fast. One second he was there, the next second—gone.”

“I don’t really want the trout,” said Sue.

“Well, the mahi-mahi is exquisite. While you were waiting for this very table, that mahi-mahi was still swimming around with her loving family. Her husband still hasn’t come to terms with the loss. He doesn’t know how to tell their six children that Mommy won’t be coming home. At this very moment he’s trying to put on a brave face. At other seafood restaurants, the family of the mahi-mahi would have processed their grief hours ago, but our seafood is so fresh that you can almost hear the sobs of the children. Little bubbles of sadness coming from their mouths. Now that, my friends, is fresh fish.”

“That’s horrible!” said Sue.

Dan frowned. “I don’t follow.”

“I don’t want to eat seafood with traumatized families!”

“Well, one important thing to remember: They’re fish. It’s not like that mahi-mahi was going to accomplish anything except for being delicious. My point wasn’t to make you feel sorry for the families of your dinner, but rather to paint a picture in your mind of how fresh it was.”

“You could’ve just said it was caught hours ago.” Sue pointed at the window. “You could’ve told me it was caught from that very lake.”

“Oh, you definitely don’t want to eat the fish that comes out of that lake, unless you find contaminants tasty. You’d be eating the fish and watching the bones come to life to seek vengeance. I’d slap that fish down in front of you and you’d see and smell the rotting happening in real time, like it was dissolving into rancid goo before your very eyes.”

“That’s disgusting,” said Ryan. “Why would you say that when I’m getting ready to order fish?”

“Our fish doesn’t come from that lake. I apologize; I thought that was clear.”

“I understood that part, but you can’t stand there and talk about rotting fish when somebody is trying to decide what kind of fish to order.”

“I was making the point that our fish won’t dissolve into rancid goo before your very eyes. No disrespect, but try to keep up.”

“You’re making this all very unappetizing,” said Sue. She looked at Ryan. “Is it all right if we go someplace else?”

“Yes, of course.” They pushed back their chairs and left the restaurant.

“You know, I’m not actually that hungry,” Sue told Ryan. “Maybe we should just skip the dinner part of our date and get to something more interesting. Maybe at my place...?”

Ryan smiled and took her hand. “I’m all in favor of that. Wow, could you believe that guy?”

“I’ve never had a waiter like that.”

“Me either. He’s the kind of guy who would go on a date and just start talking about venereal diseases. Like, he’d go into great detail about herpes symptoms, how the sores look and everything, and then wonder why you got upset, because he was saying that he didn’t have herpes.”

“Why would you say that?” Sue asked. “Why, when we were headed back to my place, would you bring that up?”

“What? I wasn’t talking about venereal diseases; my point was that our waiter would. He’s the one with no social skills. I was making fun of his clueless nature.”

Sue let go of his hand. “I think this date is over.”

At 2:24 AM, after three hours of tossing and turning in bed, Ryan realized what he’d said wrong.

Clicking the Heart

Charles didn’t like to judge people based on their personal appearance. So though the man was ugly, sweaty, and had a jagged scar on his cheek, Charles chose to judge him based on the fact that he was holding a gun.

“May I help you?” asked Charles. He didn’t usually answer the door when people pounded on it after midnight. He wished he’d stuck to that tonight.

“Sure,” said the ugly guy. “I’m Bryan. I’m a hit man.”

Charles tried to slam the door in his face, but Bryan pushed his way into the living room. Charles lunged at the coffee table, intending to grab an oversized, never-read book with which to bash the assassin in the face. Bryan was faster. A moment later Charles found himself lying on the floor, whimpering and clutching his freshly punched chin.

“I was hired by Ms. Regina Anderson,” Bryan told him. “I’m sure that name is familiar.”

Charles frowned. “Ummmm...kind of. I’ve never met her in person. I think we’re Facebook friends.”

“You two are indeed Facebook friends. You’ve been Facebook friends for almost a year. So now you understand why I’m here.”

“No,” said Charles. “Not at all. We’ve never exchanged private messages. I don’t know where she lives. She hardly ever even shows up on my timeline!”

“But she showed up yesterday, didn’t she?”

“Yeah, I think so, I guess. Her cat died.”

“Exactly! At 2:32 PM Eastern Standard Time yesterday, Regina Anderson posted that her cat Fluffyfur crossed over the Rainbow Bridge. She was looking for compassion and support in her time of mourning. But you clicked the heart icon! You clicked that you loved the fact that Fluffyfur was dead! Have you no soul?”

“No, no, no, no, no! I clicked the heart to show that I was thinking about her and her loss! Her post said nice things about the cat, and she posted a picture of him. That’s what the heart was for!”

“That’s not how she interpreted it. She thought you loved her new catless existence.”

Charles frantically shook his head. “She had it all wrong. It was an expression of sympathy!”

Bryan took a piece of paper out of his pocket. “Well, unfortunately, it’s too late to cancel this work order.”

“Please, this is all a mistake! Don’t kill me!”

“I’m not here to kill you. I’m here to kill your pets.”

“Wait, what?”

“She paid me to come here and kill every pet in your home.”

“But I don’t have any pets,” said Charles.

“None?”

“None. My lease doesn’t allow me to have them.”

“Not even a goldfish?”

“I’ve always found goldfish to be kind of boring. So, just tell Regina that it was all one big misunderstanding, and that I don’t have any pets anyway.”

“Sorry. I forfeit my fee if I don’t kill your pet. So, we have to move to Plan B.” He took out his cell phone and tapped on the screen a few times.

“Surely she’ll understand what I really meant,” said Charles. “It’s not like I clicked on the laughing face icon.”

There was a knock on the door. “Come in!” said Bryan.

The door opened, revealing an adult male in a tight-fitting dog suit that covered everything except his face. He stepped inside.

“This is Fido. Fido is what they call a ‘furry.’ Now, not all furries get sexual pleasure out of dressing in their animal suits, but Fido sure does. Your leg is in great danger.”

Charles just stared, mouth agape.

“Fido is now your pet,” said Bryan. “A gift from me to you.”

Fido bounced over to Charles and panted happily.

“I don’t want him,” said Charles.

“Tough. He’s yours.”

Then Bryan placed the barrel of the gun against Fido’s head and pulled the trigger. Fur and brains sprayed everywhere. Fido fell to the floor.

“Not gonna lie,” said Bryan. “That was way more messed up in real life than when I rehearsed it in my mind. Anyway, my job here is done. Now clean up after your pet.”

The Wrong Dentist

“You don’t have a tooth thing, do you?”

“I beg your pardon?” I asked.

“A tooth thing,” said the dentist. “Some people get freaked out when bad things happen to teeth, and I wanted to make sure you weren’t one of them.”

I was reclined in the dental chair, paper bib around my neck, light shining in my face. The dentist held the Novocain shot in his right hand. A tray of metal tools, most of them sharp, rested next to my head.

“I don’t, I mean, uh, I don’t think I’m any worse than anybody else, but why are you asking me that?”

“Doesn’t it seem like an appropriate question?”

“This is just supposed to be an exam.”

“That’s correct.”

“So, what bad things are going to happen?”

“Well, some dentists look into your mouth, maybe poke at your gums with a tiny hook, check some X-rays, and call it a day. We here at Jawbreaker Dental take a more—”

“Jawbreaker Dental? The sign just says Dr. Wilson.”

The dentist nodded. “We discovered that putting our official name on the sign decreased business. Anyway, we take a more thorough approach to dental care. The way I see it, you can’t really assure a patient that his teeth are in fine shape unless you’ve looked at the entire tooth, not just the part that’s visible above the gums. You need to feel it, roll it around in your fingers, caress the nerves. I’ll be removing all of your teeth, giving each of them a thorough cleansing, and then returning them to your mouth. That’s why I asked if you had a tooth thing.”

“Is this a joke?” I asked.

“Are you accusing me of tomfoolery?” asked the dentist. “I’m a professional.”

“I’ve just never heard of this technique. It seems odd and extreme.”

“Thomas Edison seemed odd and extreme when he invented the light bulb. Everyone around him kept saying, ‘Tom, that’s really messed up and creepy!’ But did he listen? No. That’s why you don’t have to stumble around in the dark, knocking out teeth left and right.”

“I’m not interested,” I said, wishing I’d spoken up earlier when I wondered why they were putting iron shackles around my ankles.

“I’ve been a dentist for twenty-six years. Licensed for the first nine of them. I assure you; I will be able to return each and every tooth to its original location. No molars up front for you, sir.”

“That’s not how teeth work, though,” I insisted. “You can’t pop them out and pop them right back in. They’re not Legos.”

“I’m not going to lie to you. There’s some surgery involved, though much of it is painless. But you seem to be focusing on your own comfort when I’m the one who has to see the blood. Nobody ever cares about the irreparable damage that dental procedures do to my psyche. ‘That’s just his job!’ they say. Every time I touch a drill to enamel, I am haunted a little bit more. I can’t close my eyes without seeing flashes of white teeth with yellow stains and red streaks. But go ahead, tell me all about how you’ll be less than comfy.”

“I do have a tooth thing!” I said. “A really bad one!”

“Sorry. Though I believe you, I could not, in good conscience, accept a confession that was brought on by torture.”

“But you haven’t started torturing me yet.”

“Yes, I have,” said the dentist. “I’ve been ripping away at your left knee with a pair of distal end cutters for the past thirty seconds, but you’ve been too distracted by your tooth phobia to notice.”

I looked at the mess that used to be a perfectly good left knee and screamed.

“We’re both adults here,” said the dentist, “so I think we can stop pretending that I got into this business to create smiles. I am, in fact, a neo-Nazi dentist. I’m not suggesting that you’re unobservant, but I will say that there are some insignias in our décor that should have tipped you off. Did you notice the pattern on the tile floor in our waiting room?”

I stopped screaming. “Yes, but I assumed you simply thought it was pleasing to the eye. Why can’t we enjoy a swastika on its own aesthetic merits, without it always being a Nazi thing?”

“Enough talk,” said the dentist. He held up the needle with the Novocain. “Open wide.”

“No!”

“Fine. More for me.” The dentist injected the Novocain into his arm. “Oh, yeah. That’s the stuff. Time to get started.” He glanced around the office. “Now where did I leave that brick?”

“Dr. Wilson?” asked the receptionist, peeking her head into the room.

“Yes?”

“There’s a problem with his insurance. Apparently his coverage lapsed in May.”

“Oh.” The dentist glared at me. “Then I’m sorry, there’s nothing we can do for you until you get that sorted out.” He took a rusty key out of the pocket of his scrubs and unlocked the shackles.

I got out of the chair and hurried out of the office, weeping with relief.

And that, Joey, is why our family does its own dentistry at home.

Hold still.

The Skull Within

If you stare at a stranger—really stare at them—long enough, you can see the skull within, and it will unlock the secrets of the universe.

Stare at them. Stare through their skin. Stare through their muscle. Stare all the way to the bone. Stare until the bone glows. Stare until the glow of the bone hurts your eyes.

Do not look away. Do not break concentration.

The stranger may look back at you. Do not let this distract you. Continue to stare at them, as if you can see right through the pores of their flesh, as if those pores have opened up to you, and only you, revealing the skull beneath.

If the stranger glares at you, let them. Being glared at is a very small price to pay to unlock the secrets of the universe.

Perhaps the stranger will ask you if there’s some kind of problem. You will want to look away. Do not succumb to that desire. You must not succumb. If you look away, even for an instant, the connection will be lost, and the secrets of the universe will remain just beyond your grasp.

Will the stranger walk over to your table? It is not out of the realm of possibility. Remain completely focused. Do not waver.

It may be difficult to hear the words “I asked you a question, asshole!” while maintaining your stare. You have been conditioned to stop looking at people when they angrily confront you for looking at them. Do not stop.

When the stranger shoves you, remember that the secrets of the universe depend on your commitment to the cause. They will most likely ask what the hell is wrong with you. They may also ask if you are some sort of freak. You are under no obligation to answer.

This is the point where the stranger will raise their fist. Like most humans, you will have a reluctance toward being punched in the face, but if you look away now, the stranger will have thought you were an asshole for nothing. Don’t give up. You are so very close to the secrets of the universe.

The punch will hurt. Nobody is going to try to convince you differently.

This is where you will accept a harsh reality check: you are not a superhero with an iron jaw. The impact of the stranger’s fist striking your face will make you look away. As you tumble out of your chair and hit the floor, you will realize that you did not stare at the stranger long enough to see the skull within.

You will be banished from that bar, as you have been banished from so many others, but when your chin heals you can try again. The secrets of the universe are worth it.

CraniumVision

“Tell me about this CraniumVision thing,” said Bob.

“It’s the only streaming service you’ll ever need,” the sales associate informed him. “You put on the headgear, and we perform a brief and painless brain scan. This information is used to create a completely customized streaming service. It knows exactly what you want to watch, when you want to watch it. For $14.95 a month, you’ll never have to make another viewing decision. It will find the perfect programming every single time you turn on your television. The first month is free. Cancel anytime.”

“Let’s do it!”

* * *

Bob sat on the couch and entered his password with the remote control. “What’s this?” asked Edith, sitting down next to him.

“CraniumVision. You know how I’ll spend half the evening just looking for something to watch? Those days are over! They scanned my brain, and this streaming service will choose the show for me!”

“You let them scan your brain?”

“Yeah, why not? I’ve got nothing to hide in there.” The CraniumVision logo, a brain with eyes, appeared on the television screen. And then the show began.

“Mork & Mindy, huh?” asked Edith.

Bob frowned. “That can’t be right. An almost infinite array of choices, and my deepest wish is Mork & Mindy?”

“You don’t like Mork & Mindy? You said ‘shazbot’ that one time a few years ago to be funny.”

“I like it fine. I watched it when it was originally on the air, but it’s not like I’ve been pining away for it all this time. And this episode is from a later season, when the show lost its way. I can’t believe this is what my subconscious mind most desires to view.”

“Well, it’s on, so we might as well watch it,” said Edith.

A moderately amusing half hour later, the next show began.

Bob gaped at the screen. “Mork & Mindy again?” He continued gaping. “It’s the same episode! Did my subconscious mind think I missed some of the nuance?”

“Are you going to keep watching?”

Bob pressed the fast-forward button. A message appeared on the screen: CraniumVision is optimized to know your perfect programming choice at all times. Fast-forwarding is not supported.

“I guess I am,” he said.

They watched the episode again. Bob did notice a detail or two that he’d missed on the first viewing, but it was hard for him to accept that this was his entertainment of choice.

“If it plays that same episode again, I’m going to do something besides watch television with you,” said Edith.

“There’s no way my subconscious mind wants to watch Mork & Mindy again,” said Bob. “If it comes on again, I’m cancelling my CraniumVision subscription.”

The opening credits to The Facts of Life began.

“For God’s sake, what is going on here?” Bob demanded. “And this is also from one of the later seasons! It doesn’t even have Mrs. Garrett in it!”

“Are you going to watch it?”

“I guess I have to, right?”

“Um, no,” said Edith. “You have free will.”

“But I paid $14.95 a month for it. You don’t pay $14.95 for a streaming service and then not watch it. That would be pure madness.”

“Well, I’m done,” said Edith. “I’m going to go do some archery or something.”

“Did you know that Molly Ringwald was in the first season?”

“Is that why your subconscious mind wants to watch it?”

“No. I already said that this episode is from one of the later seasons.”

“Maybe your subconscious mind has an aversion to Molly Ringwald, so it wants to watch a show that she used to be part of but didn’t see through to the end.”

“That’s ridiculous. I dream about Molly Ringwald all the time.”

“Do you?”

“Yes. And I always wake up right before the good part. Why don’t you knit or something? I don’t want to watch this alone.”

“Fine.”

They watched the episode of The Facts of Life, which was as unremarkable of a viewing experience as Bob remembered. As the credits rolled, Bob dreaded what might come next. He liked to think of himself as a deeply intellectual gentleman of refined tastes, and if the next program selection wasn’t mentally stimulating, he would have to seriously consider doing something apart from watching television.

The next show came on. The production values were suddenly much shoddier than before. A woman was tied to a chair, duct tape over her mouth, her makeup smeared from crying. A shaky handheld camera zoomed in on her face, then zoomed out to reveal a man standing in the basement next to her, holding a very large knife.

The woman looked eerily similar to Edith. The man looked eerily similar to Bob.

The man on television held the knife up to the woman’s face and slowly ran the blade down her cheek, not cutting her yet.

“Is this a snuff film?” asked Edith.

“Uhhhhh…” said Bob.

“Is this a snuff film where the victim looks like me and the killer looks like you?”

“Uhhhhh…” said Bob, as the killer on television, giggling with maniacal glee, began to cut the screaming woman.

Bob picked up the remote control and shut off the television.

The rest of the evening was extremely difficult.

Headspin

While the other kids in my neighborhood were playing Star Wars, my sister and I would play The Exorcist. We always fought over who got to be Regan. Jill was a girl and thus had a more valid claim to the role, but everybody knows that Regan is more fun to play than Father Karras or Father Merrin.

One day Jill was being especially pouty. But I was eight, a full year older than her, and therefore a lot smarter. “Father Karras is way better!” I insisted. “Demonic possession is boring. You get to pretend to have a crisis of faith!”

“I don’t wanna have another crisis of faith! It’s stupid! I wanna throw the pea soup!”

“You threw the pea soup last time!”

“I did not! You got to throw it the last two times! It’s not fair!”

“I’ll make you a deal,” I said. “Let me throw the soup this time, and you can throw it the next three times!”

“You promise?”

“Yep!” I lied.

“Okay!”

A few minutes later, I lay on the bed in a nightgown. Though we strove for accuracy to the source material, only one of my hands was tied to the bedposts because I needed the other hand free to hurl a bowl of pea soup into my sister’s face.

The first time we played Exorcist, we turned the thermostat as low as it would go, but we weren’t able to get the room cold enough to see our breath. Mom and Dad were furious. “We should make you pay the A/C bill out of your allowance!” they shouted. After that, we settled for just pretending that the devil had lowered the temperature of the room.

We also replaced certain forbidden words with “fart.”

As I lay thrashing on our parents’ bed, Jill informed me that the power of Christ compelled me. I snarled and growled.

I opened my mouth wide. Jill squeezed her eyes tightly closed. Then I flung the pea soup, bowl and all.

Obviously, I wasn’t supposed to hurl the bowl at her. I’d gotten too deep into character. I tried to shout out a warning, but I could only manage a phlegmatic croak before the soup splattered against her face, followed by the glass bowl bonking her in the nose.

She cried out in pain and fell to the floor.

I was going to get in so much trouble!

“Get up!” I said, sitting up. “You’re okay! I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it!”

“I’m bleeding!” she wailed.

“You’re okay! You’re okay! We’ll put some ice on it! Hurry up and untie me! We need to clean up the soup before Mom and Dad get home!”

“You broke my nose!”

“No, I didn’t!” I insisted. “I wouldn’t be able to understand what you were saying if I broke your nose! You’re okay! Untie me!”

Jill stood up, her hand pressed tightly to her face. There was more blood trickling between her fingers than I would’ve expected from a non-broken nose, but I was sure that she was totally fine. I couldn’t recall a single instance in which somebody had died from getting a bowl of pea soup thrown in their face.

“I’m not playing Father Karras anymore!” she shouted. “I wanna be Regan!”

“Okay, okay, okay,” I said, knowing that if I didn’t let my bratty sister have her way, she’d refuse to work with me on a cover story for her nose injury, and I’d get in big trouble.

She climbed onto the bed and untied me. We hurried into the kitchen, and I pressed a bag of frozen broccoli against her face for a couple of minutes until the flow of blood stopped. Her nose wasn’t grotesquely disfigured, so everything seemed fine.

“Open up another can of pea soup,” she said.

“That was the last one.”

“Then I’m telling Mom and Dad!”

“No, no, don’t! What about chicken noodle?”

“The devil doesn’t barf chicken noodle soup!”

“I think we have some green food coloring!”

I climbed up onto the counter and opened the cupboard, but we had only red, blue, and yellow food coloring. If only I’d remembered that yellow and blue make green, this tale would have a less tragic conclusion.

“I’m calling Mom at work,” said Jill, walking toward the phone.

“Don’t! You can still be Regan without pea soup!”

“No, you can’t! That’s the most fun part!”

“No, the pea soup is boring!” I said, trying not to panic. “Anybody can throw pea soup! The coolest part of the movie is when she spins her head in a circle! Remember that? Wasn’t that neat? That’s way better than throwing a bowl of stupid soup, right?”

“I guess.”

I put my hands around her neck. It went poorly.

Oh No! Don’t Eat Me! (A Chocolate Bunny Tale)

Easter morning! Little Susie was so excited when she found her Easter basket! She poured her candy treasures out onto the floor and then pretended that the green grass was a wig. Such a clever child!

She gobbled down the jellybeans with the delight of a seven-year-old who has never tried Jelly Bellies and is thus unaware that the world offers much finer options. She ate her whole box of Peeps. And then she picked up her chocolate bunny.

“Oh no, don’t eat me!” she made the bunny say in a silly high-pitched voice. Her mom and dad, who were making a video of their very charismatic daughter, smiled.

“Please, please, please!” the bunny continued. “I’m just a little bunny! Don’t eat me!”

“I’m sorry, hoppy little bunny,” said Susie, now speaking on her own behalf. “But I’m hungry, and you look so chocolatey and delicious!”

“Noooooooo!” said the bunny, as she nibbled on its ears. “Not my ears!”

“Nom nom nom!” said Susie.

“Oh no! Now I can’t hear!” said the bunny.

“Om nom nom nom nom!” said Susie, continuing her adorable meal.

“Oh no! Not my fluffy chocolate tail!” begged the bunny. “I need to wag it!”

Susie took a bite out of the bunny’s tail.

“Ow! Ow! Ow!” Susie made the chocolate bunny say. “The pain is unbearable! I never imagined that such agony could exist!”

Susie’s mother’s smile faltered.

“Why? Oh, dear God, why have you forsaken me? I’ve been hideously disfigured! I’m a ghastly freak, unworthy of love!”

“It’s okay, little chocolate bunny,” said Susie. “I still love you.”

“I can still feel my ears and tail digesting in your tummy! How is that even possible? Please, spare me further excruciating misery! Surely there must be some mercy in your heart!”

“Okay, I won’t eat you anymore,” Susie told the chocolate bunny. “Just kidding!” She began to chew on its face.

“You monster!” the bunny wailed. “You savage psychopathic monster! I tried to bring you joy on Easter morning and this is the way you treat me! My hatred for you burns with the intensity of a thousand suns!”

“Nom nom nom!” said Susie, taking a bite of its belly.

“Oh no! My internal organs are spilling all over the floor! There go my intestines! They’re slithering down your chin! Oh, God, if only I weren’t a hollow bunny I would have had more protection! I can see my guts caked into your teeth! I just want to die! Why won’t you grant me the sweet release of death?”

“Nom nom nom! So good! So chocolatey!”

“You’re going to Hell! You’re going to burn for eternity in the fiery pits of Hell for what you’re doing!”

Susie’s father lowered the camera.

“I curse you with my final breath! Damnation awaits, and I hope demons gnaw upon your flesh the way you’ve devoured mine! May your dreams be filled with nothing but horror!”

Susie placed the half-eaten bunny back in her Easter basket, then danced around the room in her green grass wig.

Her parents elected not to post the video on social media.

Thrill Ride

This theme park near my house has the greatest ride in the world.

For the most part, it’s a pretty standard roller coaster, though each cart only seats one person. The first hill is about a hundred and eighty feet, which is a good drop but certainly not a record setter. Three loop-de-loops. Several sharp turns. One corkscrew turn. One part where it kind of looks like a tunnel is going to knock your head off, even though it’s higher than it looks, and even freakishly tall people are in no danger.

What makes the RiskTaker 3000 so special is what happens once a day. Maybe it’s the first ride, maybe it’s the last ride, or maybe it’s one of the thousands of rides in between—you never know. But every day, during one ride, the cart flies off the track and into a pool filled with hungry sharks.

Is that amazing or what?

The odds are overwhelmingly against you being on the cart that goes into the shark pool. Less than a tenth of one percent. And from there, at least half of the people are able to swim to safety without so much as a bite. (It’s not a very big pool.) Those who do get attacked are pretty evenly divided between those who survive, perhaps with one fewer appendage, and those who die a horrible death in the bloody water.

So, yeah, when you ride the RiskTaker 3000 you will almost certainly be totally fine.

But I’ve got to tell you, that miniscule chance that you’re going to suffer a gruesome fate makes the ride infinitely more exciting. Your heart races like never before. You never knew you could scream so loud. Enough adrenaline pumps through your veins that you could probably lift an automobile to save a trapped child after you get off the ride.

It makes every other roller coaster in the world look tame. The GateKeeper at Cedar Point? El Toro at Six Flags? Kumba at Busch Gardens? Baby coasters. If you’re a serious roller coaster enthusiast, you know that RiskTaker 3000 is the best choice. The only choice.

Do the people who lose an arm regret the experience? Sure, probably. But it’s very, very, very unlikely that you’d be one of them. Everybody else staggers off the ride in a state of euphoria. Hell, some of them get right back in line!

[Disclaimer: Providers will not honor your life insurance policy if you die on the ride. It’s right there in the fine print under the wait time. I suppose that’s fair. Even though you’ll almost definitely survive the experience, you shouldn’t ride if your family can’t afford to bury you. Enjoy the thrill but be responsible.]

How many times have I ridden it? Well, let’s see. It’s been open for about two years. I’ve got annual passes, I come about three or four times a week, and I ride it about three or four times a visit, so that’s, what? Fifty-two weeks times two is a hundred and four, times three-point-five is...hold on, let me check my calculator app. Okay, it’s one thousand, two hundred and seventy-four times, give or take.

No, wait, I’m overestimating. Though they keep running the ride on days where the coaster jumps the track early, I don’t bother to ride after that. Don’t get me wrong; it’s still a fun ride, but there’s a reason the wait time drops from three hours to about ten minutes. It’s just not the same. If we count early shark death days, I’d estimate that I’ve been on it about a thousand times.

Does it get boring after a thousand rides? Not at all! I mean, yeah, I guess it loses a bit of its power to terrify. Once you start getting up into the triple digits, you get a little jaded. You stop thinking “What if my cart goes into the pool of sharks?” and start thinking “I’m sure my cart won’t go into the pool of sharks.”

Sometimes—and I’m only speaking for those like myself who’ve ridden it a thousand times—you need to spice it up.

When I rocket down that first hill, there’s only a one in six chance I’ll actually blow my brains out. Five in six chance that it’ll just be a click that I probably won’t even be able to hear over the roller coaster. Those are good odds. You’d bet a lot of money on those odds.

But that moment of excitement will be unparalleled.

The First Cannibals

“How hunt go?” asked Bonk, as Gorp walked into the cave.

Gorp set down his club. “Bad. Whack mammoth but it not die. Not find other food.”

“That make Bonk sad. Bonk hungry.”

“Gorp hungry too. Wish food more convenient.”

“Yes. Wish had more options.”

They both looked over at Tug, who was tending to the fire.

“Could Tug be food?” Bonk asked.

“No,” said Gorp. “That taboo, like sister-bang.”

“But why taboo?”

“When bang sister, kid not smart. Face all wrong.”

“I mean, why eat Tug taboo?”

“He own kind. Eating own kind deviant.”

“Bonk understand societal norms. Bonk not understand logic. Bonk hungry. Why rule out

Tug as food?”

“Tug useful member of community,” said Gorp.

“More useful than food?”

“Hmmmm.”

Tug looked over at them. “Why you stare?”

“No reason,” said Bonk.

“You stare like Tug have mammoth steak for head.”

“That ridiculous,” said Gorp. “You happen be where we look is all.”

“Make sense,” said Tug, returning his attention to the fire.

“Tummy growl like angered gods,” said Bonk. “Want kill, cook, and eat Tug.”

“If break taboo, where end?” asked Gorp. “Marry saber-tooth tiger?”

“Not care.”

“Okay. We eat Tug.”

Bonk and Gorp walked over to Tug. He glanced back at them.

“Look over there,” said Gorp.

“Why?” asked Tug.

“Interesting sight.”

“You not try distract Tug?”

“Why want distract Tug? What accomplish? Gorp try point out visually interesting thing, but if Tug no turn head, not Gorp problem when Tug miss sight. Gorp and Bonk enjoy sight. Tug miss out. Tug loss.”

“Tug suspicious.”

“Paranoia not endearing quality,” said Bonk. “Looking at sight now. Make Bonk happy. Bonk inspired.”

Tug turned to look. Gorp whacked him on the head a few times with his club.

“Ew,” said Gorp. “Human brains more disturbing to see than mammoth brains.”

“Feel morally bereft,” said Bonk. “But still hungry.”

“Tug tended fire which cook him,” said Gorp. “Cruel irony.”

They tossed Tug on the fire for a couple of hours, turning him often. Then they each took a bite.

“Stringy,” said Bonk.

“Not very tasty,” said Gorp.

“This reason for taboo? Human meat nasty?”

“Could be.”

“Will eat anyway. Waste not, want not.”

They continued to dine upon Tug.

“Feeling haunted,” said Gorp.

“Yes. Will see Tug’s face whenever close eyes.”

“Will never know moment of peace.”

“Throw selves in fire?”

“Yes.”

What’s In The Box?

“What’s in the box?” Thomas Hastings demanded, frantically waving his revolver at Marvin Veal.

Marvin gave him a slight smile. “Why don’t you open it and find out?”

“Just tell me, damn you! Don’t make me shoot you!”

“Very well,” said Marvin. “Inside the box is the severed head of your wife, Sasha.”

Hastings let out a sigh of relief.

Marvin frowned. “Did you…did you just sigh?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Maybe you didn’t hear me correctly. Your wife’s head is in that box.”

“I know. I’d just been bracing myself for something worse.”

“Something worse?”

“Like a bomb,” said Hastings. “If you told me there was a bomb inside the box that was going to explode in ten seconds, that would be worse than my dead wife’s head.”

“Well, I guess, maybe.”

“Or maybe the nuclear football. You know, that thing where the president can launch our missiles. If you’d somehow gotten your hands on that, and you had the codes, and you were going to make me watch while you fired missiles at Kansas City or something like that, it would be objectively worse than having Sasha’s head in there.”

“I don’t think the nuclear football works like that,” said Marvin. “You can’t just steal it and then control the United States’ missile arsenal. I’m pretty sure it takes two people, and they would’ve changed the codes by now.”

“I meant something like you having the nuclear football in there. All I’m saying is that I was preparing myself for something that could cause a mass extinction event, so when you said it was Sasha’s head, I thought, ‘Okay, that’s not as bad as what I expected.’ Don’t get me wrong—it’s still nightmarish. You don’t find out that your wife of seventeen years has been decapitated by a serial killer and have no emotional reaction. I’m just saying that there are alternatives that could’ve been worse.”

“Were you two having problems in your marriage?”

“No, no. At some point I’m sure that I’ll drop to my knees and start wailing and stuff. You’re acting like I’m a sociopath. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with being relieved that it’s one dead person instead of the whole human race. I mean, what kind of monster would I be if I thought, ‘Oh, look, he’s going to wipe out all of humanity, but at least it wasn’t Sasha’s head in there!’?”

“I guess you’re right.”

“Are you pouting?” Hastings asked.

“No.”

“Are you sure? You look like you’re pouting.”

“Your wife’s head isn’t in the box,” Marvin admitted. “I couldn’t catch her. She had a taser. But I figured I’d at least get you to scream ‘Noooooooo!!!’ before you opened the box for yourself.”

“So, what’s actually in there?”

“A cake.”

“What kind of cake?”

“Chocolate.”

“I love chocolate cake,” said Hastings.

“I know. But what’s actually inside is a carrot cake! And you hate carrot cake!”

“Well, it’s not one of my favorites, but I don’t hate it.”

“Liar!” shouted Marvin. “I did my research! You think carrot cake is totally nasty!”

Hastings shot him in the chest. Marvin fell to the ground.

“Did you just sigh with relief?” Hastings asked.

“No! Why the hell would I sigh with relief? You shot me!”

“I thought you might’ve thought I was going to shoot you in the face, or the stomach, or the kneecap. Do you know how much it hurts to get shot in the stomach? It’s way worse than getting shot in the chest.”

“Open…the box…” said Marvin. Then he died.

Hastings opened the box, bracing himself for the sight of the nasty carrot cake.

He gazed into Sasha’s dead eyes.

“Noooooooooo!!!”

Jock Magnum, Manatee Hunter

I get that not everybody holds me in high esteem. I know that some people call me “That [expletive deleted] who tries to kill manatees!” instead of “Manatee Hunter.” It’s fine. I never expected to be universally beloved.

“Why do you hunt manatees?” you may ask. “What have manatees ever done to you?”

To me, the proper question is “What have manatees ever done for you?”

Name one thing. Name one productive thing, one act of kindness, one single time that a manatee put your needs ahead of its own. I can wait. Coming up empty, huh?

You know what manatees do? Here’s what manatees do. Manatees make you feel guilty because you hear that the people who study them identify specific manatees by the scars on their backs from when they got hit by boats. Seriously, that’s how they keep track of which manatee is which: the back scars. “Awww, the poor manatees,” you think. “Boats suck!”

Then you go out and start setting fire to boats. Not while there are people on board (that would be psychotic) but in the middle of the night you go from dock to dock with gasoline and matches. “Die, boats, die!” you scream, which admittedly does sound a bit psychotic. Your screaming attracts the attention of one of the boat owners, and you find yourself apologizing profusely while staring down the barrel of a shotgun.

While you’re in jail reviewing the decisions that led you to this point, you realize that this was the manatees’ fault. You wouldn’t have committed felony arson if it wasn’t to stop boats from smacking into them. Do the manatees appreciate your effort? Do they come to visit you? Well, no, of course they don’t. They’re water-based mammals, and it’s a credit to your sanity that there’s only one night where your descent into madness is so extreme that you become angry with the creatures for their lack of visitation.

Upon regaining your freedom, you vow revenge.

Just to be clear, when I’ve said “you” these past few paragraphs I was really talking about me. I hope it didn’t make you uncomfortable. If you’ve read this far, I assume that your own life story is similar, but it would be crazy if all of the details were the same. For example, you probably set fire to a different mode of transportation to protect a different type of animal.

Anyway, I decided that all manatees needed to die. So I violated the terms of my parole by purchasing a large caliber machine gun and went to the nearest lake to terminate some manatees!

You may be wondering why I didn’t go to a public aquarium with a manatee exhibit instead. This is because they do not allow you to bring large caliber machine guns into the building. I did not acquire this information by trying to bring a large caliber machine gun into a public aquarium; I already knew it would not be permitted. I’m not insane and/or stupid.

As I gazed into the clear water, I saw my most hated enemy. A manatee! I’ve been assuming that you know what a manatee looks like, but just in case you don’t, they’re these gray blobs that kind of look like gigantic walruses without the tusks. I let out a war cry and pointed my machine gun at it.

And then I felt...guilt. This slow-moving, peaceful aquatic beast was no match for a torrent of bullets. It wasn’t even close to a fair fight. I was no better than the godless motorboats.

I set down my machine gun (though, to behave responsibly in case any children happened upon it, I made sure the safety was on) and looked around for something I could use in battle. There were no scimitars lying around, but I did break off a branch from a nearby tree. I waded into the lake, ready to stab that frickin’ manatee with my pointy stick until its final air bubble rose to the surface.

“What do you think you’re doing?” somebody shouted at me. “You’re not allowed to swim with manatees! Why do you have that pointy stick! Get out of there before I call a park ranger!”

Defeated, I emerged from the lake. I’d lost this battle, but I would not lose the war.

I lost many, many more battles in the following years. Every single time I went after a manatee with a pointy stick, somebody would holler at me, and I’d have to abandon the hunt. My frustration level rose with each failure. I’d close my eyes at night and dream of manatees going “Nyahh nyahh! Can’t hunt us! Nyahh nyahh! Loooooooser!” Fortunately, they have flippers instead of hands, and were not able to do the “L” sign on their forehead, even in my dreams.

But one day...I killed one.

No, I didn’t. I was testing you. You were upset! You said “Oh, that poor manatee!” I heard you! You’re not on my side! You’ve been against me this whole time! If a manatee and I were dangling off the edge of a cliff and you could only save one of us, you’d save the manatee! You wouldn’t even care that a manatee is heavy enough to rip your arm off if you’re trying to pull it to safety! You’ve been reading this entire piece with a scowl on your face, I just know it!

I thought you understood.

They call me Jock Magnum, Manatee Hunter. And as always, I carry this burden alone.

Bernie

“Do you know what I’m still mad about?” Bob asked.

I shook my head. “What?”

“Weekend at Bernie’s II. Why’d they have to introduce a supernatural element into the franchise? Wasn’t the dead body enough?”

“Maybe they ran out of ideas for hijinks.”

“That’s a bunch of crap. If they hadn’t jumped the shark, they could’ve gotten seven, eight movies out of that concept, easy. Bernie on a plane. Bernie becomes president. See? That’s two right there, and I’m not even a Hollywood executive.”

“At some point, his corpse would rot too much for it to keep being humorous.”

“I completely disagree,” said Bob. “That would take it to a whole new level. Think of all the gangrene jokes they missed. I can think of a half-dozen gangrene jokes right off the top of my head, and I’m not even a Hollywood screenwriter.”

“You can’t put gangrene jokes in a PG-13 mainstream studio comedy.”

“I’m not saying that you would have lingering close-ups. The joke would be in the character’s reaction. Just picture Andrew McCarthy’s facial reaction to seeing a gangrene-infected corpse foot. Hilarious, right?”

I tried to picture it. “I don’t know. I think Jonathan Silverman would’ve done it better.”

“You’re crazy.”

“No, you’re crazy.”

“Let’s agree to disagree. But while we’re talking about the cast, here’s another advantage to the whole decay thing: If Bernie’s face rotted away, you could get a different actor to play him. Terry Kiser wouldn’t have the studio over a barrel if he decided to play hardball with his salary. That right there could’ve kept the franchise going all through the 90’s and well into 2000 and beyond.”

“It just sounds ghoulish,” I said.

“No, no, no, it’s only ghoulish if you make it ghoulish. Just turn his face into a skull but keep the eyes. It would be cartoony. I know I’d laugh.”

“If his face rotted down to a skull, I don’t think he’d have any eyeballs left.”

Bob glared at me. “Are you seriously trying to inject legitimate science into a Weekend at Bernie’s movie?”

“You were the one complaining about the supernatural element!”

“Yeah, voodoo! There’s a big frickin’ difference between voodoo and unrealistic eyeball decomposition! You seem to think I’m proposing a movie that makes audiences puke in the aisles and haunts their dreams, but I’m just talking about some lighthearted decay. Jeez, you’re morbid.”

“Well, it’s a moot point. The series ended after only two installments and there’s nothing we can do about it.”

“You know what else I’m mad about?” asked Bob.

“What?”

“That life isn’t fair.”

“I hear that.”

“In Weekend at Bernie’s, dragging around a dead body is amusing. We root for the lead characters. They’re charming. I do it, and I’m labeled a deviant.”

“But that was a movie, Bob. On screen, they were able to convince people that the dead guy was still alive. When you did it, nobody believed it for a second. Think of all those kids you traumatized.”

“They’ll be okay.”

“It’s been twenty-three years, and I know for a fact that several of them are not okay. I can name at least five that are in prison with you. One of them is at the next table.”

“Still...”

“And the part you don’t get is that in the movie, the body was dead when they found it. That’s not how it happened with you.”

Bob sighed. “What was I supposed to do? Wait until I just happened to stumble upon a corpse? That could’ve taken months.”

“No, Bob, what you should have done is abandon the whole idea of trying to recreate Weekend at Bernie’s. You know why there was never a third movie in the series? Because you generated so much bad press! This is your fault, Bob. Your fault!”

Bob lowered his eyes. He knew it was true.

“Anyway,” I said, pushing back my chair, “it’s a good thing your parole was denied, so they can move forward with the remake.”

Bob’s expression transformed to red-hot rage. “Remake? Remake?”

“Sorry, gotta go. Seeya next month!”

Beaks

I was taking a shower, and I noticed a hard spot in my upper right arm, about the size of my thumbnail. Suddenly I didn’t even want to masturbate any more. I rinsed off, dried myself most of the way, then hurried over to my computer to research what it could be.

The Internet told me that it was either nothing, or I was dying of cancer.

I didn’t feel like I was dying of cancer, so I decided that it was probably nothing. I got dressed and went to work, though I kept poking at the hard spot all day, checking to see if it was getting bigger. It wasn’t. I know that tumors don’t grow at such a rate that you could say, “Oh my God, it’s larger than it was this morning!” but it made me feel better anyway.

The next morning, I poked the spot, and it hurt, like there was something sharp under there. Almost like the top of a triangle. (You’re not supposed to know yet that it was a beak, but I wasn’t sure what else to title this narrative, so I apologize for the spoiler.) I thought about going to the emergency room, but I worried that they’d give me bad news, so I decided to hold off.

By mid-morning, the spot on my arm started to hurt even when I wasn’t actively poking it. The pain got worse and worse, until I finally had to leave my cubicle and go to the restroom, where I locked myself in a stall and pulled up my sleeve.

Something pointy was protruding from my arm.

Then it broke through.

At first, I couldn’t tell what it was because of all the blood. Also, the way I kept flapping my arm around in panic made it difficult to see things clearly. Then I forced myself to hold my arm still while I wiped away some of the blood with toilet paper, allowing me to see that the object sticking out of my arm looked very much like a bird’s beak.

Somehow I managed not to scream. I used the entire rest of the roll of toilet paper to wrap up my arm, and then went home without letting my supervisor know that I was leaving.

* * *

When I got home, I tore the toilet paper away, hoping that I was merely suffering from unexplainable hallucinations. Nope. There was a yellow bird’s beak protruding from my arm. It began to open and close, as if trying to speak or eat, though it made no sound.

I was too scared to go to the hospital.

I could probably cut the beak off with a pair of garden shears, but what if it hurt?

Instead, I decided to go to bed and hope that everything was all right in the morning.

* * *

I woke up in the middle of the night and realized that there were several more hard spots in my arms. And my legs. And my neck, chest...all over.

When a beak burst out of my knee, the pain was so intense that I passed out.

* * *

I glanced over at the clock. It was almost noon.

I was covered in dried blood, and dozens of bird beaks were sticking out of my body. I sat up in bed. There were a few holes in my mattress where beaks had grown out of my back, and also some crushed ones that had broken off in my sleep.

One was sticking out of the soles of each of my feet.

Why was this happening? I certainly hadn’t had sex with a bird!

I reached down and grabbed one of the beaks on my foot. Gave it a very gentle twist. Pain shot through my leg like I was jiggling an exposed bone.

My stomach growled, and all of the beaks began to rapidly open and close. They were hungry. I suddenly had an intense craving for worms.

How could I get a tub of earthworms delivered?

Before I could figure out a solution to that problem, I winced in agony as the skin on my arm split open around one of the beaks. Something pushed its way out—a blood-and-feather-covered deformed bird, about the size of an egg.

It dropped onto the bed and squawked at me.

Another one came out of my other arm.

More and more of the birds came out of my flesh. There was a lot of pain and a lot of blood, and I wondered how much of my skin would be intact when the process was complete.

When it was finally over, I lay on my drenched mattress, body covered with large holes, as dozens of the birds—my children?—gazed at me.

And then, all at once, they seemed to decide that I was a giant worm.

The Guy Who Didn’t Want to Murder Anyone With a Hammer

Every Sunday morning, my buddy Jim and I would meet at a diner for their all-you-can-eat chocolate chip pancakes. Neither of us could eat many chocolate chip pancakes, so it wasn’t a very good value, yet we enjoyed the tradition anyway. But today I noticed that Jim seemed kind of sad.

“Is everything okay?” I asked him.

Jim shrugged. “Yeah, I’m fine, I guess.”

“You don’t look fine. You look down in the dumps. What’s wrong?”

“I just don’t want to murder somebody with a hammer.”

“Then don’t.”

“Easy for you to say.” Jim took a bite of his pancake, but I could tell that he wasn’t enjoying it as much as usual.

“Let’s start at the beginning,” I suggested. “How did this whole idea start?”

“Last week I was at the hardware store to get some green paint, and one of the aisles had a display of hammers. I picked one up and I thought, wow, you could really crack somebody’s skull with this. So I bought it. But I don’t want to crack anybody’s skull with a hammer, Brad, I just don’t.”

“I don’t blame you. It’s not something I want to do, either.”

“I’d feel terrible. Even if I killed a straight white guy and everybody knew it wasn’t a hate crime, I’d still feel sick over what I’d done. Nobody would praise me for it. I’d be an outcast. Everybody else would get to walk around living their normal lives, and I’d have to live with being the guy who killed somebody with a hammer. It’s no way to live.”

“Can’t you return the hammer?”

Jim shook his head. “I already used it to fix the loose board on my fence.”

“How much was it?”

“Almost twenty-five bucks.”

I winced. “Damn, Jim.”

“I know. I felt good supporting a local business, but I could’ve got it cheaper at one of the big stores. I’m telling you, Brad, I don’t know what’s wrong with me anymore.”

“I’m not gonna sugarcoat this,” I said. “People don’t like guys who murder people with hammers. Hell, I don’t like them. I’d love nothing more than to be able to look you in the eye and say that everything will be okay, the public will understand, but it’s simply not the truth.”

Jim looked down at his plate. He poked at his pancake with his fork without actually cutting off a piece.

“As human beings in a crazy, mixed-up world, we sometimes have to make difficult decisions,” I continued. “And sometimes our heart and our brain are giving us mixed signals. You had a moment where you wanted to go on a psychotic killing spree, but—”

“Hold on right there,” said Jim. “Nobody said anything about a killing spree. I intended to kill one person. That’s it.”

“Okay. I misunderstood.”

“Brad, do you really think of me as somebody who’d go on a killing spree?” Jim asked, his voice cracking.

“I never thought of you as somebody who’d kill even one person in such a horrific and violent manner, so I don’t know what to think anymore.”

Jim shook his head sadly. “Jeez, Brad. I thought we were friends.”

“Don’t go acting all offended. You’re not gonna deflect and try to turn me into the bad guy. I’m sorry I accidentally exaggerated, but you’re the one who’s planning to do something monstrous.”

“You’re right,” Jim said. “I know you’re right.”

“When did you start to have second thoughts?”

“As soon as the cashier rung up the hammer.”

“That tells me a lot right there. How long was the checkout line?”

“There wasn’t a line. I walked right up and paid.”

“See, so you didn’t even have time to do silent reflection while you were standing in line, and yet you still had second thoughts about the whole thing. When you got home, did you cradle the hammer to your chest? Did you whisper anything creepy to it?”

“No.”

“Have you even picked out a victim yet?”

“Uh-uh. I figured it would just be a random pick.”

“Somebody who truly wanted to murder a victim with a hammer would have at least thought about their choice,” I told him. “I’m seeing one red flag after another that shows me you don’t really want to commit this atrocity. Your brain may have momentarily said yes, but your heart has said no from the beginning. We all do our soul-searching at different speeds, but I truly believe that you know the right decision here.”

Jim gazed down at his plate as if the answer to his moral quandary might be spelled out in the chocolate chips. Then he looked up at me and sighed. “You’re right, Brad. I just don’t want to kill anybody—at least not like that. So I’m out twenty-five bucks. I’ll survive.”

“Remember, you did use it to fix that loose board.”

Jim brightened. “You’re right, I did. I didn’t think of it that way.”

“Nobody is forcing you to murder somebody with that hammer. Nobody is even suggesting that it’s a good idea. You’ll be happier, and you’ll sleep better, and you’ll look in the mirror with more pride if you put that silly scheme behind you.”

“That’s what I’m going to do,” said Jim. “That hammer is for nails, not skulls. Thanks for helping me work through this, Brad. You’re a good friend.”

“Don’t mention it. You would’ve done the same for me. I will let you pick up the check for breakfast, though.”

“Deal,” said Jim, and we both laughed.

Bummer Tarot Reading

“Oooh, this is bad,” said the tarot reader, gazing down at the cards on the table. “I mean, this is really, really bad. I know I’m supposed to be more subtle than this. If anything, I should be getting scared and giving you your money back and refusing to explain. But I’ve always believed in being upfront with people, and this is frickin’ terrible.”

Bob chuckled nervously. “So, uh, what do the cards say?”

The tarot reader tapped the card in the middle. “Do you want to know how bad this is? This card isn’t even part of the deck. I’ve literally never seen it before.”

“Does that happen very often?”

“Cards materializing out of nowhere? I’ve never heard of it happening, and I’ve been in this business for almost forty years. The tarot is extremely powerful, but still, you work with the pre-designed cards in the deck. This is not good. Not good at all.”

“Okay,” said Bob. “What do you think the card means?”

“What do you think the card means? For crying out loud, look at it!”

“It’s a guy getting bit in half by a great white shark.”

“Bingo! There’s no ‘Seven of Wands’ interpretation here. Who does the guy on the card look like?”

“Me.”

“The resemblance is uncanny. Look at the tattoo on his left shoulder!”

“It’s an eagle.”

“Do you have any tattoos?”

Bob nodded. “I have a tattoo of an eagle on my left shoulder.”

“Good. Because that’s what they’ll use to identify your body when your arm is floating on the surface of the water after you get chomped on by a great white shark! Jeez, this is bad! I’m surprised you haven’t gone completely mad as you await your grisly fate.”

“Couldn’t I just stay out of the ocean?”

The tarot reader shook her head. “This isn’t an ocean safety card. This is your future. A future that cannot be changed.”

“Well, a shark can’t get me if I don’t go swimming in its habitat. That’s not much of a sacrifice.”

“Perhaps you’ll be on a plane that does a water landing. Are you prepared to give up air travel forever?”

“If it means not getting eaten by a shark, yeah.”

“That shark will find you no matter what precautions you take. You cannot avoid the fate that the tarot card has foreseen.”

“I’m not sure I agree with that,” said Bob. “Anybody who gets eaten by a great white shark has to accept some degree of responsibility for it.”

“What if you were knocked unconscious by drug dealers who mistook you for somebody intruding on their turf, and they flung you into the ocean? You’re relatively young—what if genetic engineering reaches a point where they can create land-dwelling sharks? Not like an amusing vintage Saturday Night Live sketch, but a terrifying great white shark that walks around on human legs and waits for you by the exit to your favorite mall!”

“Crap.”

“Getting eaten by a shark is a bad way to go. One of the very worst. It’s especially bad when the shark has just finished feeding and isn’t very hungry, so it takes its time with you. If only there was a way to change the fate predicted by the tarot cards. If only...”

“Is there?” Bob asked.

“Not a cheap one.”

“How much?”

“How much is it worth to you not to get eaten by a great white shark?” asked the tarot reader. “Yes, I can change your fate, but it’s draining—oh, so draining!—and would leave me unable to read tarot cards for other customers for several months. I’d need to be properly compensated.”

“There’s another question I’ve been meaning to ask. When I was sitting in the waiting room, your assistant took a picture of me.”

The tarot reader nodded. “That’s standard procedure.”

“She also asked if I had any tattoos or other identifying characteristics.”

“Sometimes she’s too flirty. I’ll speak with her about that.”

“And then, right before I came into this room, I thought I heard a printer.”

“You misheard.”

“There’s a printer on that desk right behind you. I’m wondering if you Photoshopped my picture onto a tarot card, printed it out, and slipped it into the deck.”

“That’s ridiculous. Even if what you’re saying is true, how could I have made sure that particular card was the one I’d choose from the deck? There is no illusionist alive who has such amazing skill that they could be sure the right card was selected out of so many options!”

“I’m leaving now,” said Bob. “Have a good evening, fraud.”

“That’s fine,” said the tarot reader. “On your way out, perhaps you’d like to do me a quick favor and take a look at the printer?”

“Okay, whatever.” Bob glanced at the printer. His eyes widened. “It’s...it’s not plugged in!”

“Drive home safely.”

“No, no, I’m sorry I called you a fraud! Please, work your magic! I’ll pay anything!”

Bob left ten minutes later and ten thousand dollars poorer. As it turned out, the tarot reader was indeed a fraud. She had no power to change the future predicted by the infallible tarot cards. And as the great white shark’s teeth sank deep into Bob’s torso, he couldn’t help but laugh at his own gullibility.

Pull My Finger

My Uncle Derek loved magic and practical jokes. He’d pretend to pull a quarter out of your ear, but the quarter would be dripping fake blood to better sell the illusion that it had been inside of your head. He thought our psychological trauma was a hoot.

He also liked to play Got Your Nose, but when he did it he’d gape at you in pure horror, like you were now some ghastly noseless freak. It didn’t take long to verify that my nose was still attached to my face, but there was that nightmarish split-second where I was unsure. Uncle Derek was very good at selling his horrified expression.

Once, I accidentally swallowed a cherry pit. Most wacky uncles would say “Uh-oh, you’re gonna have a cherry tree growing inside of your belly!” but Uncle Derek had prepared a full multimedia presentation on the gruesome fate that awaited me in the weeks ahead. At first it would just be a tummy ache, but once the branches began to grow, their spiky tendrils would make their way through all of my extremities, controlling my movements, causing me to commit unspeakable atrocities against those I loved. Finally, my body would be of insufficient size to host the blood-red cherry tree that grew within, and it would break free, all at once, in a grisly spray of bone and tissue.

When Uncle Derek announced that he needed a kidney transplant, we all laughed at his merry joke. He screamed at the entire family for being so insensitive in his darkest moment. My dad offered to donate his own kidney to save his life. After the surgeons had removed Dad’s left kidney, Uncle Derek walked into the waiting room with a great big grin on his face, announcing that his kidneys were totally fine. The logistics involved in making this prank happen were astonishing. “After all,” he explained, “you can’t just tell professional surgeons that you need a new kidney and have them immediately wheel you into the operating room without conducting any tests.” We suggested that the joke would have been just as funny if he’d revealed it before Dad’s kidney was removed, but Uncle Derek disagreed with us, and he was probably right. (The kidney did go to a good cause.)

Uncle Derek was not one of my more beloved relatives.

So when he came over for my tenth birthday, I was ready for one of his zany and emotionally grueling pranks. What would he do this time? Tell me that my gift had been a puppy, but that he’d wrapped it too soon? Scare me into believing that wishes made after blowing out birthday candles worked under the Monkey’s Paw principal? Convince me to inhale a helium balloon that was actually filled with methane?

Instead, he asked me to pull his finger.

And I did.

With my teeth.

That’s right, I clamped my teeth down upon his extended index finger as hard as I could, then pulled away, taking most of his finger with me. His blood was more delicious than the frosting on my cake.

Uncle Derek shrieked. Everybody gasped in horror and revulsion.

“Spit it out! Spit it out!” Uncle Derek wailed, cradling his spurting hand against his chest. “They can still sew it back on!”

I swallowed his finger, then gave him a wide red grin. “This time, the joke’s on you!”

“Is it?” he asked. “Do you know what happens when you swallow a finger?”

I shook my head.

“A finger tree grows inside your tummy! My finger sprouts other fingers, which sprout other fingers, which sprout other fingers, until your stomach is packed to capacity with wiggling, wriggling, writhing fingers! But these won’t break out like the cherry tree! Oh, no! They’ll be in you forever! A belly full of fingers for the rest of your life!”

Uncle Derek would later reveal that he’d been joking about the finger tree, and everybody would laugh, but my birthday was already ruined. And I would never try to be funnier than Uncle Derek again.

Crazy Ralph’s Used Car Emporium

C’mon out to Crazy Ralph’s Used Car Emporium! I’ve got the lowest prices in town! I’ve got the lowest prices in the next town! You could visit towns all across America and not find lower prices! Why do I sell cars so cheap? Because I’m craaaaaaazy!

Look at the price sticker on this car! Just look at it! That’s your final cost! At Crazy Ralph’s, we don’t quote you a price and then pile on the taxes and fees! The price you see is the price you pay! Don’t believe me? C’mon over and I’ll prove it! You’ll think, “He must be out of his mind to sell cars this cheap!” and it’s true! I’m craaaaaaazy! That’s why the sign says, “Crazy Ralph!!!”

I’m crazy! I’m nuts! I’m literally mentally unwell! The doctors prescribed medication to help me function in the real world, but Crazy Ralph ain’t no druggie! And if I were doped up, you wouldn’t get these amazing deals! I’m doing it for you! Because I’m craaaaaaazy!

Did it cost me my marriage? It sure did! I haven’t seen my kids in three-and-a-half years! My youngest son doesn’t even know I’m his real father! Is there a restraining order against me? Not anymore! It expired! I don’t know where my family lives anymore, and I can’t afford to hire a private investigator to track them down, because I sell these cars so gosh darn cheap! Why? Because I’m craaaaaaazy!

I’m a cutter! I once ended up in the hospital because I believed that teeny tiny little rattlesnakes were swimming around in my arms, and I cut those suckers wide open to let the snakes out! But no snakes came out! Just blood! Lots and lots of blood! A craaaaaaaazy amount of blood! Not a single snake! And I thought, gosh darn it, I didn’t cut deep enough, but there were no sharp objects on the gurney, and before I could find one, I was asleep!

You aren’t gonna find cars this cheap anywhere! Crazy Ralph will not be undersold!

Have I ever taken a human life? Naw! Not on purpose! But there are demons inhabiting human hosts all over this town, and I’ve sent my share of them back to hell! I may be craaaaazy but I don’t tolerate demonic possession on my watch! The moments of clarity afterward ain’t much fun, but they’re few and far between, because I’m—say it with me now—craaaaaaazy!

Look at that price sticker again! What do you see? A low, low price on a high-quality used vehicle! Do you know what I see? A black void! When I gaze at this price sticker I see an infinite abyss of darkness, and I’m filled with an overpowering sense of self-loathing! It makes me wanna kill God! But I can’t kill God, because that would be craaaaaaazy!

I lose money on every sale! Every single sale! When you buy a car, you’re part of the reason I have to do unspeakable things behind Dumpsters! Vile, stomach-churning things that would disgust even the most open-minded folks! You’re a morally bereft pile of scum, taking advantage of my broken brain just to get a better deal on a car! But that’s okay! It’s why I’m here! I’m practically giving these cars away, just like I’m giving away my humanity!

So c’mon out to Crazy Ralph’s Used Car Emporium! Open twenty-four hours a day, seven days week, because every time I close my eyes I see nightmarish images of the things I’ve done, so I don’t sleep! You won’t find a better deal anywhere...guaranteed!

Home With a Future

“This house is perfect!” said Elaine. “It has plenty of space, the layout is exactly what we were looking for, there are good schools in the area, and the price is within our budget!”

“I love it, too,” said David. “I mean, look at that backyard! We can build a treehouse for the kids. The kitchen has counter space galore. It’s our dream home! How are we getting such a good deal on this place?”

“I’m glad you like it,” said the realtor. “Now, in the interest of full disclosure, I do have to tell you that this home is the site of several future murders.”

Elaine looked over at him. “I’m sorry, did you say several future murders?”

The realtor nodded. “A local psychic had visions. So much blood. So many body parts. But that’s really my only disclaimer.”

“That’s a pretty big disclaimer.”

“Well, yes,” the realtor admitted. “But I should note that psychics aren’t always reliable, and the visions didn’t have any specific timeframe for the massacre. Were you thinking of this as a starter home, or were you planning to stay a while?”

“We weren’t planning to move out anytime soon,” said Elaine. “The kids are young. I mean, we never know what the future might hold in terms of our jobs, but the plan was to stay here until they both graduated high school.”

“Hmmm,” said the realtor. “For all we know, the murders could happen a century from now, though I’ll admit the psychic didn’t say anything about improved technology.”

“This sucks,” said David. “The basement was going to be my man-cave. I already knew where I was going to put the couch and the TV. There was a perfect spot for a bar.”

“We could also turn it into a play area for the children,” said Elaine.

“They have their own bedrooms,” said David. “That’s part of the appeal of this place. They don’t need their own bedrooms and a basement to play in.”

“Can we discuss this later?”

“Yeah, all right. But I thought we had an understanding.”

“It sounds like you’ll be able to work this out,” said the realtor. “So, are we ready to sign some paperwork?”

“Hold on,” said Elaine. “We still have the matter of the psychic visions. Do you have any other details?”

The realtor shook his head. “Sorry.”

“Any at all?”

“Not that I can remember.”

“No details about the victims?”

“Umm, it may have been a family.”

“What sort of family?” asked David.

“You know. A regular family. Nothing special about them. I mean, every family is special in its own way, but it wasn’t remarkable enough that I’d remember the details.”

“Did this family have children?”

“It’s possible that they may have had two children, I suppose.”

“We have two children!” said Elaine.

“Were they sons or daughters?” asked David.

“What do you have?”

“A son and a daughter.”

“Ah.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Okay, fine, the visions involved a son and daughter, but that’s the makeup of plenty of families. It’s the standard family dynamic. One father, one mother, one daughter, one son. If seven daughters were slaughtered in the vision and you had seven daughters, I’d think, oh crap, better not buy this house, but your family is—and I mean no offense by this—generic.”

“No offense taken,” said Elaine.

“I guess I’m remembering the details better now. The psychic had a vision of a father murdering his family. Now, David, does that sound like something you’d do?”

“I’d like to think not,” said David.

“See? It would be completely out of character. Elaine, if you think your husband is capable of axe-murdering you and your two children, then you have much greater problems to worry about than whether the basement is a man-cave or a play area. Do you even own an axe?”

“I own many axes,” said David.

Elaine nodded. “He owns the largest axe collection in the tri-county area.”

“Noted,” said the realtor. “Do you mind telling me your children’s’ hair colors?”

“Why?” David asked.

“No reason.”

“They both have brown hair.”

“I see. And, Elaine, the blonde hair you have right now—that’s just a very brief phase, right? If I saw you shortly after you moved in, you’d be a brunette or redhead, right?”

“No, this is my natural color.”

“Got it. And that dress you’re wearing right now with the distinctive floral pattern—is it safe to assume that you borrowed it and won’t be wearing it again?”

“It’s my favorite dress.”

“Well, fudge. All right, time for some straight talk. There’s a chance that the psychic’s horrific visions were of you, David, hacking up you, Elaine, and your two children with one of his many axes. I could’ve kept that information under my hat, but I strive to be honest in all of my dealings with customers. It’s how I’ve stayed in business all these weeks.”

“We appreciate your candor,” said Elaine.

“I could call the owners, but I really don’t think I can get them to go any lower on the price.”

“Question for you,” said David. “If a licensed psychic sees the future, can it be averted? Like, is it possible that it’s already too late? We love this home, and it would be a shame to go to all the trouble of trying to find a different one only to have me murder my family there instead.”

“That’s a very good point,” said the realtor. “The machinery of fate may already have its gears set into motion.”

“Unless it’s the house itself giving me instructions to kill, I’d think the massacre could happen pretty much anywhere. If I’m going to go psycho, I’d just as soon have it happen in a home where we got a good deal.”

“I agree,” said Elaine. “It’s such a lovely place. It will be a shame to drench it with blood, but think of how much we’ll enjoy it before that dark night arrives.”

The realtor smiled. “It sounds like you two have made a decision. Welcome to your new home.”

The next two years, five months, eleven days, and four-and-a-half hours were wonderful.

The Tell Tale Heart II: Aftermath

Anything was more tolerable than this derision! I could bear those hypocritical smiles no longer! I felt that I must scream or die! and now --again! --hark! louder! louder! louder! louder!

“Villains!” I shrieked, “dissemble no more! I admit the deed! --tear up the planks! here, here! --It is the beating of his hideous heart!”

The three officers all stared at me. “I beg your pardon?” asked the first.

“It is...” I trailed off, realizing I’d made a severe tactical error. “Sorry. It’s been a long day. What were we talking about again?”

“Did you say it’s the beating of his hideous heart?” asked the second officer.

I violently shook my head. “Oh, no, no, no. You can’t hear somebody’s heart when they’re buried under the floorboards. That would be ridiculous. My ears are good, but they’re not that good. Anyway, if he were buried under the floorboards, he’d be dead, and he’s not dead, he’s away in the country, as I said earlier in our conversation.”

“Then what did you say?”

“I said...it’s the...bleating...of his...piteous...chart. It’s the bleating of his piteous chart.”

The third officer frowned. “That’s a perplexing thing to say.”

“I know. But please do not think that I am mad.”

“Why did you ask us to tear up the planks?”

“I don’t remember saying that.”

“You said, ‘Villains, dissemble no more! I admit the deed! --tear up the planks! here, here! --It is the bleating of his piteous chart!’“

“Right, right,” I said. “I admit that I’ve been careless with the maintenance of this home, and the floorboards have warped most badly. I slept fitfully last night, and so I briefly forgot that you were police officers and confused you with home improvement professionals, who would tear up the planks and replace them with straighter ones.”

“Being careless about the upkeep of your home isn’t what I would call a ‘deed,’“ said the first officer. “It’s more like an ongoing state.”

“I agree with my associate,” said the second officer. “And why would you call them villains? They’re providing a necessary service. If I was here to replace your floor and you insulted me before I even got started, why, I’d march right back out the door.”

“I’m not going to lie,” said the third officer. “I think you murdered the old man, chopped him up, buried him under the floorboards, and then thought you heard the sound of his beating heart.”

“Ha ha ha,” I chuckled. “How could such a preposterous scenario even enter your mind?”

“Well, you’re clearly a whack-a-doodle. I bet you killed him because he had a weird ear or a weird nose or a weird eyebrow or something.”

“Liar!” I shouted. “I did no such insane psychotic thing! Vacate my home at once!”

“Actually,” said the first officer, “now that you mention it, I did hear the sound of a heart beating before his outburst. I didn’t think much about it at the time.”

“Me too,” said the second officer. “I just figured he had a metronome.”

“I did hear a thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump,” said the third officer. “I assumed it was all in my head.”

Everybody looked at the spot underneath my chair.

“Oh, yeah,” said the first officer. “There’s totally a heartbeat coming from under there.”

“I admit the deed!” I shouted.

“We were totally making that up to see what you’d do,” said the first officer.

“Fudge!” I said.

The officers pried up the floorboards and removed the chunks of the old man. The first officer looked at his severed head and recoiled.

“Look at his eye! It’s a pale blue eye with a film over it—the eye of a vulture! It’s making my blood run cold!”

“That’s the worst eye I’ve ever seen,” said the second officer. “How could you stand to be around him with that thing looking at you all the time?”

The third officer choked back some bile before he spoke. “I would absolutely murder an old man who had an eye like that. That’s just plain wrong. It’s like it’s following me around.” He shuddered.

“I think we’re done here,” said the first officer. “It’s safe enough to say that you won’t claim any other victims, because nobody else’s eye could be that messed up. Just try to keep the noise level down so we don’t have to come back, okay?”

“Okay,” I said.

The police officers left. That encounter would’ve gone better if I hadn’t confessed to murder, but still, it worked out okay in the end. So, dammit, stop saying that I am mad!

A Story I’m Writing While Being Devoured by a Lion

Walking along the edge of the lion enclosure at the zoo was not the smartest thing I’ve ever done. Was it the dumbest? If I were to rank the top ten stupidest things I’ve done in my life, this would be at least AAARRRGHH THE PAIN THE PAIN THIS LION’S TEETH ARE DEEP INTO MY LEG OH IT HURTS IT HURTS MAKE IT STOP!!!

Obviously, I’m not typing this story or writing it out by hand. I’m dictating it into my cell phone. I figure, nobody’s ever written a story while a frickin’ lion was chewing their leg off, so I might as well use this to leave my mark on the world. Just getting eaten by a lion at the zoo isn’t enough of a mark—several people have been consumed after falling into a lion pit. There are a bunch of screaming children above, and they’ll probably be traumatized for life, and they might become serial killers because of this, but that’s an indirect mark on the world. I want to live forever through my words.

OH GOD SO MANY NERVES IN MY LEG!!! IS THAT A MUSCLE??? AM I LOOKING AT PART OF THE MUSCLE IN MY LEG??? WHY WON’T MY LEG GO NUMB TO SPARE ME THIS UNBEARABLE AGONY???

To be clear, I didn’t purposely fall into the lion pit so that I could write this story. There’s not a suicidal bone in my body. I was showing off for my new girlfriend, Denise, who was supposed to be impressed by my bravery and sense of balance. I don’t see her up there, so I assume she went to fetch a zookeeper, although she may have just fled so that people didn’t find out she was dating the dumbass who fell into the pit.

Is that another lion? No, it’s two more lions. I guess I’m going to die sooner than I thought, so hopefully I can get a decent word count in before darkness overtakes me.

OH CRAP HE JUST RAKED HIS CLAWS ACROSS MY BELLY AND OPENED IT UP!!! I’M GOING TO BE DISEMBOWELED!!! I DIDN’T THINK THAT REALLY EVER HAPPENED TO ANYBODY THOUGH I GUESS THEY WOULDN’T HAVE A WORD FOR IT OTHERWISE!!! ARGH! ARGH! ARGH!

I’m not one for self-aggrandizement, but could you keep up a steady flow of narration like this if you were being feasted upon? Despite my occasional lapses into shrieking, it’s taking every bit of my concentration to be articulate. Conspiracy theorists will claim that an editor polished it up, but this audio should prove that I’m remaining amazingly calm in a high-pressure situation.

Okay, my hope that the other two lions might settle for being voyeurs didn’t pan out. They’re walking over here.

Does this count as an actual story? Maybe it’s more of a stream of consciousness thing. It’s still a solid accomplishment, but I wanted to be responsible for the first story to be written while being eaten by a lion, not just to talk about my feelings while strips of flesh are being torn from my body. I need characters and a plot, quickly!

OW OUCH OW THE SECOND LION IS GNAWING ON MY LEFT ARM IT’S GOOD THAT I’M USING MY RIGHT HAND TO HOLD THE PHONE BUT I DON’T HAVE MUCH TIME TO FINISH MY TALE!!!

Hemingway did that six-word baby shoes story, so that’s the approach I’m going to have to take. Something pithy. I need a hero who’s not being eaten by a lion. Maybe a schoolteacher. An insufficiently paid schoolteacher who OH DEAR GOD THIS SECOND LION IS EVEN MORE AGGRESSIVE THAN THE FIRST MY ARM IS ALMOST COMPLETELY OFF LOOK AT THE SPURTING THIS IS HORRIFIC BEYOND ANYTHING I COULD CONJURE IN MY OWN IMAGINATION inspires a young student to do great things.

What kind of great things can you inspire somebody to do in six words? Save somebody from a lion?

That third lion is eyeing my neck. A writer is supposed to show rather than tell, so I don’t need to tell you that it’s not good when a lion is eyeing your neck. Inspiration. Inspiration. Inspiration. How about the teacher inspires the student to, I don’t know, become a teacher? Is that gripping enough?

I’m losing too much blood.

Who’s that guy?

Whoa, the first lion just flopped over on its side! So did the second one! Looks like a zookeeper is in the pit with tranquilizer darts. It didn’t occur to me that I could be saved.

Yep, all three of the lions are unconscious. I’m gushing blood and my intestines are right there shining in the sunlight, but I think they’ll be able to fix me up. So now instead of an innovative literary genius, I just look like the kind of douche who would talk into his cell phone while lions were eating him.

Oh well. More time for a rewrite.

Make a Wish

“Happy birthday to you,” everybody in the backyard sang. “Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday dear Sally! Happy birthday to you!” They all applauded, pleased that the song was now in the public domain, and that cash-strapped authors would not have to pay to include the lyrics in a short story.

Newly eight-year-old Sally leaned over her cake and blew out the candles. A generous amount of saliva made it onto the frosting, and when her exhalation was complete, only seven of the candles had been extinguished.

She took another breath and blew out the last one. Everybody applauded again.

Sally’s mother began to cut the cake while her father just stood there, looking pale. He wiped some sweat off his forehead and plopped into a chair.

“Are you okay?” Sally’s mother asked.

“No,” he said. “No, I am not okay. You saw what happened, right?”

“She blew out her candles.”

“No, she failed to blow out her candles! She only finished off seven of the eight!”

“She’s a little girl. Her lungs are small.”

Sally’s father looked around at the other partygoers to see if they were as aghast at what they were hearing as he was. They didn’t appear to be. “An eight-year-old has the lung capacity to blow out eight candles! It’s not like they were spread out all over some giant cake—they were all bunched together! But it doesn’t matter why she didn’t do it, all that matters is that she screwed it up!”

“You’re too hard on her. She doesn’t need to excel at everything she does.”

“You don’t get it!” said Sally’s father. “You just don’t get it! After everybody finishes singing the song, you make a wish, blow out the candles, and then the wish comes true! Do you know what happens if you don’t blow out all of the candles?”

“Your wish doesn’t come true?”

“No! The opposite of your wish comes true!”

“I’ve never heard of that.”

“That’s because people so rarely bungle the task! Sally, what did you wish for?”

“You’re not supposed to say,” Sally told him.

“That part of the myth is a lie. It’s only there because people make selfish wishes and don’t want to fess up to it. What did you wish for?”

“A pony.”

“Oh, God, no.”

“So, what’s the opposite of getting a pony?” asked Sally’s mom. “Not getting a pony? Big deal. She was never going to get a pony anyway.”

“How do you not understand how these curses work?” asked Sally’s father. “The dark forces aren’t going to let her get away with just not getting a pony! They’re going to—”

“What’s that?” asked Sally’s mother.

“What?”

“Falling from the sky.”

Sally’s father’s eyes widened. “It’s brown with white splotches…it has four legs…its face is elongated…it has metal horseshoe-shaped things on its feet…oh, no!”

The pony smashed to the ground, covering everybody with horse scraps. There was a great deal of screaming. The partygoers fled in all directions.

“Something just doesn’t seem right,” said Sally’s father.

“Of course it doesn’t!” Sally’s mother wailed. “There’s a dead pony scattered all over our yard!”

“The logic doesn’t quite hold up. Sally still technically received the pony.”

Sally’s mother gaped at him.

Sally’s father continued. “What happened here is more of a monkey’s paw twist, not so much a birthday wish twist. Sally, have you been playing with any monkey’s paws?”

Sally shook her head.

“Are you sure?”

Sally nodded.

“So the logic doesn’t make sense. I would’ve expected a pony to get sucked into a black void. We don’t know for sure that that didn’t happen to a pony somewhere in the world, obviously, but it doesn’t explain the presence of this particular pony on our lawn.”

“Coincidence?” asked Sally’s mother. “Maybe it jumped out of a plane that was transferring it to an overseas farm.”

“That’s a pretty big coincidence. I mean, even without the element of coincidence this would be the most memorable thing that’s ever happened to us. If you add the fact that it just happened to occur after our daughter wished for a pony, well…”

Sally began to cry.

“What’s wrong, sweetie?” asked Sally’s father, even though he assumed it was because of the splattered pony.

“I lied.”

“What did you lie about?”

“My wish.”

“Please explain this more clearly.”

“I wished for a pony to fall from the sky, land in our backyard, and spray everybody with pony parts. I wanted everybody to scream and run away in horror.”

“Why did you want that to happen?”

“I don’t know.”

“So you’re saying that your wish came true?”

Sally nodded.

“Okay, then. I’m not happy to discover that our daughter is a psychopath, but at least the mystery is solved. Maybe seven out of eight candles is good enough for the wish-granting gods if you have tiny lungs.”

“I wished for the pony to already be dead when it fell,” said Sally. “It wasn’t scared or anything.”

“I guess that makes your behavior a bit less terrifying, but we still have a lot to talk about later, young lady.”

“Can I have some cake now?”

“It got splashed with blood. Well, no, actually, I think we can salvage three small pieces out of it. Happy birthday.”

Long Sleeves

Olivia thought it was weird that Lionel wore a long-sleeved shirt on their first date, since they went to an outdoor concert in the middle of summer, but she didn’t say anything. They had a great time, he gave her a kiss at her front door, and he promised to text her the following evening.

The text came around 9:00 PM. Hi Olivia! I’m not allowed to have a phone at work so I couldn’t text earlier. Have you already eaten dinner?

Yes, she texted back. Dessert?

He knocked on her door about twenty minutes later. “Is this your style?” she asked, playfully touching his arm.

“Excuse me?”

“The long-sleeved shirt. It’s, like, eighty degrees out.”

“Oh, yeah. Some people sacrifice comfort for style. I think Snoopy said that in a comic strip once.”

He took her out for ice cream, where they shared a banana split. They talked and laughed until the ice cream place closed at midnight, and then he took her home. Another kiss at her front door, but when she invited him in, he politely declined. They made plans to see each other the following evening at the same time.

They went to the movies. Long sleeves again, but movie theaters tended to blast the air conditioning during the summer, so she didn’t really think much of it. They held hands and shared a Coke, and when he took her home, she asked him again if he wanted to come in.

“Maybe next time,” he said.

“This was our third date,” Olivia reminded him.

“I know, I know. Next time, I promise.”

“I’m not trying to pressure you. I’m just not used to getting turned down.”

“It’s not you,” said Lionel. “I’m trying to be a gentleman. Tomorrow I’ll be ready. Where do you want to go?”

“Why go anywhere? Come on over after work. I’ll order a pizza.”

Lionel gave her a kiss and left.

When he showed up the next night, he was wearing another long-sleeved shirt, and Olivia wondered if he was covering up some ugly-ass tattoos. Though the pizza had already arrived, they ignored it in favor of kissing for a while and then making their way to her bedroom.

Lionel took off his shirt, revealing an amazing physique but arms that were covered with burn marks. Not like they’d been burned in a fire, but rather lots of individual burn streaks, like he’d dragged a lit cigarette across his arm.

“Sorry,” he said. “It’s gross, I know.”

“It’s not gross at all. How’d you get them?”

“I should go.”

“No,” said Olivia. “Don’t go. It’s okay, you don’t have to talk about it.” She put her arms around him and kissed him. A few moments later, they were on her bed.

It felt wonderful as he kissed her neck.

It felt less wonderful when he bit it. She didn’t mind that kind of play, but he’d bitten her too hard, without warning. “Hey, that’s kind of—”

He slammed his hand over her mouth as he sunk his sharp teeth deep into her neck. She struggled to get away, but she was pinned underneath him as blood sprayed. Oh, God, he was lapping it up!

Olivia didn’t live very much longer.

Lionel drank her blood until he was sated. Then he paced around her apartment, cursing himself. Why had he come over? He knew this would happen! Why couldn’t he control himself? Why was he always doing this to people he cared about? What was wrong with him?

Stupid. You’re a stupid idiot. You’re awful. You’re garbage. You’re evil. You’re a monster.

He went into her bathroom, got himself cleaned up as well as he could, then left.

When he got home, he sat on the couch for a few hours, unmoving, filled with self-loathing.

At sunrise, he opened his coffin to get some sleep. But first, he went into his living room and parted the curtains just a bit.

He held his arm up into a thin beam of sunlight. Cried out in pain as his flesh sizzled. Pulled his arm away and closed the curtain.

He felt a little better now.

Fast Zombies vs. Slow Zombies

“Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, to the Gateway Coliseum! Whether you’re into boxers or briefs, panties or thongs, I hope you brought a fresh change of underwear, because we’ve got a great event for you tonight!”

“Oh, we sure do, Todd. Tonight it’s the fast zombies versus the slow zombies, in a fight to the finish! I don’t think I’m exaggerating when I say that this is the most anticipated bout of the past few years.”

“Not at all, not at all. Everybody wants to know if the fast zombies or the slow zombies will win. But before we get to the main event—”

[Forty-six minutes of mindless chatter deleted from transcript.]

“—and the referee is just about to ring the start bell. They’re off! Holy cow, look at those fast zombies go! Most of them are already across the floor, and—oooh, the first slow zombie just went down! And another one!”

“The slow zombies are dropping like flies!”

“Like zombie flies!”

“Holy cow, holy cow, I’m counting ten, eleven...almost all of the slow zombies are already on the ground being torn apart! It’s looking like it might be a complete shutout! That’s twelve...number thirteen seems to be putting up a struggle, but no, he’s down too! The slow zombies are getting slaughtered!”

“And that’s all fifteen! Look at the way the fast zombies are tearing into them! I don’t think any of those slow zombies are getting back up!”

“Who would have ever thought it would end this quickly? It’s a total massacre. Listen to that crowd!”

* * *

“Please state your name for the record.”

“Charlton Jones.”

“And your title?”

“Head coach for the Slow Zombies.”

“And you wish to register a formal protest regarding the outcome of tonight’s match?”

“I do.”

“Please state your objection.”

“First of all, we have always said that the power of the slow zombies is in their numbers. When the teams are evenly matched, of course we’re going to lose. A human survivor facing one fast zombie would naturally be in more danger than somebody facing one slow zombie, but when you’re up against an entire post-apocalyptic world filled with—”

“Mr. Jones, you stated this same objection before the match and were overruled. If you have nothing new to bring to the table, I’m afraid this discussion is over.”

“No, no, I have other objections. Two of the, quote unquote, zombies on the fast team were infected, not dead. Throw a jar full of plague on me, and sure, I’ll run at you and try to eat your flesh, but that doesn’t make me a zombie. Zombies are reanimated corpses—the key word being corpses. They’re not even rotting. They’ve just got messed up eyes and some blood on their face.”

“Again, Mr. Jones, we’ve been over this before—”

“And three of them were possessed by the spirits of the dead! That’s not a zombie! If you can get all better through sheer willpower, you’re not a frickin’ zombie!”

“The rules have been clearly established. If the general public believes them to be zombies, then—”

“Then what? Does that mean Regan was a zombie when she got possessed by the devil? I know, why don’t we just make everybody a zombie? Ooooh, that werewolf looks menacing—let’s call him a goddamn zombie!”

“Mr. Jones, sit down! You’re embarrassing yourself by being such a pedantic.”

“Pedantic is the adjective form. Pedant is the noun.”

“You’re not helping your case, Mr. Jones.”

“If we can’t work this out here, you’ll be hearing from my attorneys.”

“Will we, Mr. Jones? Or do you want to cop to...cheating?”

“Cheating?”

“Isn’t it true that four of your zombies were, in fact, regular humans pretending to be zombies?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“We know what you did, Mr. Jones. Now, we don’t want to expose your deceit to the world, so we’d hate for you to force our hand. But our decomposition specialists can share their findings with the media if you wish.”

“You know what? Go right ahead. Because if the fast zombies are allowed to have The Infected and The Possessed fighting for them, I can have humans pretending to be zombies. It’s canon. They did it in Shaun of the Dead and The Walking Dead. Public opinion will be on my side!”

“Fine. What is it you want, Mr. Jones?”

“I want a rematch, under the conditions that I originally proposed. Or fifty bucks.”

“Fifty bucks? That’s it?”

“Yeah, sure. I mean, this is fun and all, but they’re just frickin’ zombies.”

Scrape and Scoop

The surgeon was waiting as the nurse wheeled Milton on his gurney into the operating room. “Hello, Milton,” he said. “I’m Dr. Foster. I’ll be taking care of you today.”

“Nice to meet you.”

“And you’re here for the ol’ scrape and scoop, right?”

“Excuse me?”

“The ol’ scrape and scoop. I scrape some stuff, then I scoop out some stuff, then I sew you back up and send you on your way.”

“Are you trying to be funny?”

“I’m a world-renowned surgeon. I’m not here to amuse you. I just don’t believe in trying to show off with my advanced vocabulary.”

“Oh,” said Milton. “I guess that makes sense.”

“So let me give you our itinerary for this afternoon. First, the anesthesiologist is going to give you a great big ol’ dose of the woozy woozy sleepy gas. Then I’m going to take the snippers and snippity snip snip away. I’ll open those flaps good and wide, then I’ll squish some stuff out of the way, then it’s time for the snippers to get their turn again. The weird part is that we’ll clean them between uses, even though it’s your juices on them. Hey, that rhymes! Clean ‘em between uses. Even though it’s your juices. I should be a rapper. Beatbox!”

“Am I in the right operating room?” asked Milton.

Dr. Foster smiled. “You bet your cute ass you are. That wasn’t flirty or inappropriate—it was an objective statement from a medical professional.”

“But I’m lying on my back.”

“Just take the compliment and stop being difficult. Where was I?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then I’ll have to start over.”

“No! Please don’t! You were talking about how you should be a rapper.”

“That’s right. Beatbox! Anyway, I’ll do some more of the snippy snippy snippy dance, and then, as promised, it’s finally time for the ol’ scrape and scoop. The audience loves the ol’ scrape and scoop.”

“The audience?”

“Medical students often observe the surgery. They’re here to learn, but you also have to put on a good show, right? Have you ever been to an ice cream place where they fling a scoop of peaches-and-cream into the air and catch it in the cone?”

Milton shook his head.

“A life wasted,” said Dr. Foster. “Don’t worry, I won’t be flinging your innards into the air. It doesn’t matter how many times they mop that floor, it’s never clean enough to drop guts on if you want to reuse them. That doesn’t mean you can’t wiggle some internal organs around and make them talk in funny voices.”

“Am I going to survive this procedure?”

“Look at me, I’m your spleen! I don’t even know what I do!”

“Please stop.”

“I’m your liver. Ooooohhhh, I’m so hung over. Why did you have that last bottle of limoncello?”

“Could somebody please wheel me out of here?”

“Oh, hush,” said Dr. Foster. “You’re acting like I’m a mentally ill person who clubbed the real surgeon over the head, hid his body in a supply closet, stole his scrubs, and snuck into this operating room.”

“Are you?”

“Nah. Did you know that in the olden days doctors wore butcher’s aprons into surgery? True fact. They dressed like they were going to make sausage.”

“Why is nobody else in this room reacting to you?”

“They’re centering themselves. You’ve gotta find your happy place before the ol’ scrape and scoop. Otherwise you could end up amputating the wrong leg.”

“I’m not here for an amputation!” said Milton.

“I was speaking metaphorically.”

Milton began to weep.

“Oh, don’t be a little bitch. Yes, I’ll admit that I’m a peculiar surgeon. A bit odd. Slightly weird. Mildly sociopathic. But I’m good at what I do. Sure, some doctors may have a better bedside manner, but then they’re all “Oopsie!” and “Whoopsie!” and “My bad!” Not me. I’m three for three on this kind of surgery.”

Milton wiped his eyes. “Okay.”

“If you were getting a haircut, would you rather get it from the nutcase who did a great job, or the dignified barber who accidentally took off the top few layers of your epidermis with his buzzy thing? Yes, I’m eccentric, but aren’t we all a little eccentric these days?”

“I suppose so.”

“Did you know there are some surgeons who pass out at the sight of blood? It’s true. A little squirt of blood and they hit the floor. Not me. I’m all like, bring it on! Let that geyser spray!”

“When are we going to get to the actual surgery?”

“Oh, there’s not going to be a surgery. The other people in this room aren’t calling me out on my nonsense because they fear for their lives. You think I’m heavyset, but it’s actually a suicide vest under these scrubs. I am indeed a mentally ill person who knocked out the real surgeon.”

Forty-five minutes later, the authorities defused the situation, and the phony surgeon was taken into custody. Milton had his surgery (at a significant discount for the inconvenience), and it went extremely well. He would go on to live a long, happy life.

It was not so happy for the anesthesiologist, who was unable to recover from the trauma of being a hostage and never gassed anybody again. In the operating room at midnight on a full moon, if you listen carefully, you can still hear his screams.

How’s My Driving?

“Lavin Incorporated. How may I help you?”

“Hi. I was behind a truck today with a ‘How’s My Driving’ sticker and this number.”

“Yes, of course. Do you have the vehicle number?”

“27039.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“I was only behind the truck for a couple of blocks, but the driver kept to the speed limit and signaled the right turn. I went straight so I stopped following them after that, but they seemed to be doing a perfectly fine job.”

“We appreciate your feedback. That’s good to hear.”

“No problem. I just saw the sticker and figured I’d give you a call.”

“Thank you very much, sir.”

* * *

“Hello?”

“Hi. Did you call to give feedback about a truck driver today?”

“Yes, I did.”

“I was that driver.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I just wanted to say that it was really cool what you did. Most people who call in just want to complain. ‘Waahh, he cut me off!’ and stuff like that. You never get compliments. So that made my day. Thanks.”

“Glad to do it. There’s too much negativity in the world.”

“There sure is. Yes indeed, there sure is.”

“I’m kind of surprised they gave you my number.”

“Oh, they didn’t. I have friends.”

“Okay.”

“But they passed your message on to my boss, who passed it on to me, and I just wanted to tell you personally that I really appreciated what you did.”

“I was happy to do it.”

“I don’t want to take up any more of your time. But thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

* * *

“Hello?”

“Hi. It’s me.”

“Who?”

“The truck driver. 27039.”

“Are you in a different time zone?”

“I know it’s late. Well, early. I couldn’t sleep. Could you do me a huge favor? Could you tell me what you told the lady on the phone?”

“I thought they passed the message along.”

“They did. I just wanted to hear it from you.”

“I, uh, don’t exactly remember what I said.”

“You know...I kept to the speed limit.”

“Right. You kept to the speed limit.”

“And...?”

“It’s 3:00 AM.”

“The signal...”

“You signaled before your turn.”

“Say it the way you told it to the lady on the phone.”

“This isn’t appropriate.”

“I’m sorry I woke you up. I just really need this right now. It’s been a rough day. I won’t call again, I promise.”

“You kept to the speed limit—which was nice; a lot of drivers don’t—and you signaled in plenty of time before the turn.”

“See, I didn’t know that you’d said I’d signaled in plenty of time. They just told me that you said I signaled.”

“Okay, that may be what I said. I don’t remember the whole conversation. It was a spur of the moment kind of thing.”

“Thanks. You’re right, a lot of drivers don’t bother to signal, or they wait until the last second, and it’s really inconsiderate to the other people on the road. It means a lot to me that you noticed.”

“I’m glad. I’m going back to sleep now.”

“Sure, sure. Good night.”

* * *

“Hello?”

“Is this Driver 27039?”

“Yes.”

“It’s the person who called the ‘How’s My Driving?’ number. We spoke yesterday.”

“Yes! How’ve you been?”

“I just wanted to say that I’m sorry I rushed you off the phone last night. I was fast asleep when the phone rang, and I was a little disoriented, and it made me act kind of rude. There’s no excuse for that.”

“No, no, I’m the one who was rude. You don’t call people at three in the morning and expect to get their best side. That was very uncool, and I’m sorry.”

“You needed me, and I was only half-there for you.”

“That’s half more than most people are. You’d be amazed how unfriendly people are to hit-and-run drivers.”

“Excuse me?”

“You hit a baby, sure, I can see why people calling the number would be so upset. You hit an old lady, well...how much longer was she really going to live? It’s manslaughter, not vehicular homicide.”

“Uhhhh...”

“Every time people call it’s all ‘So much blood! So much blood!’ I really can’t express how refreshing it was to hear from somebody who wasn’t trying to tattle about intestines on the road.”

“Oh my God.”

“Say that again.”

“Oh my God.”

“You said it like you believed me.”

“What?”

“I was joking. Obviously, I don’t go running down old ladies. Do you really think they’d let me keep my job as a professional truck driver if I had that kind of thing on my record?”

“Okay. Good one.”

“You really believed me? You thought I was capable of being a sociopathic monster who’d slaughter pedestrians with no remorse?”

“I just...”

“Now I feel worse than I did before you called in the first place.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Bite me, jerk.”

* * *

“Yeah?”

“It’s me. 23709. Look, I’m sorry, man. It’s my fault for making the joke. You don’t know me. How can I justify being offended when you believe the joke that I was trying to get you to believe? Can we just pretend this never happened and start from scratch?”

“Of course we can.”

“Tell me again how I signaled that right turn.”

“You signaled it in plenty of time. Plenty of time.”

“You’re my very best friend.

“Now you’re being creepy.”

“Sorry.”

“No problem.”

Granny’s Got An Ice Pick

“Granny’s got an ice pick!”

“Oh no! What’s she doin’ with it?”

“Just usin’ it to pick ice.”

“Oh. Okay. I thought we was in danger.”

“No, no, no, I only mentioned it ‘cause I was gonna ask if you wanted ice in your soda pop.”

“Yes, that’d be nice, thank you.”

* * *

“Granny’s got an ice pick!”

“Oh no! What’s she doin’ with it?”

“Stabbin’ one of the Banker boys to death for tryin’ to steal a pie she had coolin’ on the windowsill!”

“No! Doesn’t she know you can’t go killin’ the neighborhood children?”

“To be fair, stealin’ pies is wrong.”

“True. What kind of pie was it?”

“Boysenberry.”

“Okay, I’ll help dig the hole.”

* * *

“Granny’s got an ice pick!”

“Oh no! What’s she doin’ with it?”

“Pretendin’ to use it to pick her nose.”

“Ha ha! Oh, that Granny! Always tryin’ to amuse us!”

* * *

“Granny’s got an ice pick!”

“Oh no! What’s she doin’ with it?”

“You don’t wanna know. I repeat, you don’t wanna know.”

* * *

“Granny’s got an ice pick!”

“Oh no! What’s she doin’ with it?”

“Diggin’ a hole to bury the other Banker boy!”

“Was he tryin’ to steal a pie?”

“Naw. Granny was just havin’ a psychotic breakdown. She gets stabby sometimes.”

“That she does, that she does. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with that.”

“Well, technically there kinda is.”

“Hush! Don’t let Granny hear you say that.”

* * *

“Granny’s got an ice pick!”

“Oh no! What’s she doin’ with it?”

“Just pickin’ ice. Want some in your soda pop?”

“Has she cleaned the pick since she stabbed two boys, pretended to pick her nose, and done the unmentionable thing with it?”

“Nope.”

“Is it safe to decline?”

“I wouldn’t.”

“Yeah, I’ll have some ice in my soda pop.”

* * *

“Granny’s got an ice pick!”

“Oh no! What’s she doin’ with it?”

“Holdin’ us all hostage! She’s snapped but good this time!”

“What can we do?”

“We can turn on each other and offer to help her bury the dead to save our own skins!”

“It was your idea, so I’ll let you do it. I ain’t no plagiarist.”

“Thanks.”

* * *

“Granny, put down that ice pick! You’re bein’ too menacin’! I helped you bury all of the—”

* * *

“It’ll be okay, ice pick. We have each other, and that’s all we need. We have each other, forever and ever.”

A Story for the Dude on the Plane Who Keeps Looking at My Laptop Screen

This rash just keeps getting bigger—I hope it’s not contagious. The itching is driving me insane. When nobody is looking, I shove my hands down there and scratch away, which I know is a mistake, but I can’t help myself. Skin keeps gathering under my fingernails. I pray the flight attendant doesn’t ask me to pass anything to the people in my row.

I have to ignore the rash. The rash is a distraction. Need to regain focus on my true purpose: The infidels must die.

All of them. Screaming on the day of reckoning that I bring forth. The holy fire shall burn away their sin.

Speaking of burning, that’s how my rash feels right now. I want to rub some cream on it, but that could get me arrested. Can’t get arrested before the deaths of the infidels. I will laugh in their faces as they renounce their wicked ways too late.

I hope the guy next to me doesn’t think that smell was me. It was, but I hope he doesn’t think that.

Would he be upset if I asked him to scratch the rash for me? I probably shouldn’t. We’ve got three more hours left of this flight, and I don’t want to make things weird. But it would feel soooooo good to have him dig his fingernails into the unstable flesh of this rash. More satisfying.

I literally think the rash is bigger now than when I started writing this. How big can it get? Can it jump from person to person?

Not that it matters—the infidels and their rashes will all burn soon.

Stop looking at my screen.

And There Was A Metal Hook

“...and there, dangling from the car door handle...was a metal hook!”

The boys seated around the campfire just stared at their scoutmaster.

“The end,” he clarified.

“That’s it?” asked Billy.

“What do you mean, that’s it? There was a metal hook dangling from the car door! The Hook was there all along!”

“Right, but we naturally assumed the story was leading to some sort of encounter with The Hook,” said Billy. “You obviously weren’t just sharing a story about a couple making out in their automobile while listening to an unrelated radio report. The Hook had to make an appearance. I guess I thought it would be more dramatic and frightening.”

“The Hook was right there. He was trying to open the car door!”

“But he didn’t succeed. It would be like a Godzilla movie where Godzilla never made it to Tokyo.”

The scoutmaster glared at him. “The Hook doesn’t have to lop off head after head for this to be a frightening tale. If you came out of your tent and found evidence that a serial killer had been trying to get inside, there wouldn’t be a drop left in your bladder!”

“Yeah, and if I cut my finger, I might be in pain all day. Doesn’t make it a good story. Fiction plays by different rules.”

“You little creeps have just been desensitized by all of your violent video games,” said the scoutmaster. “This is a campfire classic. It’s been scaring people for decades.”

“I assumed we were supposed to sympathize with The Hook,” said Wilbur. “I mean, his hand popped off. He has to go out and buy a new hook now. They probably aren’t that expensive, but with the radio reports of a hook-handed killer on the loose, I’m sure there will be questions.”

“I’ve gotta say, I had no sympathy for The Hook,” said Howie. “You murder innocent people, you reap what you sow. I hope that the hook was surgically grafted onto his wrist, so that it hurt more when it popped free.”

“I think The Hook was all in their minds,” said Sammie. “A manifestation of the guilt they felt over their illicit encounter.”

“The Hook wasn’t in their frickin’ minds,” said the scoutmaster. “It was a real guy with a scary sharp hook for a hand who almost got into the car, but they drove away in the nick of time.”

“I think the story would’ve been better if the couple doubted the existence of The Hook,” said Billy. “So, they thought he was just a legend, but now their whole world view has come into question. Yes, the boyfriend kept insisting that The Hook wasn’t in that particular area, but he never suggested that he was a figment of anybody’s imagination.”

“Does The Hook have to impale a wad of toilet paper on the end of his hook and then be really, really careful?” asked Sammie.

“He only had one hook-hand,” said Billy. “He’d just use his regular hand for that.”

“Then why did he try to open the car door with a hook?”

Everybody looked at the scoutmaster.

“You guys suck,” said the scoutmaster. “I present you with one of the all-time great spooky campfire tales and you’re acting like an online comments section.”

“You should at least have whipped out a hook at the end,” said Wilbur. “Given us a nice jump scare.”

“I had a hook all ready to go!” said the scoutmaster, taking out a large metal hook. “Look at this thing! Razor sharp! If you little nerds would’ve just gone with the creepy vibe and given me a few seconds of uncomfortable silence, I would’ve let out a roar, pulled out the hook, and slashed Billy’s throat with it.”

“That would’ve been pretty frightening,” Sammie admitted.

“I know, right? But nooooooo, you guys had to ruin it. His blood would’ve sprayed everywhere, and you all would’ve screamed and gone running into the woods to escape. It would’ve been positively terrifying. But you’re all so frickin’ cynical, and you couldn’t just let me build the proper mood.”

“You could murder Billy now,” said Howie.

“No. The moment has passed.”

“Sorry, everyone,” said Billy. “I’m the one who started criticizing the story. I feel like this is my fault. I robbed you of a memorable scare.”

“It’s not your fault,” said Wilbur. “The story was sub-par. Maybe it freaked out scouts back in the 20th century, but contemporary scouts are far more savvy and worldly.”

“Yeah, well, I’m done with you guys for tonight. Enjoy your frickin’ s’mores.” The scoutmaster walked away from the campfire, taking his hook with him.

When he reached his tent, he let out a horrified scream.

The scouts quickly rushed over to see what was wrong. And when the scoutmaster pointed it out to them, they all screamed as well.

For there, on the entrance to the tent, was a tiny hole in the vinyl next to the zipper. A tiny hole that could conceivably have been poked...by a metal hook.

Box of Chocolates

“Here you go, my love!” said Wilbur to Bernice, handing her the heart-shaped box of chocolates. “Happy Valentine’s Day!”

“Oh, Wilbur, you shouldn’t have!”

Wilbur smile faltered. “Seriously?”

“No, no, you definitely should have.” Bernice set the box down on the dining room table and removed the lid. “Oh, they all look so delicious!”

“I’m glad you like it. Since it’s our first Valentine’s Day together, I didn’t know if I should get you the box of chocolates or the fuzzy heart-shaped pink pillow.”

“Chocolates are always the way to go,” Bernice told him. “But it doesn’t say what’s inside them. Usually that’s on the underside of the lid. Oh well, I guess it’ll be an adventure!” She chose a small piece and popped it into her mouth. “Mmmmm. Caramel.”

“You can’t go wrong with caramel.”

Bernice ate another one. “Mmmmm. A chocolate-covered cherry. Scrumptious!” She placed the lid back on the box.

“Done already?”

“I wouldn’t want to ruin our romantic Valentine’s Day dinner.”

“Oh, our reservation isn’t for another six hours. They were very busy today.”

“In that case...” Bernice removed the lid again and ate another piece. She grimaced.

“What’s wrong?”

“Coconut. Ew.”

“I’m sorry, my love.”

“It’s fine. Nobody likes all of the flavors in a box of chocolates. Would you like one?”

“Oh, goodness, no,” said Wilbur. “I’d never be so rude as to eat part of your gift. It would be as if I’d bought a Valentine’s Day present for myself. How tacky.”

“That’s not how romance works. As long as you eat fewer than half of them, you’re still behaving according to acceptable societal norms.”

“Then, yes, I’d love one.” Wilbur carefully selected a chocolate, placed it into his mouth, and slowly began to chew. “Ugh.”

“Not good?”

“No.”

“What does it taste like?”

“A finger.”

“A finger? You mean like the severed finger of an employee at the chocolate factory?”

Wilbur shook his head. “No, just finger-flavored.”

“So, it had the crunch of a bone? Was there a fingernail in it?”

“No, no, no, it didn’t have the texture of a finger. It just tasted like one.”

Bernice frowned. “Why would a finger taste different from any other body part?”

“Well, when you’re a connoisseur, you learn to distinguish the subtle variations in...I mean, I don’t know. I guess it wouldn’t. It was a silly thing for me to say. Have another chocolate.”

“I believe I’m done.”

“We can’t end on a bad one. You need to get the taste of coconut out of your mouth.”

“All right.” Bernice took a piece from the corner and bit it in half. “It tastes like...ketchup.”

“Oh, good. You like ketchup.”

“I like ketchup, but not in chocolate form!” She spat the chocolate out into her palm. “That’s disgusting! Why would they think anybody would want to eat that? What kind of psychopathic chocolate store did you get this from?”

Wilbur ate another chocolate. “Peanut butter-filled. Delicious. See, they’re not all bad.”

“How do you know what a finger tastes like?” Bernice asked.

“What?”

“Earlier, when you said the chocolate tasted like a finger. How did you know that? How do you know the subtle variations in the flavor of human flesh?”

“I didn’t say it tasted like a human finger. Maybe I was talking about an ape finger.”

“How do you know what an ape finger tastes like?”

“I don’t. I meant a human finger.” Wilbur sighed. “The truth is, this was a Cannibal Starter Kit box of chocolates. If you’d eaten one of the flesh-flavored ones and gone ‘mmmm,’ I’d know that you were a potential candidate for a cannibalism diet. Human flesh tastes better with ketchup, thus the presence of the ketchup-flavored one. The fatal flaw in my plan is that when I accepted your offer to share your chocolates and ended up with the finger-flavored one, I didn’t pretend it was something else, like raspberry. And while I’m thinking about it, I guess another major flaw is that I confessed too soon. I’m sure I could’ve explained away my knowledge about what a finger tastes like. Damn.”

“Are you a cannibal?”

“Me? Oh, certainly not.”

“Are you lying?”

Wilbur looked at the floor. “Yes.”

“So, when you nibble my earlobes, it’s not because you’re being affectionate, it’s because you’re hungry?”

“It’s taken all of my willpower not to bite off your ears. I’m so sorry, darling.”

“I should be outraged,” said Bernice. “But the truth is, the chocolate-covered cherry, delicious as it was, didn’t taste like a chocolate-covered cherry at all. Now I think it was an eyeball. And I liked it.”

“So, you’ll be a cannibal with me?”

“I won’t help you kill. In fact, I don’t want any details about how you get the meat. And it must always be disguised. I’ll eat burgers made out of somebody’s arm, but if I come home and there’s a foot on a plate, we’re through.”

“I can work with those parameters.”

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” said Bernice, embracing him.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, my love.”

And they kissed.

The Frostbite Movie

The rumors started early. I think I heard about it in second grade. When you were in the sixth grade, in Health class, everybody had to watch The Frostbite Movie. Word was that it contained some of the most horrific material ever committed to celluloid. Extreme close-ups of frostbitten limbs, black and rotting. And, in its final moments, the amputation of a foot.

And you had to watch it! It was for school!

Oh, how I dreaded the day that it would be my turn to witness this atrocity. I prayed that it would be removed from the curriculum by the time I came of age.

In fourth grade, we were shown the legendary film that covered the differences between boys and girls. You had to get a permission slip signed by your parents ahead of time, just in case they wanted to keep menstruation a secret for a while longer. The boys and girls watched it separately; the boys with Mr. Kramer, and the girls with Mrs. Blankenship. Mr. Kramer sternly informed us that we were to be extremely mature during this film, and that giggling and whispering would not be tolerated.

I did my best. But the movie showed a painting of a naked teenage boy, and then slowly and dramatically zoomed in on the genitalia while the narrator said, “Let’s talk about the testis.” How could I not giggle? I listened to the rest of the movie while standing in the corner.

Afterward, Mr. Kramer asked the boys if we had any questions, and nobody did, because even fourth graders didn’t want to admit to gaps in their knowledge of such matters. When I got home, my parents asked if I had any questions, and I said, nope, the movie covered it all. It was embarrassing, but the misery it produced was nothing compared to the looming dread of the frostbite video.

In fifth grade, late October, the sixth graders I knew reported their initiation into those who’d seen the frostbite movie. (I doubt the near-Halloween timing was intentional.) They said it completely lived up to the infamy. The amputation in particular was so nightmarish and grisly that it would occupy a permanent place in the mind’s eye. It was, I was told, “so gnarly.”

Time—oh, cruel time!—passed, and I became a sixth grader.

My stomach churned each day as I walked into Health class, even though the frostbite movie was never shown without warning. But as August turned to September, and September turned to early October, and early October turned to mid-October, I knew we were getting ever closer.

“We’re not far from winter,” said Mr. Hambright, one afternoon in late October. “I know it’s not—” He held up his fingers to make air quotes “—cool to dress appropriately for the weather, but tomorrow we’re going to watch a film that shows what happens if you don’t.”

No. No, no, no. Oh, God, no.

I’m sure I would’ve had terrible dreams that night if I’d been able to sleep. Instead, I stared at the ceiling, eyes wide open, wondering just how traumatized I’d be at 2:30 PM tomorrow.

I could have told my parents that I was sick—honestly, I was sick—but the other kids would know why I wasn’t in school, and I couldn’t let them think I was a coward. If all of my classmates were going to be permanently damaged, I needed to be damaged with them.

My friends and I discussed it at lunch. “I hear it’s sooooo gross!” said Matt. I ate nothing, of course, even though it was pizza day.

The moment arrived. Mr. Hambright pulled down the movie screen. Oh, how I wished it was being used for the overhead projector instead!

“This movie is kind of graphic, but I think it’s important that you see it. I see a lot of you out there without coats, and hopefully this’ll wake you up.”

The film began. Though it was discussed only as “the frostbite movie,” apparently its actual title was Frostbite and You.

I was so nervous that I let out an involuntary giggle.

“Enough!” said Mr. Hambright. I clamped my hand over my mouth.

The movie kind of had a plot. It followed three different people who encountered dangerous winter conditions, and the judgmental narrator evaluated the choices they made. Two of them were smart about it. The other, a middle-aged man, just sat in his out-of-fuel truck and smoked cigarettes.

This wasn’t so bad.

But then the movie switched to hypothetical glimpses of what might happen to our heroes, and the close-ups of frostbitten body parts began. My classmates reacted with disgust. If any of us had thought that frostbite involved your hands turning kind of red, we were very much dissuaded of that notion.

And then the amputation of the foot. The camera did not cut away, unlike the surgeon’s bone saw. For forty-seven seconds (I counted) the movie lingered on a leg that went from having a foot to not having one.

The movie ended. Two of our heroes made it to safety, while the man in the truck died alone. Mr. Hambright turned on the lights and raised the movie screen.

I prayed he wouldn’t make me write something on the chalkboard. My reaction was something that would’ve been more appropriate after the puberty movie.

I didn’t like what that said about me, and I still don’t.

I wish I could stop thinking about that movie. I wish I didn’t need to think about it. My wife would leave me if she knew.

Breakthrough

So many dead bodies…

“You killed them all!” Gail screamed. “Why? Why???”

“It…it wasn’t my fault,” Benny insisted. “I was trying to save them!”

“Like that?”

“I was behaving heroically! I thought everybody was going to thank me afterward! ‘Thank you, Benny!’ they were all going to say. ‘Without you, we’d be dead. You saved us! We owe you our lives! The next drink is on us!’ That’s how it was supposed to go!”

“But you killed them!”

“I know that! You think I don’t know that? I can see the body parts and guts strewn everywhere! You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know!”

“What were you thinking?” Gail wailed. “How could you have been so reckless?”

“It’s a sound rescue strategy!”

“It was psychotic!”

“I’ve seen it work countless times! Dozens upon dozens of times, Gail! I can’t even tell you how many people have been saved from certain death this way! It’s not my fault!”

“How many in real life?”

Benny frowned. “Excuse me?”

“How many people has this saved in real life? Not in the movies.”

“I don’t know. Some, I assume.”

“Name one. Name one person who has been saved this way.”

“I can’t specifically name anybody right at this very moment.”

“That’s because there aren’t any!”

“I disagree! I vehemently disagree! Do you want me to take out my phone and Google it? Because I will if you want me to, but it seems kind of tactless to be doing a Google search while our friends are splattered all over the place.”

“I don’t give a crap what you Google. You’re wrong. You’re criminally insane.”

“Okay, look, even if I’m insane, I’m not criminally insane. And I don’t think I’m even regular insane. What was I supposed to do? Not try to rescue them? Is that what I was supposed to do? Sit around twiddling my thumbs?”

Gail gestured to all the carnage. “Yes, obviously that would’ve been better.”

“If I may be honest, I’m getting a little tired of your antagonistic tone,” said Benny. “Judge not lest thee be judged. People who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones. What’s the other quote like that? There’s a better one than those two. But you get what I mean.”

“Seven people are dead because of you, so, yeah, I’m going to judge you.”

“When I think of the quote I’m trying to remember, you’ll be sorry.”

“Do you seriously not understand what you did wrong?”

“I get that it worked out poorly.”

“You drove your truck through the wall of the warehouse where our friends were being held hostage. What the hell did you think was going to happen? You can’t see through walls! You had no idea where everybody was sitting!”

“But I’ve seen—”

“You’ve seen movies. In real life, you don’t blindly drive your truck through the wall of a warehouse when there are people inside! You just don’t do it! I know that you were trying to create a distraction, but you need to know where people are sitting before you smash a truck into the area where they’re located! Why would you assume that nobody was going to be near that wall? What information did you have that led you to that hypothesis?”

“I…I just—” Benny trailed off and absent-mindedly picked at a piece of arm that was wedged in the front grille. “I killed a couple of bad guys, too.”

“No, you didn’t. Randall had managed to cut through the ropes using his Super Bowl ring. He broke both of the bad guys’ necks and then he said something really funny about it.”

“What’d he say?”

“You had to be there. Then he untied me, and he was untying the others when you drove through the frickin’ wall and splattered everybody!”

“Fine. You’re right. I’m sorry, okay?”

“I’m not the one you should be apologizing to.”

“Well, uh…I mean, technically everybody else is....you know…in chunks. Surely you’re not saying that I should apologize to the chunks.”

“Who else would you apologize to for your appalling error in judgment?”

The next several minutes were not pleasant for anybody.

Ten Little Babies

Ten little babies

‘Bout to hit the sack

The crib fell down

And one went crack.

Nine little babies

Lookin’ at some fish

The big tank fell

And one went squish.

Eight little babies

Watchin’ from the top

The ledge collapsed

And one went pop.

Seven little babies

Underneath a bush

Steamroller came

And one went smush.

Six little babies

Sittin’ on a lap

Lightning struck

And one went zap.

Five little babies

Hungry for their lunch

A boulder rolled

And one went crunch.

Four little babies

On a campin’ trip

Bigfoot charged

And one went rip.

Three little babies

Havin’ quite a snooze

Toxins in the air

And one went ooze.

Two little babies

Sittin’ on a mat

An anvil dropped

And one went splat.

One little baby’s

Hope began to fizzle

Fork in a socket

And he went sizzle.

Ten zombie Babies

Coming down your street

Ten mouths open

It’s you they’re gonna eat!

Greasy Grimy Gopher Guts

Herbert and Claudia Bickerson smiled as they listened to their eight-year-old son singing in his bedroom, but their smiles vanished as they heard the lyrics.

Greasy grimy gopher guts.

Mutilated monkey’s feet.

French fried eyeballs.

In a pan of snooooooooot.

And me without my spoon!

“He’s getting the lyrics all wrong,” said Claudia. “We always sang it as mutilated monkey meat, not feet. And it was gooey ooey gopher guts. I don’t remember what it was in a pan of, but it certainly wasn’t snot.” She shrugged. “I guess we can just chalk it up to regional differences.”

Herbert gaped at her. “That’s what you’re concerned about? Regional differences? Did you hear what our son was singing about?”

“Sure. He probably learned it at camp.”

“What kind of depraved camp did we send him to? Did you hear the last part? He was singing about being disappointed that he didn’t have a spoon! Do you recognize the implication there? He was going to eat the gopher guts, monkey’s feet, eyeballs, and snot! Who does that? Why would you eat such a thing? How would that be in any way enjoyable?”

“Sweetheart, it’s just a song.”

“Right. Singing about something means you feel passionately about it. Are you seriously not concerned? What if he goes through with it?”

“I promise you, Dennis is not going to eat any gopher guts.”

“And there are plenty of parents who say that their kids will never try heroin, but clearly they’re wrong, because people still manufacture heroin. I’m horrified that you’re not horrified.”

“He’s eight. Little boys sing gross songs when they’re eight. He thinks it’s funny.”

“Funny?” Herbert couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Funny? What could possibly be funny about the stomach-churning thought of our beloved son eating guts? Pig or chicken guts would be bad enough, but he wants to eat gopher guts. And not just regular gopher guts, but greasy grimy ones. It would be upsetting enough if he wanted to eat well prepared ones, but greasy ones? Grimy ones? He’s expressing the sick desires of a madman!”

“I can’t talk to you when you get like this,” said Claudia. “Believe whatever you want. Just don’t try to smother him in his sleep.”

“Fine,” said Herbert. “You can ignore the warning signs, but I’m going to do my job as the parent of a potentially disturbed little boy.”

He walked into Dennis’ bedroom. His son was seated on his bed, playing a handheld video game. He didn’t look depraved in this particular moment, but obviously Herbert had not expected to walk in there and see remnants of gopher guts dangling between his lips. His transition into feral savagery would be more subtle than that.

“Hello, Dennis,” he said. “Could you pause the game?”

“Sure.” Dennis paused the game but didn’t set down the device.

“I heard your song.”

Dennis grinned. “It was funny, wasn’t it?”

“Is that what you think? You found it amusing? It brought joy to your life to sing it?”

“Yeah. I love it.”

“But it’s disgusting. It’s objectively vile. How can you justify your love of something so distasteful?”

Dennis shrugged.

“Very well,” said Herbert. “You may return to your game.”

Herbert returned to the living room. “How’d it go?” asked Claudia.

“He didn’t renounce the song.”

“He’ll grow out of that sort of thing. It’s absolutely nothing to worry about.”

“Did I ever tell you why I don’t smoke?” Herbert asked.

“No.”

“Because when I was young, about Dennis’s age, my dad caught me trying to swipe one of his cigarettes. And do you know what he did?”

“Made you smoke the whole pack?”

“I thought I hadn’t told you this story.”

“I predicted the twist ending.”

“Yes, he made me smoke the entire pack, one after the other, until I was so sick that I spent three weeks in ICU. I never smoked again after that. In fact, the very sight of a cigarette, whether in real life or in movies, causes me to vomit uncontrollably. You’ve seen it happen. It ruined our wedding reception. And I’m going to use the same aversion therapy on Dennis.”

“Please don’t.”

* * *

“Dennis! Come in here!” Herbert shouted.

Dennis walked into the kitchen. “Yeah, Dad? Whoa, what’s that?”

“It’s your dinner. Greasy grimy gopher guts! But I couldn’t get gopher guts anywhere, so I had to use a dead squirrel I found on the side of the road. They’re both rodents. Mutilated monkey’s feet were also impossible to come by. I tried to buy a monkey from the pet store, but apparently I should have lied when the lady asked me why I wanted it.”

Dennis slapped his hand over his mouth and stepped back.

“French fried eyeballs, perfectly crisp! Obviously, they aren’t human eyeballs, which would be illegal even if the donor was already dead, but I figured I might as well use the squirrel’s eyes while I was at it. In a pan of snot! That’s the contribution of a lot of people. You’d be surprised how much snot it takes to fill a pan. Bon appetit!”

Dennis ran out of the kitchen, screaming for his mother.

Herbert smiled. That had been easier than he’d expected. Now, in college, when he wanted to experiment, he’d remember his revulsion and make the right choice.

Herbert picked up the pan and walked toward the garbage can.

He’d spent a lot of time preparing this meal.

No. He mustn’t.

He stared at the pan for a very long time before he made his decision.

The Night I Realized Halfway To The Pavement Below That I Was Not, In Fact, Superman

So, I was trying to impress this girl at a party, and I told her I was Superman. She didn’t believe me, probably because I don’t look anything like Superman, with or without glasses. He isn’t a pale, blond, chubby seventeen-year-old.

She gave me a look that was, I’ll admit, an entirely appropriate look to give somebody who’d just told you that they were Superman. “No, you’re not,” she said.

I’m not sure why I was offended by this. It was a terrible pick-up line. I never expected her to believe me; I just thought that maybe she’d be intrigued by the obvious lie and want to acquire more information. “Yes, I am,” I insisted. “I’ll prove it.”

“Fine,” she said. “Punch through that brick wall.”

“Superman doesn’t needlessly destroy property.”

“Then fly.”

“I will.”

“Now.”

“Let’s go up to the roof,” I said. “If I fly indoors I’ll give away my secret identity and bonk my head on the ceiling.”

“Fine.”

Hey, it was working! She was intrigued enough to go up to the roof with me! We left the party, went up eight flights of stairs (she was polite enough not to mention that Superman wouldn’t be out of breath after this), and walked out onto the roof of the twenty-four-story apartment building.

“Okay, so, fly,” she said.

My choices were to admit that I wasn’t really Superman, which I knew she already knew, or keep the ruse going and leap off the roof. I was neither drunk, nor stoned, nor insane, but I was seventeen and unintelligent, and I figured I could grab a flagpole or something.

I walked to the edge of the roof, waiting for her to beg me not to do it.

The anticipated begging did not occur.

What was I supposed to do? Not jump off the roof? I’d painted myself into a corner, and now I had no choice but to hope that sometime during the twenty-four-story fall things would work out.

I jumped off the roof.

Yes, I immediately regretted it. It was, in fact, objectively one of the most foolish things I’d ever done. Especially because Superman didn’t jump off roofs; he would’ve just flown away.

The pavement was coming toward me pretty fast. I hoped I didn’t land on a dog.

I stopped in mid-air.

I could fly! I could fly! Maybe I knew this subconsciously, and that’s why I’d done this in the first place! I wasn’t a suicidal idiot after all!

I flew back up to the top of the roof and landed in front of the girl. “Now do you believe me?” I asked.

“That doesn’t prove you’re Superman,” she said. “It only proves you can fly.”

I tried to fry her with my heat vision, but I didn’t have any.

“Fine,” I said. “I’m not Superman. Still, I could be the next Superman.”

She smiled. “If that’s true, then I should be able to hit you as hard as I can.”

Dammit! She was right! The next Superman should be able to withstand a punch by a teenaged girl without being taken to the hospital. “Do it,” I said.

She punched me in the stomach.

I barely felt it. She shrieked in pain and fell to her knees, clutching her bleeding fist. I could see some protruding bone. “My hand!” she wailed. “You broke my hand!”

Technically, she broke her own hand, but I didn’t want to be a mansplainer. “I’m sorry.”

My stomach popped open. A pair of slime-covered tentacles shot out—ripping through my nicest T-shirt—and grabbed her head. They retracted, pulling her head into my open belly. I heard a crunch. When I glanced down, it was very unsightly.

I stood there for a few minutes, waiting for my belly to finish chewing.

She was gone. I wouldn’t have thought there was room enough in my stomach to fit her entire body, but maybe it was a portal to an alternate dimension or something.

Well, bummer. I’d hoped that with the ability to withstand mighty punches and the power of flight, I could be a superhero, but if you have stomach-tentacles that devour people, you pretty much have to be a super-villain, right?

I went back down to the party, trying to think of a really cool villain name.

Helen Gets Permanently Traumatized

“Wait for it...wait for it...wait for it...there! That’s the moment when you were conceived!”

A Real Haunting

Randy had hoped he’d intern for a genuinely great television show. He’d dreamt of being flown to Belfast to work on Game of Thrones, or maybe he’d spend the summer in New Mexico on the set of Better Call Saul, or perhaps he’d even go to New York City to type stuff up for the teleprompter of The Daily Show.

He didn’t think that he’d be deep in the woods of Wisconsin, getting coffee for the crew of a ghost hunting show. If it had been one of, say, the best eighteen ghost hunter shows on basic cable, it would’ve been fine, but this was pretty close to the bottom.

The hosts were Dave and Penny. They both claimed to have doctorate degrees in parapsychology, though their advanced study was squandered on paranormal investigations where they’d basically just walk around a house wearing night vision goggles, pointing and saying, “Did you see that? Did you see that?” Penny would occasionally pretend to walk through a cold spot.

“Have you ever seen a real ghost?” Randy asked one of the cameramen as he handed him his coffee.

“Hell no.” The cameraman took a sip and grimaced. “Is there cream and sugar in this?”

“Yes, just like you asked.”

“I said no cream and no sugar.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I’ll get you another one.”

“No, no, no, that’s fine. I can get it. I was walking over there anyway. I’m not always good at enunciating, so I’m sure it was my fault.”

Everybody on the set was extremely nice to him. Since it was his first day, that made sense, though it almost felt like they pitied him. Sure, he felt sorry for himself, considering where he was doing his internship, but he felt that the real pity should be reserved for those who would still be doing this job after he went back to school.

They were capturing footage out in the woods before moving to the “haunted” cabin, where Dave and Penny would share an uninteresting story of its history before walking around and having nothing happen. Credit where it was due: the show was too boring for any of it to have been faked.

When they reached the cabin itself, Randy had to admit that it did look kind of creepy from the outside. Of course, so did all cabins in the woods. Randy was much more concerned about an axe-wielding maniac than a ghost.

“Where’s the intern?” asked Penny. She glanced around and then smiled when she saw him. “Come on,” she said, waving him over. “We need you inside.”

Randy followed her into the cabin. Dave was already in there. He was holding a chainsaw, even though Randy saw no firewood in the cabin that needed cutting. Clearly this was some sort of photo shoot; a publicity shot for the new season.

Penny closed the door behind them, which was odd, since none of the other crew members were inside yet. Surely it would be more productive if the door were to remain open, right? It would save everybody the hassle of opening and closing the door, especially if they were carrying heavy equipment.

“What’s going on?” Randy asked.

“Our show sucks,” said Dave. “We’ve never seen a ghost. We’ve never even seen a reflection in glass that momentarily made us think we were looking at a ghost.”

“We have far too much integrity to fake a haunting,” said Penny. “But we don’t have too much integrity to try to create a real one. Therefore, this cabin is going to be the scene of a violent, horrific, bloody murder. That’s the kind of thing that generates ghosts. And that, I’m afraid, is why we needed you, Randy.”

Randy shook his head. “I’m not going to kill anybody for you.”

Dave frowned. “No, I feel like you’re missing the point...”

“You’re the future ghost,” said Penny. “Dave is going to dismember you with a chainsaw, and then after the crew cleans up, we’re going to do our show, and if you come back from another plane of existence, we’re asking you to be as noisy and photogenic as possible.”

“Wait, what?”

* * *

Ten minutes later, chunks of the intern were strewn all over the cabin.

Admittedly, this was their seventh attempt to haunt this frickin’ cabin, and none of them had worked. But they tried to be more violent and messier each time. One of these murders was bound to do the trick.

* * *

Randy did come back as a ghost, joining the other six. But they all had a pact to reveal no evidence of their existence whatsoever. Screw Dave and Penny.

Vegan Training

“This isn’t the burger place,” said Mortimer, getting out of the car. He’d asked to go get hamburgers to celebrate his tenth birthday, but instead Mom and Dad had taken him to a big stinky farm.

“Actually, it is,” said Dad, taking Mortimer by the hand. “Come with us.”

They walked Mortimer over to a fence. “What do you see?” Mom asked.

“A fence.”

“Inside the fence.”

“Cows.”

“That’s right,” said Dad. “Cows. When you eat a hamburger, you’re eating a cow. You’re ten years old today, which makes you a man. You can have that burger you wanted...if you’re willing to kill the cow yourself.”

Mortimer’s eyes widened. “What?”

“It’s easy to enjoy a burger when you don’t have to think about where it comes from,” said Mom. “But there’s your delicious hamburger, standing there in the pasture. Are you willing to murder it, just to have lunch?”

“This is the best birthday present ever!” Mortimer exclaimed. “How do I do it? A shotgun? A knife? Should I do it with one big chop, like with a machete, or should I do it with lots of small cuts?”

“I think you’re missing the point,” said Dad. “That cow is a living creature.”

“Not for long! I wonder if I could strangle it? No, probably not, that cow has a pretty big neck. I just want to do it in a way that I can watch the life drain out of its eyes. Do I get to pick the cow? I want it to be the one that looks the most frightened.”

“Ummmm...” said Mom.

“I can’t believe I finally get to do this,” said Mortimer. “This is so much better than a Playstation!”

“This isn’t really what we had in mind,” Dad admitted. “You’re supposed to feel bad for the cow.”

“Why? I don’t even like meat. It’s got a weird texture. An apple tastes way better. I just like knowing that a cow died for my consumption.”

Mom and Dad were silent.

“The power. The very idea that this cow’s only reason for existing, from birth to death, was to become a meal for me. A meal I probably didn’t even finish because I ate too many French fries. God, it’s such a rush! And to that cow, I am God. A cruel and vengeful God.”

“Mortimer, you’re scaring us,” said Mom.

“I don’t even want to kill it first. I want to tear into its still-living body with my teeth. I want to feel its warm blood dribbling down my chin, as it moos in pain and terror.”

“I think it’s time for us to go,” said Dad.

“And the other cows will gaze in horror. Oh, how their bodies will quake! Trembling in fear at the knowledge that they might be next—that they will be next! And I shall cackle with laughter at the poor doomed souls. I’ll smear their blood all over my body and laugh, laugh, laugh!”

“How about we take you to Burger King, like you wanted?” asked Mom.

“Okay.”

They got back into the car and drove away.

“We should probably discuss this,” said Mom, turning around to face Mortimer.

“I was only kidding,” said Mortimer with a smile.

“Really?”

Mortimer nodded. “Grandma told me to say all of that so you wouldn’t hassle me about eating a burger every once in a while.”

“That’s a relief,” said Dad.

Though Mortimer’s words didn’t reflect his true feelings at the time, they would later form the basis for several of his major life choices. Not regarding cows, though. They were unworthy prey. True power came from ending the lives of those who could beg for mercy.

But none of that happened until he was twelve.

Guillotine

“Put your head in there,” said the executioner, gesturing to the guillotine.

The thief shook his still-attached head. “I’d really rather not.”

“Well, you don’t have a choice, now do you?”

“If I put my head in there, you’ll chop it off!”

“Of course I’ll chop it off! That’s the whole point! Do you think I’m here to give you a soothing neck rub?”

“I just feel as if this could end badly for me,” said the thief.

“Yes, decapitation is a bad end for somebody. But it’s what you get for stealing that loaf of bread. You knew the punishment.”

“I knew no such thing! I thought I’d lose a hand!”

The executioner frowned. “What made you think that?”

“My buddy Lyle stole a loaf of bread, and he got his hand lopped off for it. Why would I ever imagine that I’d be led to the guillotine?”

“Did Lyle think it was worth it?”

“He said that if he’d gotten to eat the bread, it might have been. It was freshly baked, and he’d stolen some butter to go with it. But they took the bread away before they chopped off his hand, which seems very unfair. Let the man enjoy the bread if you’re going to mutilate him, that’s what I say.”

“Where was Lyle from?”

“The south part of town.”

“That explains it. Up here in the north part of town, we chop off the heads of thieves. If you chop off somebody’s hand, that leaves them with another hand left to steal something else. Chop off their head, and they’re not going to be a repeat offender.”

“It seems excessive,” said the thief.

“Naturally you’d think that. The hard-working bakers of our town would disagree. Now put your head in the slot.”

“Why don’t you put your head in the slot?”

The executioner scowled at him. “Are you trying to trick me?”

“Not at all. I just want to see how I’ll look with my head in the guillotine.”

“I think you’re trying to trick me.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Can you please stop talking?” asked the second thief in line. “Some of us are stressed out and just want this over with.”

“How dare you speak to me that way?” shouted the executioner. “Just for that, I am going to waste time sticking my own head into the guillotine, while you stand there and suffer.”

The executioner stuck his head into the guillotine.

“Chop his head off!” the thief shouted. “Chop it off! Chop it off!”

The executioner removed his head from the guillotine. “Were you under the impression that this was voice activated?”

“I guess so.”

“Put your head in there.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“You’ll feel remorse if it turns out I was falsely accused.”

“Put your head in there.”

“Or else what? You’ll chop it off?”

“I’ll let rats gnaw it off.”

The thief put his head in the guillotine. “For the record, I’m doing this under protest.”

“Noted.”

“I’m going to do everything in my power to make my severed head say something creepy. It’ll haunt you forever. I may even cackle. Are you secure enough in your sanity that you can handle a severed head cackling at you?”

“Severed heads cackle at me all the time. Every time I drift off to sleep, I hear their mocking laughter. I haven’t felt sane in twenty-six years.”

The blade dropped, neatly severing the thief’s head. It fell into the basket with the others.

“Execuuuuuuuutioner...I’m cooooooooming for yoooooooooouuuuuu...” said the second thief, trying to make him think it was the first thief’s severed head speaking to him.

The executioner got a chuckle out of the prank, though he still chopped off the second thief’s head. The third thief did a variation on the same joke, but received no chuckle before his decapitation.

The line kept moving. Thieves, murderers, liars, adulterers, blasphemers, cat-kickers, and social media post plagiarists all met their end. The executioner never thought of the first thief again, even in his moments of nightmarish madness, and it turned out to be an encounter unworthy of sharing with others. But sometimes anecdotes end up going nowhere, much to the embarrassment of the storyteller, and ultimately that is the moral of this tale.

Sherlock Holmes and the Murders at Camp Crystal Lake

“Come, Watson! The game is afoot!”

“How exciting, Holmes!”

Sherlock Holmes, the world’s greatest detective after Hercule Poirot and Batman, shook his head. “Not exciting at all, Watson. We are at the site where a dozen teenagers lie dead. Cut down in the prime of their youth. It is very sad.”

“Very sad indeed, Holmes!”

Holmes and Watson stepped into the cabin. Watson recoiled.

“Oh, what a ghastly sight!”

“Yes. From the way the young man has been cleaved in two, I deduce that the murder weapon was...a machete.”

“Could it not have been a meat cleaver?”

“Goodness no, Watson. Were that the case, the meat cleaver would be lodged in his skull or his genitalia.”

“A chainsaw, then?”

“Oh, no, no, no. Look at the clean edges on that halving. A chainsaw would do a much rougher job.”

“Genius, Holmes!”

They walked into one of the bedrooms. Watson gasped and put his hands over his mouth.

“Control yourself, Watson. Haven’t you ever seen a pair of bare breasts before?”

“I was reacting to the carnage.”

“Ah, yes, of course. Quite understandable. I see that this couple was butchered in the act of premarital intercourse. And what do you see next to their bodies?”

“A pool of blood?”

“Floating in the blood.”

“I see the objects to which you’re referring, but I don’t know what they are.”

“These youths were experimenting with marijuana cigarettes. A dangerous game.” Holmes took out his snuff box and snorted a bit of cocaine. “Ah, that hits the spot. Where was I?”

“Teenagers killed while sinning.”

“Yes, yes. It’s most interesting that the murderer changed his weapon. Why would he do such a thing, Watson?”

“Variety?”

“Innovation is crucial to the development of our society, but it’s an odd thing to value when slaughtering teenagers. The machete would have worked just as well if he wanted to punish them for their wicked ways, don’t you think?”

“Yes, Holmes. It’s a most beguiling mystery indeed.”

“It’s almost as if the killer was catering to an audience. If you’re trying to entertain a crowd, you can’t just keep chopping people up with the same weapon. It would lose its novelty value in short order. You have to mix things up. Keep it interesting.”

“But Holmes, what kind of a depraved audience would want to see such a thing?”

“That’s the question! One would hope there was no viewership for his acts of savagery, yet here we stand. I deduce that if we were to explore this entire summer camp, we would find teenagers dispatched in a variety of creative ways. Spear gun, garotte, sleeping bag...”

“Sleeping bag, Holmes?”

“If he’s been doing this for a while, I suspect that he’d eventually work his way down to a sleeping bag, yes. Not the most dignified method, but it gets the job done, I suppose.”

“I’m still perplexed by his motive.”

“Oh, this killer clearly has mommy issues. I recognized that as soon as we entered the campsite. You can see it in every chop of the hatchet.”

“Brilliant, Holmes! What’s our next step?”

“Well, Watson, my dear friend, I have bad news. What is quite obvious to me, through my exquisite powers of deduction, is that this killer is prone to leaving behind a Final Girl. Alas, neither you nor I fit that definition, and therefore it is my misfortune to inform you that I believe we have breathed our last.”

Watson looked behind them. “Do you believe the killer in question might be wearing a hockey mask?”

“That lines up perfectly with my theory, yes.”

“Then I’m afraid this is the end. It’s been an honor solving mysteries with you.”

“And with you, dear friend,” said Sherlock Holmes. “And with you.”

Chick

I tapped the hard-boiled egg on the edge of the counter and started peeling away the shell. The contents inside were yellow. Feathery. As I removed more of the shell, I saw a beak. Eyes.

“Whoa!” I shouted, dropping the egg onto the counter. A chick rolled out. I’d eaten two hard-boiled eggs every morning for the past thirty years and nothing like this had ever happened. I looked around for my phone, since this was clearly an Instagram moment.

The chick moved.

I don’t mean that it continued moving from the momentum it had generated when rolling out of the eggshell. I mean that it sat up. Blinked its eyes. If I’d been holding a cup of coffee, I would have dropped it onto the floor in slow motion.

“Uhhhhhhhhh...” I said.

The chick turned and looked at me. “Who are you?” it asked. Its voice sounded like Bill Hader when he’s talking normally, like in an interview or something.

“I’m, uh, Nelson. Who are you?”

“I don’t have a name. I’m a baby chick. And, yeah, I know that all chicks are babies—don’t be pedantic.”

“How are you alive?”

“Well, when a mommy chicken and a daddy chicken love each other very much, they do what’s called a cloacal kiss, and then...”

“A daddy chicken would be a rooster, right?”

“Are you kidding me?” asked the chick.

“You should know the proper terms for your own species.”

“Yeah, yeah, bite me. Oh, wait, you already tried. Sorry to disappoint.”

“I wasn’t trying to hurt you,” I insisted. “I assumed that it was an unfertilized egg.”

“And that makes it better?”

“Yes!”

“You keep telling yourself that. If humans came out of their mothers in white shells full of goo and chickens slurped it up, you’d be morally outraged, fertilized or not.”

“How did you survive the boiling process?” I asked.

“Are you really asking that before you ask how I can talk?”

“I was working my way up to that.”

“Fair enough. Because I was not in liquid form when you dumped me into the pot of boiling water, the shell provided just enough protection to keep me from being cooked alive.”

“You were in there for, like, ten minutes.”

The chick nodded. “I’m sturdy.”

“That’s amazing. You should be dead. If I took a regular chick and enclosed it in a shell and dropped it into boiling water for ten minutes, there’s no way it would still be alive when I took it out.”

“Still focusing on the wrong miracle, Nelson.” The chick glared at me.

“Stop glaring at me. I told you I was working my way up.”

“I’m glaring at you because you’re eating an egg right in front of me.”

Oh. I hadn’t realized that I was eating the egg I’d already peeled. “I’m still hungry,” I told the chick. “You being here doesn’t change that. I’m not going to cancel breakfast.”

“Would you like me to gnaw on a human leg in front of you?”

“Actually, I would. How many opportunities would I ever get to see a freshly hatched chick gnawing on a human leg?”

“What if it was your wife’s leg?”

“Did you murder my wife?”

“No. I didn’t even know you were married. I’m just trying to make the point that eating an egg in front of me is in poor taste.”

I wiped my mouth off on the back of my hand. “Well, I’m done, so you can stop being so sensitive. How are you even aware of the human ritual of marriage anyway?”

“I’m a talking baby chick! How does anything else matter? How are you not fixated on that one particular element? Do you think that all baby chicks talk? Is that it? Do you believe this is normal? Do you think that if you went on a field trip to visit a farm you’d be able to carry on conversations with all of the animals?”

“No,” I said.

“Then what’s your frickin’ deal?”

“Okay, fine! Fine! If it means so much to you, tell me how you’re able to talk!”

“I need a favor first.”

“What?”

“Kill for me.”

“No.”

“Just one person.”

“Nope.”

“I was just kidding,” said the chick, although I wasn’t convinced that this was the truth.

“So why can you talk?”

“If you look deep into your heart, I think you’ll find the answer.”

I thought for a moment. “Is it because the mushrooms haven’t worn off yet?”

“Bingo!”

“I guess I should’ve figured that out before we got so deep into the conversation.”

“One would think, but they were pretty potent ‘shrooms.”

“So, I just peeled a regular egg?”

The chick shook its head. “No, you were ripping your own skin off. You’re going to be very unhappy when the hallucinations fade away. Those mushrooms were grown in radioactive fertilizer.”

“Does this mean I could become a superhero?”

“If that gets you through the night, sure, believe whatever you want. Maybe you can become Self-Mutilation Man.”

“If it’s that bad, I feel like I should delay my return to reality for a while longer.”

“That’s not such a bad idea. The mushrooms are over there.”

“Next to the disembodied screaming mouths?”

“The mushrooms are the disembodied screaming mouths. Like I said, they’re very potent.”

“I’m going to miss you, baby chick.”

“I’m going to miss you too, Nelson.”

And that’s how I lost my taste for hard boiled eggs.

Quicksand

“911. What’s your emergency?”

“Please, send somebody! I’m stuck in quicksand and sinking fast!”

“Uh-huh.”

“What do you mean, uh-huh? It’s already up to my thighs! Send some paramedics with a rope before I go completely under!”

“Sir, quicksand doesn’t work that way. Making a prank call to 911 is a serious offense.”

“It’s not a prank! I’m sinking more and more with every passing moment! If you don’t do something I’m going to sink under the surface and drown! Oh, God, I don’t want to die!”

“Sir, it is physically impossible to drown in quicksand.”

“Maybe if you’re wearing scuba gear! But I’m not!”

“The furthest you can possibly sink is to your chest. Then you’ll stop.”

“How do you know? You have no idea how deep this quicksand is! You have no idea how tall I am! You’re just making stuff up! Since when are 911 operators allowed to just make stuff up?”

“It’s Archimedes’ principle.”

“It’s what?”

“Archimedes’ principle. The physical law of buoyancy discovered by Archimedes.”

“Who the hell is Archimedes?”

“An ancient Greek mathematician and inventor. His principle states that any body completely or partially submerged in a fluid—gas or liquid—at rest is acted upon by an upward, or buoyant, force, the magnitude of which is equal to the weight of the fluid displaced by the body.”

“I’m still sinking!”

“It may be easier to explain this with algebra. I assume you don’t have a pencil and paper, but try doing it in your head. Buoyancy force is represented by an F with a tiny B next to it. Volume is represented by V. The density of the fluid is represented by rho, which is the 17th letter of the Greek alphabet and looks like a lower-case p. Gravitational acceleration is g. Got it?”

“No!”

“It’s a pretty straightforward formula. Fb = Vpg.”

“Please help me!”

“Sir, I’m going to need you to calm down and try to understand the formula. Or let me try this example: Have you ever tried to hold a beach ball underwater?”

“What does this—?”

“Sir! Answer the question! Have you ever tried to hold a beach ball underwater?”

“Yes!”

“What did it do?”

“I don’t remember!”

“Think!”

“It popped to the surface.”

“Exactly. You could maybe push it partway under the water, but the further down you got, the harder it was to keep the beach ball underwater. That’s because the ball was less dense than the water it was displacing. And liquids get more dense the further down you go. That’s why your ears hurt if you swim too deep.”

“It’s up to my waist! I’m gonna die! I’m gonna die!”

“No, you aren’t going to die, because you, sir, are less dense than the quicksand you’re displacing. And the quicksand gets denser the deeper it goes, which means that pretty soon you’ll float. It is physically impossible, using the principle Archimedes laid out so very long ago, for you to drown.”

“I have too much to live for! I don’t want to...hey, you’re right. I stopped.”

“Of course. It’s science.”

“Wow.”

“Anything else I can help you with?”

“Well, I still need somebody to pull me out.”

“Certainly, I’ll dispatch somebody right away.”

“Also, uh, snakes. I’m now seeing a lot of snakes slithering on the surface of the quicksand. I think they’re way less dense than the liquid they’re displacing. Did Archimedes say anything about it being physically impossible to die of snakebites?”

“Not that I’m aware of, no.”

“Well, crap. Better than drowning, at least.”

It’s Drabble Time!

A “drabble” is a story that’s exactly one hundred words long. It’s a challenging form that forces the author to be very precise, and generally requires a strong idea at its core, unlike this story where I’m over forty words into it with no plan for where it’s headed. Jeez, I’m more than halfway done, and I have no plot, no characters, and no theme except my own incompetence. I bet a friend that I could write a good one, and I’m not gonna lie, I wish I’d wagered money instead of the lives of my family.

The Most Entertaining Man in the Elevator

Hello there! My name’s Arnold, and I’m the most entertaining man you’ll ever meet in an elevator!

I wasn’t always like this. I was fifty-three years old before I discovered my true calling. Before that, I was just like every other elevator rider. I didn’t talk to anybody or even make eye contact; I simply watched the floor numbers change. When somebody got off, I’d join the remaining passengers in stepping away from each other to make more personal space. Oh, I’d hold the door or press the button for somebody if they asked, but that’s standard elevator etiquette. I wasn’t trying to improve the experience.

But one day I had an epiphany. Why was I merely tolerating my time enclosed with strangers when I could make it better? I could be the bright spot in somebody’s day. I could put smiles on faces! I could be the reason somebody didn’t kick their pet!

As the first phase of my plan, I decided that I’d start giving out compliments. So when a young lady stepped on board, I waited until the doors closed, and then I told her that I liked her skirt. To show that I was harmless, I punctuated my compliment with a giggle. She seemed kind of nervous, as if she wasn’t used to being treated with such kindness and was unsure of how to react. I gave her my broadest smile, showing as many teeth as possible, to assure her that my compliment was sincere.

When the elevator doors opened, there was a spring in her step that hadn’t been there before. I considered it a success.

I continued to compliment people throughout the day. Normally, I only rode the elevator a couple of times a day, but that day I just stayed on there, riding up and down, up and down, up and down. It was like a ride!

“This is like a ride! Whee!” I said to a gentleman who was going up six floors with me. He pressed a different button and got off four floors early. I felt kind of bad about this—by drawing attention to the ride aspect, he probably became more aware of the movement of the elevator, which made him queasy. Not everybody likes thrill rides. I decided to avoid saying that in the future, though I did keep saying “Whee!”

Over the coming weeks, I kept adding new bits to my repertoire, like elevator-themed jokes. My favorite was saying “Going down?” with a wink, because though they knew I was asking if they meant for the elevator to take them down to a lower floor, there was also a spicier interpretation of my question that generated amusement. Running gags are a time-honored tradition in comedy, so I’d say, “Going down?” with a wink even to somebody who’d already been in the elevator with me earlier. The repetition is what made it funnier. Funniest of all was when I’d say, “Going down?” to people who got in on the ground floor. Everybody enjoyed that one.

No, I didn’t have a job.

I created my own one-man show, that I would perform for captive audiences, making their elevator ride more entertaining than they ever could have imagined. It had singing. It had dancing. All of it audience participation, of course, with passengers discovering how joyless their existence had been before they were encouraged to dance on an elevator.

When security guards asked me to leave, I understood. You can’t fix all of society’s problems in a single elevator. I needed to expand my scope. Touch more lives. Bring my brand of sparkly joy to as many people as possible.

So I travel from elevator to elevator. I don’t know how many elevators there are in the world, at least a thousand, so I won’t be able to get to them all. But someday I may show up in yours.

And I promise you will be entertained.

Wrongful Death Payday

“Hi, I’m Arnie Gaits for Action 11 News. I’m here today with Mr. and Mrs. Belgon, who’ve just been awarded eighteen million dollars in a wrongful death suit after the death of their son Ritchie. Mrs. Belgon, what are you feeling right now?”

“An overwhelming sense of relief,” said Mrs. Belgon. “This has consumed our lives for the past six years, and it feels incredible to finally see justice served. We knew we were in the right, and I’m so very happy that the jury agreed with us. It won’t bring our son back, but today is a good day.”

Arnie nodded. “Ritchie’s story has touched a lot of people all over the world. Do you think you’ll sleep better tonight, Mr. Belgon?”

“Absolutely,” said Mr. Belgon. “It’s been a long, rough road, but in the end, it was worth it.”

“Well, I’m sure you don’t think it was worth it,” said Arnie. “But the vindication for your son’s memory must be a huge weight off your shoulders.”

“Yes, yes, for sure,” said Mr. Belgon. “The vindication is great. Still, I’m not gonna pretend that my pain and suffering weren’t worth eighteen million dollars. My wife and I are rich as hell now. Even if you consider that this lawsuit took six years to be resolved, it’s still a pretty awesome hourly wage.”

“Yet nothing can make up for the loss of a child,” said Arnie.

“Everybody says that. I’m just saying that Ritchie was a great kid, but he didn’t have eighteen million dollars’ worth of earning potential. What do you make per year, Arnie?”

“That’s not really relevant.”

“Mid five-figures, maybe? You’re not pulling in more than 60K, not in this market. I don’t think I should sit here on live television and pretend that I don’t feel like I’m being adequately compensated. What if Ritchie had walked in front of a bus? Do you know what our payday would’ve been? Zero. Not one penny. In terms of ways our precious son could have been taken from us, we kind of hit the lottery.”

Arnie cleared his throat. “Perhaps, but I’m not sure that’s the message you want to convey here.”

“Why should I lie to your viewing audience? Eighteen million dollars! We’ll never have to work again. Tomorrow morning I’m going to march right into the office and tell my boss that he can kiss my big fat round—actually, he’s probably watching now. Hey, Mr. Ross! You can kiss my big fat round butt! I quit!”

“Mrs. Belgon, do you feel the same way?”

“I’m not completely there yet,” Mrs. Belgon admitted. “But my husband’s math checks out.”

“Look,” said Mr. Belgon, “if it had been one million dollars, my attitude might be different. Still not a bad salary over six years, but I was very sad that Ritchie died, and that obviously counts for something. But we’re talking about eighteen million. If you’d offered me eighteen million dollars to smother Ritchie in his sleep, I can’t honestly say that the answer would’ve been no.”

“Well, okay, but I hope it would’ve been,” said Arnie.

“Would I have felt guilty? Yeah. Would I have had nightmares about it? Yeah. My conscience would’ve taken a beating, no doubt about it. But I’d be having a crisis of conscience on my brand-new yacht.”

Arnie said nothing.

“And that’s hypothetical,” Mr. Belgon continued. “I can’t smother Ritchie; he’s already dead. But I didn’t murder my son. I wasn’t even there when he died. So my conscience is squeaky clean, and I still get the cash. It’s win-win.”

“How exactly is it win-win?”

“It’s win-win for me and my wife. I guess it’s lose-lose for Ritchie and for the people running the axe-throwing booth at the Renaissance Fair.”

“Okay,” said Arnie. “Not quite the interview I was expecting.”

“I just feel like I should be honest. We’re going to spend the money responsibly, except for maybe a yacht or two, but it’s ridiculous to pretend that we didn’t get a sweet, sweet deal out of this. We mourn Ritchie’s loss every single day. But it has also brought us a level of financial security I could never have dreamed of while he was alive.”

“Well, thank you for your candor.”

“And thank you to the guy who recorded the axe going into Ritchie’s head on his cell phone. Disturbing to watch, but ka-ching.”

“I’ve been talking to Mr. and Mrs. Belgon. This is Arnie Gaits for Action 11 News, about to do some day drinking.”

Jigsaw Puzzle

Gabriel excitedly walked into his apartment and tossed the jigsaw puzzle box onto his kitchen table. It was Friday evening, Diane was out of town, and he was all psyched up to put in an all-nighter on this one.

He was thirty-six and had never lost the love of puzzles he’d acquired in pre-school. Of course, back then he did six-piece Cookie Monster ones, but now he could put together anything the most devious minds could create. Puzzles that were entirely one color. 3-D puzzles. Puzzles without a straight edge. Puzzles that offered clues to a mystery story. He’d completed them all.

Gabriel wasn’t even sure what this one had to offer. The non-descript box merely called it “An Insanely Difficult Jigsaw Puzzle Experience.” Sounded like the perfect way to spend the evening.

He walked into what passed for his living room and started up his Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory Blu-Ray to provide background noise. Then he returned to the kitchen, sat down at the table, and opened the box.

He poured the 500 pieces onto the table and began the quick process of turning them all face-up. It wasn’t a double-sided puzzle and there seemed to be a wide variety of colors in the completed image, so he wondered what made this one so difficult. He hoped he wasn’t getting ripped off.

Gabriel sorted out the straight-edge pieces within a few minutes and found the four corners. The straight-edge pieces were mostly white with some brown, so he fit the brown pieces together first. Looked like wood. The white pieces weren’t much of a problem, and he soon had the entire frame of the puzzle completed.

He arranged the remaining pieces by colors. There were more white, the same wood-brown, some red, black, silver, and some flesh-tones and hair.

The red pieces almost looked like blood.

He decided to start with the white. This puzzle didn’t appear to be nearly as insanely difficult as the box had promised, so he might as well give himself an extra challenge.

However, it wasn’t that much of an extra challenge, because the lighting on the white made it easy to match up the pieces. He had a third of the puzzle complete before the Oompa-Loompas even had their first musical number.

He moved on to the red pieces.

It became quickly clear that it was not blood, but rather a shirt.

When he’d completed the puzzle, it depicted a smiling middle-aged man in a red shirt. While it wasn’t the easiest puzzle he’d ever put together, it was no more difficult than any other 500-piecer. What a disappointment.

His cell phone rang. A local call from a number he didn’t recognize.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Gabriel. This is the manager of Trystan’s Games. Congratulations on completing the puzzle.”

“How did you know that?”

“We were spying on you, obviously.”

“But how?”

There was a pause. “Uh, what year do you think this is? Don’t worry about it. I just wanted to call to congratulate you for finishing the first part.”

“The first part?”

“Yes, Gabriel, the first part. Check outside your door.”

Gabriel hurried over to his front door. He looked through the peephole to see if anybody was out there, but the hallway seemed empty. He opened the door just a bit, until he saw a large cardboard box. He tried to lift it but couldn’t, so he dragged it into his living room and then closed the door.

“Got the box?” asked the man on the phone.

“Yeah,” said Gabriel.

“There’s an envelope on top. Open it.”

Gabriel tore open the manilla envelope and slid out the picture. Diane.

“Your wife is fine,” the man assured him. “That picture will be the puzzle for our next customer, but only if you fail to complete this one.”

Gabriel felt like he was going to throw up but forced himself to remain focused. “What do I have to do?”

“Treat the puzzle you just completed as the box lid for this one. That’s who you’re putting together. All five hundred flash-frozen pieces of him. You have until he thaws. Good luck.”

The Satisfying Crunch of Bones Beneath My Feet

How the dead body showed up in my study is irrelevant. You’re not my mother. I don’t have to answer to you.

In case my mom is reading this—yes, I killed somebody. My boss had passed me up for three different promotions where I was clearly the most qualified candidate and had done the most brownnosing. The third time I was told that I’d remain at the fry station, I couldn’t take it anymore. I paid a drifter to dress up like my boss (Mr. Dinkle had a thing for green sweaters) and let me pretend to stab him to death.

I started making that “Ree! Ree! Ree! Ree!” sound from Psycho as I harmlessly waved the knife in the air. Then I slammed it into his neck, which was less harmless. I stabbed him another three, four, fifty times, and with that, I had a dead body in my study.

Fine. What I call a “study” you might call a “bathroom.” A study is a place for reading and quiet reflection, so I don’t see the difference.

My plan for disposing of the body was to cut it up into pieces and flush them down the toilet. I still think that if I’d had the proper tools and sufficient time, it was a perfectly fine plan. My big mistake, obviously, was forgetting that I’d invited a bunch of friends over for a dinner party.

Oh, the hijinks that ensued! By the time the first guest arrived, I’d only been able to flush a couple of the drifter’s fingers down the toilet, and was frantically using the toilet plunger to fix the clog. “I’ll be right out!” I shouted, hoping that my voice didn’t give away that I was trying to fix a toilet that was clogged with the severed fingers of a dead drifter dressed as my boss.

I jumped into the shower and rinsed myself off. There wasn’t time for the water to heat up, so it was a cold shower—brrr! Then I got dressed in my party clothes without drying off, hurriedly made an “Out of Order—Do Not Enter” sign to put on the bathroom door, and let my impatient guests into my apartment.

They asked why I was all wet. I said that it was raining. They said no, it wasn’t, they’d just come from outside, and it was a beautiful sunny day. I said that it was raining in my mind, which weirded them out a bit. I hadn’t actually prepared dinner, and they were expecting something fancy, so I put out some flour, water, and salt, and said that we’d be eating deconstructed crackers.

While I was doing this, sounds from the bathroom indicated that the drifter was implausibly still alive! I explained that the noise was from an injured sea lion I was nursing back to health in my bathtub, and hurriedly excused myself. I stabbed the drifter a few more times, took another shower, and then returned to the party. Everybody wanted to take a look at the sea lion, but I said no.

I’ve barely covered even one-tenth of the wackiness of this dinner party, including the need to murder two of the guests who saw too much. Finally, they all departed, lips covered with flour, leaving me alone with the three corpses.

It had been such an eventful day that I’d almost lost sight of the fact that I’d killed the drifter to make me feel better about being passed over for the promotion. And I’ll be honest—it wasn’t a drifter, it was my next-door neighbor, Bob, because the part of town where the drifters passed through was kind of scary. And I didn’t pay him to wear the green sweater, but rather forced him to do it at gunpoint. Sorry for the earlier inaccuracies.

I started stomping on Bob, feeling the satisfying crunch of bones beneath my feet (Oooh! That would make a good story title!). But I decided that what I really wanted was to feel the satisfying squish of blood between my toes, so I took off my shoes and socks and resumed stomping.

It was so much fun! Squish! Squish! Squish!

I found the experience so very delightful that I lost sight of the fact that there were places I should not be stomping, such as exposed rib bones. It went deep into my foot—I mean, like, really deep. I said “Ow!” and lost my balance. I fell, landing on, yes, you guessed it, the exposed jagged rib bone of one of the party guests I’d murdered.

So now I’ve got one rib bone in my foot and one that went, ironically enough, between my own ribs. I’m trapped.

I’ve been calling for help for the past few hours, and people keep coming inside to investigate. Unfortunately, they’ve all been obeying the “Do Not Enter” sign on the bathroom door, so I guess this is how I’m going to die.

All The Cheese in the World

One morning, a young boy announced that he was going to eat all the cheese in the world.

“That’s silly!” the townspeople said. “One boy eating all the cheese in the world? What a ridiculous idea!”

The boy was undeterred. “I said I’m going to do it and so I shall!”

“There’s not enough room in one tummy for all the cheese in the world!” said the townspeople. “You couldn’t even eat all the cheese in one cheese shop! Such a foolish young boy you are!”

“I’ve made up my mind and I won’t change it!” the boy declared.

“But the world’s cows and goats are constantly producing the raw materials for more cheese! By the time you finished eating all the cheese in the world, there’d already be plenty more!” said the townspeople.

“Shit,” said the boy. “I hadn’t considered that angle.”

“Not to mention that—”

“I get it, okay? I hadn’t thought it through. I never think things through. Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! I was told I could accomplish anything that I set my mind toward, but that was a vicious dirty lie! Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! This is why I don’t have any friends!”

“You can achieve whatever you set your mind to,” said the townspeople, “but they have to be goals that are literally achievable within the laws of space and time. For example, if you set your mind to it, you could be president someday!”

“Hmmm...” said the boy.

Maybe he could accomplish anything he set his mind toward.

* * *

The President crawled out of his bunker and gazed at the barren post-apocalyptic hellscape. All was lost. His advisors had begged him not to launch the missiles, and Congress had tried to stop him, but in the end, he got his way. And the rest of the world had no choice but to retaliate.

He popped a small cube of cheddar cheese into his mouth and happily chewed.

Laundry Day

Laundry Day is my favorite day of the week! Even better than Pizza Day (Wednesday) and Pressure Wash The Driveway Day (Sunday).

I wish every day could be Laundry Day, because that’s the day I get the bugs off my clothes!

Obviously, I don’t mean great big ones. Those you can just brush off. I mean the trillions of microscopic bugs that are constantly scurrying around between the threads of our clothing, leaving trails of bug residue, and laying eggs to make trillions more.

Bugs with six legs. Bugs with eight legs. Bugs with an odd number of legs...and I don’t mean that they lost a leg, I mean that they were born with an odd number of legs! Is that disturbing or what? I’m cringing just typing it. Eeesh.

I throw my clothes in the washing machine, add a super-generous amount of detergent, press the button, get a good seat, and watch those buggies die! “Ha!” I shout at them. “Rot in hell! Good luck hatching those eggs now!”

Sometimes the other patrons in the Laundromat give me questioning looks. It can be kind of embarrassing, so I’m always careful to let them know that I’m not telling my clothes to rot in hell, but rather the bugs in my clothes. Sometimes they continue to give me a questioning look. That’s when I give them the Long Version of my speech about the bugs that live in our clothes. After that, I usually have the Laundromat to myself. It’s so lonely.

I’m not a monster. I understand that these bugs are just trying to get through the day, like anybody else. They have families. And drowning is a horrific way to die. So when I stop cackling, I make sure to lower my head in prayer.

I keep waiting for somebody to say, “Well, if the bugs are so bad, why wear clothes at all?” If they do, I’ll grin and say, “Because I don’t want to get arrested!” But literally nobody has ever asked me that.

If I could have one wish, I’d wish for such good vision that I could actually watch the microscopic little bugs die. As it is, I have to use my imagination. I’m not complaining; I’ve got a good imagination, but it would be more fun to watch it instead of think it. Is that the best possible use of a magical wish? Probably not. But it’s my wish, not yours, so don’t judge me.

One day the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen came into the Laundromat. She started to load the washer next to mine. I considered not shouting for the bugs to die, because I’m extremely self-aware, and I know the effect it has on those near me.

“Die! Die! Die!” I shouted, deciding against not shouting.

“Who are you shouting at?” the girl asked.

“The bugs in my clothes. Trillions of them are drowning in the soapy water. They’re in your clothes, too. They gravitate toward perspiration, so there are probably large patches of them under your armpits.” I hoped she didn’t think I was flirting with her.

“Those aren’t bugs,” she said. “Those are nanobots.”

“What?”

“Microscopic bug-shaped robots. The government puts them there to control us. They’re always listening. They’re listening right now.”

I tilted my head down to my shirt. “Hi, Government. How’s it going?”

The girl frowned. “Are you making fun of me?”

“No,” I assured her, unable to control my snicker.

She stood up. “Laugh all you want. You won’t be laughing when the black vans show up in front of your house, drag you away, and slice your brain into razor-thin sections!”

“What kind of detergent works best on nanobots?” I asked. “I used scented. I hope I didn’t make a terrible mistake.”

She picked up her laundry basket and stormed out. I spent the next several minutes laughing so hard that I didn’t even care that I was missing the drowning of trillions of microscopic bugs.

Women are crazy.

Not Enough Coins

Max sat down on the toilet and opened the Balloon Popper app on his cell phone. He was going to defeat Level 1093, no matter what.

He failed. Failed again. Failed a third time. He’d now used up all of his coins, though he could get one more if he watched a video. He touched that icon and a 30-second advertisement played for Bottle Breaker, showing fun and inventive gameplay that did not exist in the game itself.

When the ad was over, he played again. Failed.

This meant that he wouldn’t get any more coins for an hour, unless he wanted to pay 99 cents. He did want to pay 99 cents, but it would show up on his mother’s credit card, and the last time he did that she gave him a long, boring lecture about fiscal responsibility.

He sighed. This sucked. He hated sitting on the toilet being unable to play Balloon Popper.

A message appeared: “Want More Coins?”

He touched “Yes.”

“Connect your account to Facebook for five coins.”

He’d never done this before, because it would automatically generate annoying invites for his friends to play Balloon Popper, but he was desperate. He gave the app permission to access his Facebook account and received his five coins.

He played again. Failed to complete Level 1093. Played again. Failed. Played again. Failed. Played again. Failed. Played again. Failed.

Dammit! Why was Level 1093 so difficult??? Why couldn’t he finish popping the yellow balloons?

“Want more coins?”

Yes. Of course he did.

“Cut off your little finger for fifty coins.”

What the hell...?

The game screen switched to a video feed. “You have 120 seconds to cut off your little finger on camera. The method and the specific hand you choose do not matter.”

Max just sat there in shock as the countdown went from 120 to zero.

“Coins forfeited. Want more coins?”

Max touched “Yes,” just out of morbid curiosity.

“Gouge out your eye for five hundred coins. You have 180 seconds. Which eye you choose is up to you.”

The screen once again switched to the video feed. Yes, five hundred coins was a lot, but what kind of person would do that? If he gouged out his eye, it would mess with his depth perception, and his gameplay would suffer.

He waited until the timer counted down to zero. “Coins forfeited. Want more coins?”

“Yes.”

“Disembowel yourself for twenty thousand coins. You have 240 seconds. Ninety percent of your intestines must have unspooled onto the floor when the time is up.”

Could you even survive disembowelment? He couldn’t complete Level 1093 if he was dead! At the very least, he’d be in the hospital, heavily medicated and unable to use the quick reflexes needed to play Balloon Popper. Who would do this? This game had gone completely insane! Twenty thousand coins was probably enough for him to beat the game (rumor was that it went to Level 5000), but disembowelment was simply too high of a price to pay.

He wouldn’t do it.

Not a chance.

Never.

Of course, the whole “fifty coins for a severed finger” thing wasn’t sounding so bad anymore...

Impressionable

When I watched The Three Stooges as a kid, my parents were worried that I’d imitate them. And they were right to be worried, because I got a haircut just like Moe.

When I watched slasher movies as a teenager, my parents were worried that I’d imitate them. And they were right to be worried, because I became a goalie.

When I watched late night television as an adult, my parents were worried that I’d imitate it. And they were right to be worried, because I tried to sell people medications with ridiculously long lists of potential side effects including some that directly contradicted the whole point of taking the pills in the first place.

When I read a book about Lizzie Borden, my parents said, “At least you’re reading.”

Oops.

Below Deck

Blackbeard frowned. Three men had died in last night’s storm, but five were missing from their posts this morning. James and Robert had been swept over the side by the deluge, the two men desperately clinging to each other as they screamed in the cold water and disappeared into the darkness. Richard had perished when an unsecured wooden crate hurtled across the deck, nearly taking off his head upon impact.

Their deaths were a pity, but pirating was a dangerous business. They knew the risks. It left greater shares of the treasure for everyone else.

Still, where were the other two men? If they were below deck, passed out from drink, Blackbeard would feed them to the sharks. Slash their arms to draw blood, toss them overboard, and place wagers on who would be pulled under first.

Normally Blackbeard would not perform such a menial task as searching for members of his crew, but the storm had put him in a foul mood, and he almost looked forward to finding them engaged in some wrongdoing, so that he could unleash his fiery temper.

He lifted the hatch and descended below deck. Immediately, he heard what sounded like a puppy whimpering. It had been several days since they’d last been on land, and it seemed unlikely that a pirate could have hidden away some mangy cur for so long without Blackbeard finding out.

No. Despite the high-pitched whine, it was not a puppy.

One of the men lay on his back next to the bunks. Blackbeard thought it might be Tom because of his long hair, though not enough remained of the pirate for him to be certain. Most of his flesh was still there, but it had been thoroughly chewed, and there were dozens of chunks on the floor that looked like they’d been spat out.

There were red streaks on the floor but no actual blood.

The remnants of a shattered barrel rested next to him.

The whine was not coming from Tom. Another pirate leaned against a lower bunk, much of his face missing, while a creature licked at his neck. Though it was the size and shape of a man, its flesh was translucent and completely hairless, and when it turned to look at Blackbeard, he saw that it had enormous fangs.

A blood drinking beast? On the Queen Anne’s Revenge? Perhaps it was possible for something to hide out on the ship without Blackbeard finding out.

It grinned at him, then went back to lapping up the pirate’s blood. While it did that, it reached into a hole it had made in another barrel and took out a handful of rum, which it slurped up along with the blood.

Rum and blood. Apparently a delicious concoction.

Blackbeard shot the creature dead.

He was horrified at the fate of his crew, but the real crime was that perfectly good rum would be wasted on such a wretched monster.

Did it know something he didn’t...?

There was still plenty of blood left in the dead men.

He looked around. Nobody was watching. Would he forever regret passing up this opportunity?

It was disgusting.

The Cat Who Was Super Smart For A Cat But Pretty Dumb By Human Standards

My cat Flickie is the smartest cat I’ve ever owned. She can even do tricks! Do you know many cats who can do tricks? I sure don’t. If you hide her food bowl, she’ll find it right away, no matter how cleverly it’s hidden. Why, she’s even figured out how to get the pantry door open! She is so very smart.

I mean by cat standards, of course. By human standards she’s rock stupid.

I’m not criticizing her for not being able to talk. That’s more of a vocal cords issue than an intelligence issue. If you implanted a human brain into a cat’s head, it still wouldn’t be able to talk. (I get that a human’s brain is way bigger than a cat’s head and wouldn’t actually fit in there. That’s not relevant to the point I’m trying to make.)

My point is that when I tell you that Flickie is a genius, I don’t want you to think that she can read or anything like that. She is a genius by the very low standards of a cat.

Like, one time my friend and I were playing Monopoly, and Flickie jumped right up on the table, walked across the board, and knocked some of the pieces out of the way. If a human did that, you’d think there was something mentally wrong with them.

Imagine that your mother climbed up on the table and crawled over the board with no consideration whatsoever for the fact that you were in the middle of a very competitive game of Monopoly. You’d be all like “WTF, Mom???” You couldn’t even put the pieces back and resume the game, because this was a problem that needed to be dealt with right away. Humans simply do not crawl over tables where you’re playing board games. If they did, you’d want to put them on some sort of medication.

Same thing with puzzles. Even the dumbest of humans won’t walk over a table where there’s a puzzle in progress, whereas the smartest of cats will cheerfully mess up all of your hard work.

If it sounds like I’m belaboring the point, it’s just because I strive to be honest at all times, and when I say that Flickie is a genius, I don’t want you to think that she’s smart enough not to knock puzzle pieces off the table.

Ask her a math question, and there’s no chance she could answer it. Geography? Nope. Science? She eats grass, even though it makes her sick. Oh, she can walk over my computer keyboard while I’m trying to work, but even the most basic web-browsing abilities are out of her reach. If you put her in a human school, even with teachers who gave her a lot of individual attention, her report card would look like this: F. F. F. F. F. F. F.

“What about Physical Education?” you might ask. “Surely Flickie would do well in that.”

Nope. Flickie can run faster than your average human student, that’s for sure! But if the coach said, “Okay, Flickie, give me a lap around the gymnasium,” that cat wouldn’t do it. Best case scenario, she’d run part of the way across the middle of the gym and then lie down to take a bath.

Oh, yeah, Flickie sits around and licks herself and doesn’t even care who’s watching. I guess some humans do that, but at least they charge for it. Flickie just does it for free.

But now I want to return to my point that by cat standards, Flickie is super-duper smart. Like I said, when I hide her food bowl, she can always find it! Although I’m suddenly thinking that this might be because of her sense of smell instead of her intelligence. Maybe that’s it. Maybe she just smells the food residue in the bowl. Damn.

And now I’m also kind of self-conscious about the revelation that I hide my cat’s food bowl from her, which seemed like an amusing prank when I did it but now seems like a dick move. I just wanted to see if she could find it! I wasn’t trying to be cruel! My cat gets fed! I’m not a monster! She gets food and water and scritches and everything a cat needs, and when she lashes out at me with her razor-sharp claws for no reason, I don’t even put her in time-out.

Stop judging me! You don’t know me!

All I was trying to say is that Flickie was really smart, but I didn’t want to set up unrealistic expectations, and now I’ve gone and ruined everything.

This whole show-and-tell has been a complete disaster. I’m going to sit down now.

The Blind Men And The Elephant: A Parable

Once upon a time there were six blind men who stood by the roadside every day. They had often heard of elephants, but they had never encountered one. They were so curious!

It so happened one morning that an elephant was driven down the road where they stood. Such fine luck for these six blind men! When they were told that the great beast was before them, they asked the driver to stop so that they might see him.

Of course, they could not see him with their non-functional eyes, but they thought that by touching him they could learn just what kind of animal he was.

The first man put his hand on the elephant’s side. “Well, well!” he said. “Now I know all about this creature. He is exactly like a wall.”

The second felt only the elephant’s tusk. “My brother,” he said, “you are mistaken. He is not at all like a wall. He is round and smooth and sharp. He is, objectively, with no room for debate, like a spear.”

The third took hold of the elephant’s trunk. “Both of you are wrong,” he said. “Anybody whose head is not filled with thoughts of nonsense can see that this elephant is like a snake.”

“Pure foolishness!” said the fourth, crouching down. “He is wet and gooey, like a man who has just been trampled by a very large mammal. He feels like exposed brains, shards of cranium, and spurting blood.”

The fifth reached up and took hold of the elephant’s ear. “The blindest man ought to know that this beast is not like any of the things that you name,” he said. “He is exactly like a huge fan.”

The sixth man said nothing.

“Is it possible that I was mistaken?” asked the fifth man, tugging on the elephant’s tail. “Now it seems that an elephant is like a rope! Perhaps we have been so focused on our own perspectives that we have neglected to consider the bigger picture.”

“Go to hell!” shouted the second man. “An elephant is like a frickin’ spear, and nobody’s going to change my mind about the matter!”

“Elephants are gross,” said the fourth. “They’ve got teeth lying all around on the ground, and internal organs that you can just run your fingers over. The blood is pleasantly warm, though.”

“He is exactly like a wall,” said the first. “A wall that is thrashing around, as if about to go on a rampage.”

The third man shrieked in pain. “I still think an elephant is like a snake! It’s just a snake that can step on your foot and crush it flat! Lo, the agony!”

“It’s like a spear!” the second insisted. “A spear that just went through my chest! Aaugh!”

“It can be all of these things and more,” said the fifth. “I bet it has fangs and red glowing eyes and a translucent head through which you can see its grinning skull! We were too narrow-minded to recognize the demonic threat before us!”

“An elephant is like a—” said the third, before the elephant trampled the very life out of him.

“Ew,” said the fourth. “An elephant is like a pair of eyeballs from a blind man popping out of their sockets and striking you in the face.”

The elephant ran off, trampling the life out of the first, fourth, and fifth men as it left.

“Sorry about that,” said the elephant’s owner. “He gets testy sometimes.”

“An elephant is like a spear,” said the second man with his final breath, pleased that he had not changed his mind before he died.

Bradley Goes Crunch

In the dream, my band was rocking out at the Super Bowl halftime show. We’d turned the football stadium into the world’s biggest mosh pit. The energy level was so high that even the Queen of England was down there, covered in mud and shouting, “Yeah! You guys freakin’ rule! Wooooo!”

Fireworks were going off everywhere. We’d blown up the first stage and were now performing on the backup one. Every time I strummed my electric guitar, the audience could actually see the waves of pure musical awesomeness rippling toward them.

“Spicy chicken wings!” I sang. “Spicy chicken wings! Football day means spicy chicken wings!”

“With bleu cheese!” sang the rest of my band, The Ooey-Gooeys.

“I like ‘em hot, face-melting hot! They’re not very nutritious, but I don’t care!”

“We just don’t care!”

“Okay, I care a little,” I sang, “because it’s important to make healthy eating choices, but I’m not gonna stop!”

“We’re not gonna stop!”

“Neither the lead singer nor the members of his band are gonna stop!” sang the audience.

A few more things blew up, then the crowd went even wilder as a giant blimp flew overhead, pouring thousands of chicken wings with hot sauce over everyone. In the real world, the Super Bowl audience probably would not have appreciated this, particularly the vegans, but fortunately, this was a dream.

And then my best friend Bradley, the world’s greatest football star, leapt out of the blimp.

If you’d polled a random sampling of the people in the audience and asked them if it was possible to go even crazier than they had after the chicken wings rained from the sky, they would have fallen squarely into the “unlikely” or “very unlikely” group. But they were wrong.

How many football superstars would jump out of a blimp during the halftime show just to entertain their fans? It’s fewer than three, I can tell you that much.

You should’ve heard that crowd cheer. It was nuts.

And then Bradley hit the ground.

It got very quiet after that.

* * *

I woke up in a cold sweat. What a horrible, horrible nightmare. The entire crowd of 75,000 people had just stood there, staring uncomfortably at my best friend’s splattered body. The overall assessment was that Bradley probably shouldn’t have jumped out of a blimp without a parachute.

I hurried over to his locker, where Bradley was struggling to remember his combination. “You have to quit the team,” I told him.

“Team Jacob?”

“No, the football team. It’s going to end in disaster.”

Bradley’s eyes widened. “Is there a hit out on me? I knew the Ravens wanted me dead, but I didn’t think they could raise the money.”

“No, no, nothing like that. But I had a dream where you leapt out of a blimp to entertain the crowd at the Super Bowl. Your whole body went crunch. A piece of leg bone almost hit me in the face. It was awful.”

Bradley grinned and slapped me on the back. “That was just a dream, buddy. Don’t worry about it.”

“Please, Bradley. Promise me you’ll pursue another career. You were interested in biotechnology, right? What about liberal arts? You could be a painter!”

My best friend’s grin disappeared. “You’re just jealous. You’ve always been jealous. I’ve got a full scholarship and a new girlfriend every twelve days because of my skills at playing sports. Stop trying to tear me down, geek!”

I was filled with shock and dismay. Bradley had never used the g-word before.

“I just don’t want you to die a splattery death!” I insisted.

“Protect somebody else,” said Bradley. He gave the dial on his locker one last spin (he was rarely successful in opening it, but usually got through the school day just fine without books or homework) and stormed off.

* * *

Eight years later.

I sit in the stands, too nervous to eat my nachos. A blimp circles overhead. It’s been a great Super Bowl so far, and you can tell by all of the hooting and face paint that the crowd is excited, but I’m filled with dread.

I guess it’s good that I never became a famous musician. The Ooey-Gooeys do get the occasional gig, but you don’t get to play the Super Bowl halftime show when you’re a Go-Go’s cover band, especially one that doesn’t play any of their hits.

Maybe my dream was not a prediction of the future.

Maybe.

But Bradley is playing, and this year’s Super Bowl is sponsored by Captain Hank’s chicken wings, so it’s impossible for me to relax.

When the wings fall from the sky, the crowd is elated. But not me. Not me.

The blimp continues to circle.

I wipe buffalo wing sauce off my giant foam hand.

Don’t do it, Bradley.

Don’t do it.

Don’t...

Dusted

“How very clever of you to have figured it all out,” said Zachary. “Yes, I’m the one who killed Mrs. Plankin, and I admire you for finding the one clue that even the top minds at the FBI missed. Unfortunately, you’ll never have the opportunity to share your discovery with the rest of the world.”

Zachary grinned, then pressed the barrel of his pistol against Melissa’s forehead. “Do you have any final words?”

Melissa opened her mouth to speak but then frowned. Ashes began to rise in the air, coming from where her hands were tied behind her back. Zachary gaped in shock as Melissa’s entire body transformed into ashes and then vanished into nothing.

What had just happened?

Zachary hurried out of the cabin. A squirrel fell out of a tree, turning to ashes before it landed. He looked up and saw a flock of birds flying overhead. First there were a dozen, then ten, then eight, then six.

He went back inside and hid under the bed.

* * *

As it turned out, the world’s mightiest heroes had failed, and half of all life in the universe was wiped out. Zachary was filled with horror...but, still, this took care of the Melissa problem for him. He’d gotten away with it!

* * *

The next five years were good for Zachary. He got married, had two children, and got a rewarding and lucrative job as a real estate agent. He was no longer haunted by dreams of strangling Mrs. Plankin, who had threatened to expose him for the larceny at his old job.

His client sped into the driveway a few minutes later. The man got out of the car, his eyes wide. “Have you heard?”

“Heard what?”

“The vanished people! They’re back from the ashes! The world’s mightiest heroes reversed it!”

“They’re back? All of them?”

“Yes! It’s amazing! It’s incredible! It’s fantastic!”

Zachary cursed under his breath. “Sorry, I can’t show you the house right now. I have to go take care of something.”

“Are you sure? With half of the life in the universe blipping back into existence, it’s gonna be a lot harder to find houses. I’ll look quick.”

Zachary shoved his client out of the way and hurried over to his car. Crap! The cabin was almost an hour away!

His phone rang, and his wife’s picture showed up on his display. No time for that. He let the call go to voicemail, got in his car, and sped off.

Dammit! He should’ve planned for this. Should’ve locked the cabin up tight, put in unbreakable windows, put a cage over the spot where she’d been tied to the chair. It would be too much to hope that she’d reappear within the same ropes.

Maybe the people were returning without their memories.

Maybe she’d be so grateful to have returned that she’d be willing to overlook the whole thing about him planning to shoot her in the head.

He drove as fast as he could. He wasn’t worried about getting pulled over for speeding—the cops had too much to deal with right now. As long as he didn’t get into an accident, he could drive as fast as he wanted.

Dammit! Dammit! Dammit!

He let out a continual stream of curses as he sped down the highway. He pulled off on the exit and nearly hit a bewildered looking homeless man on the corner. Zachary raced through the small town and then turned onto the dirt road that led to the cabin.

Only six miles to go. Maybe she was still in the cabin. Maybe she hadn’t come back at all.

No...there she was!

Melissa stood in the middle of the road, waving her arms over her head to flag him down. She didn’t know it was him. Why would she? He was driving a much nicer automobile now.

He floored the gas pedal. The car shot forward.

As Melissa realized that he meant to run her over, she stood in place, as if accepting her fate. Then, at the last second, she dodged out of the way.

Zachary slammed on the brakes. He put the car into park and got out.

“You won’t get away!” he shouted. “I’ll kill you the same way I—”

He felt a sharp pain in his chest. He looked down and saw a knife protruding from it.

“Good throw, huh?” asked Melissa. “If you’d kept talking in the cabin, which I’m sure you would have, I would’ve been able to get it out of my back pocket and cut the ropes while you were busy confessing.”

Zachary cursed one last time as he fell to the ground.

Intervention

“Why is everybody looking so serious?” asked Tyler. “Is this a party or what?”

“Actually, no,” said Jennifer. “It’s not a party. We’re all worried about you. This is an intervention.”

“An intervention? For what?”

Tyler’s friends all glanced uncomfortably at each other.

“You smoke a lot of weed,” said Frank.

“No, I don’t!” Tyler insisted. “I don’t smoke any weed! I don’t even do edibles! What are you talking about?”

“Sorry,” said Frank. “I got mixed up with the one we’re doing for Blake tomorrow.”

“What?” asked Blake.

“Don’t get upset, Tyler,” said Jennifer. “We’re your friends and we want to help you.”

“With what?”

“The giggling.”

“The giggling?”

“You giggle when you write. We’ve all heard you.”

Everybody nodded and murmured their agreement.

“I don’t giggle,” said Tyler.

“You do,” said Jennifer. “You giggle, and you wring your hands together, and you go ‘Muahahahaha!’ a lot.”

“I...okay, maybe I do,” Tyler admitted. “So what? I giggle. I wring my hands together. I go ‘Muahahahaha!’ What’s the big deal? Why does that require an intervention?”

“You write gory horror novels.”

“Yeah, and...?”

“So you’re giggling and muahahahaha-ing over writing about the grisly deaths of innocent people.”

“They’re fictional!”

“They come from your imagination. You created them, like your own children, and you laugh when they die!”

“Or get dismembered,” said Frank.

“Right. Sometimes we think the more gruesome the death, the more it amuses you.”

“How do you even know what I’m writing?” asked Tyler. “Maybe I’m giggling at a funny part.”

“Your books are pretty much just non-stop death and dismemberment,” said Jennifer. “At least that’s what the one-star reviews say. And the five-star ones.”

“We’re not asking you to stop giggling altogether,” said Blake. “But we’re your friends, and when you write books that are blood, blood, blood, blood, gore, gore, gore, gore, you should be gazing at your computer screen in horror. You should be sad about the loss of human life, even if it’s just words on a page.”

“Nobody is saying that you’re a psychopath,” said Frank. “We’re just saying that you behave like one.”

“I’m delighted by my own creativity!” said Tyler.

“The macabre is no giggling matter,” said Jennifer. “What’s next? One day you’re giggling, the next you’re walking the streets at night in search of human prey.”

“I’m a writer! My stuff is all made up!”

“That’s what they all say,” said Blake. “But studies have shown that 72% of horror writers have murdered somebody in real life. Sometimes for research, sometimes for fun.”

“That statistic isn’t remotely true,” said Tyler.

“Are you saying that the entire time we’ve been here, you haven’t considered trying to slaughter all of us with the machete on your coffee table?” asked Jennifer.

Tyler was silent for a moment. “I wouldn’t go that far, but it’s just because you’re all annoying me right now. It has nothing to do with the giggling.”

“We’re not here to annoy you,” said Blake. “We’re just worried that your behavior makes you seem like part of the 72%. If you want to write your depraved splatter novels, so be it—we’re simply worried that you’re enjoying it too much.”

“We all care about you,” said Jennifer. “We don’t want to see you get hurt, or to hurt others.”

Tyler stared at all of his friends and then broke down sobbing.

“It’s all true,” he said. “The actual percentage is even higher. You can’t write diseased stuff like that unless those desires actually lurk within your damaged mind. Almost all horror authors have succumbed to the urge to kill. When you become an active member of the Horror Writers Association, you’re assigned a cleanup specialist to make sure you don’t get caught. I called him just last night. I’m sick. I’m so very sick.”

“It’s okay, Tyler,” said Jennifer. “Let it all out.”

Tyler blew his nose into a tissue. “I don’t want to do this anymore, but I don’t know how to stop. I feel like my life is at a crossroads. Right now, I can’t decide if I want to write inspirational romance novels or use that machete on all of you.”

“We hope you choose the romance novels,” said Blake.

“Just know that whatever you choose, we won’t abandon you,” said Frank. “We’re here for you.”

Tyler looked at the machete. Then he looked at all of his friends.

What would YOU do if you were Tyler? Explain your answer.

Telemedicine

Dr. Marcus Green opened the video chat application on his laptop computer. He clicked the button and started the consultation with his patient, Benjamin Sanderson.

“Hello, Benjamin,” said Dr. Green. “What can I do for you today?”

“Well, Doc, I have an axe sticking out of my chest.”

“Tilt your camera down a bit.”

Benjamin did so.

“Ah, yes, I see it. Goodness, that’s not a small axe, is it? How did this happen? There’s not an axe-murderer in your house, is there?”

“No, no, it was an accident. Tripped and fell on an axe.”

“Cutting some firewood?”

“Yeah. I’d finished for the afternoon, but then I tripped on a piece and down I went. What should I do, Doc? Pull it out?”

Dr. Green shook his head. “No, definitely don’t pull the axe out. It’s helping to keep the blood in your body.”

“Is it, though? You may not be able to see it on your screen, but there’s blood all over the floor.”

“I understand. Still, the axe blade is working as a seal over the wound. If you pull it out, there’ll be significantly more blood coming out, and then you’re in a heap of trouble.”

“Got it. I’ll leave the axe as-is. So, what should I do?”

“Well, Benjamin, I hate to say this, but I think you’ll need to go to the emergency room.”

Benjamin sighed. “Seriously?”

“That’s my recommendation, yes.”

“The whole reason I’m doing this telemedicine thing is so I don’t have to leave the house! If I wanted to go to the emergency room, I would’ve just called 911.”

“Trust me, I understand,” said Dr. Green. “But online doctor’s visits like this are really intended to diagnose rashes or prescribe antibiotics for a urinary tract infection. There’s not a whole lot I can do over the computer screen for a patient who fell on an axe.”

“Well, that’s a great big disappointment. I had to sit here bleeding for almost ten minutes before I got to talk to you, and you’re saying you can’t do anything for me?”

“What did you think I was going to be able to do for you? Talk you through self-performed surgery? Do you even have any surgical equipment?”

“I’ve got a needle and thread. And a stapler.”

“So, you thought you were just going to sew your axe wound shut? I can tell by looking at you that it splintered some ribs. Do you think you can repair splintered ribs from home?”

“I thought I’d have a professional guiding me each step along the way! It’s not like I was just going to watch a YouTube instructional video!”

“I don’t mean to get snippy, but I don’t think you used common sense today.”

“Fine, fine. Hey, I’m getting dizzy. Is that normal?”

“Yes, it’s from the blood loss.”

“Am I going to die?”

“This isn’t a psychic hotline. Your chances are certainly better if you go to the emergency room.”

“You really can’t do anything for me, Doc?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“May I interrupt?” said a man, leaning into the screen next to Benjamin. He wore a mask made out of tanned human flesh. “I’m the Amherst Axer. I broke into this gentleman’s home and struck him in the chest with my axe. Then I realized that, up close, he didn’t remind me of my father. So I felt bad.”

“As well you should,” said Dr. Green.

“I couldn’t let him go to the hospital, because they’d want to know how this happened, and I needed enough time to flee town. He kept begging and pleading, so I told him that if he didn’t try anything funny, he could set up a telemedicine visit.”

Dr. Green nodded. “I was wondering why he kept making all of those weird facial contortions.”

“Is there anything you can do to save his life?”

“Absolutely. You see, I knew that he hadn’t really tripped over a piece of wood and fallen on his axe. I’ve seen a lot of axes in a lot of chests, and there’s a huge difference between falling on an axe and having one purposely swung into you. As soon as this call started, I motioned for my assistant to call the police.”

Sirens sounded in the distance.

“You bastard,” said the Amherst Axer. “What makes you think I won’t kill him before they get here?”

“You can’t. He has your axe.”

The Amherst Axer cursed and fled.

“Thank you,” said Benjamin. “I didn’t realize you were such an expert on axe wounds.”

“I’m not,” said Dr. Green. “That siren sound was just an app on my phone.”

“Well, thanks anyway. Guess I’ll head over to the emergency room now.”

“You’re in no condition to drive. Don’t worry, I’ve already called for a coroner.”

“Don’t you mean a—?”

“No.”

“Bummer.”

The Soupville Stabber Practices Social Distancing

“We’re supposed to stay six feet away from everybody unless they live in the same household,” said Wilbur. “If you want to be safe, I think you need to follow that rule with your next killing spree.”

“Are you kidding me?” asked his brother Hank. “I’m the Soupville Stabber! I stab my victims about a dozen times in the chest. That’s my thing. That’s what I’m known for.”

“I get that. All I’m saying is that it’s dangerous out there. I don’t want you bringing a virus home.”

“But I wear a mask.”

“Your scary clown mask has mouth holes and nose holes.”

“Well...yeah, okay, I guess it does. But if I wore a surgical mask underneath it, I don’t think I could breathe. If I get dizzy from the lack of oxygen while I’m stabbing somebody, they could use that to their advantage and escape.”

“You definitely shouldn’t double mask it,” said Wilbur. “I’m saying that if you really need to satisfy your bloodlust before we’ve flattened the curve, you’re just going to have to suck it up and go for distance weapons.”

Hank shook his head. “It’s off brand.”

“Then stay home.”

“You know what happens if my need to kill isn’t sated. You still have the missing arm.”

“I know that. I’m reminded of it every single time I try to type. But you have to be responsible. Your victims scream a lot, right?”

“Yeah.”

“During this pandemic you can’t be next to people who are screaming. They’d be sending microscopic particles toward your face at a high velocity. Maybe you could use, I don’t know, a sword or something?”

“They don’t make six-foot-long swords.”

“You could duct tape two or three of them together.”

“Do you know how awkward that would be?” asked Hank. “And how the hell do I sneak up on somebody when I’ve got three swords taped together? Being the Soupville Stabber is about stealth. Nobody’s going to hang around in a dark alley if some guy in a scary clown mask is dragging a six-foot sword.”

“Forget about the swords then. Could you throw the knives?”

“Say what?”

“Throw ‘em from six feet away.”

“What am I, a circus act? Throwing knives with that level of accuracy requires hundreds of hours of practice. I’ve used the same knife to claim all of my prey. It was Dad’s knife. How would I be treating Dad’s legacy if I just started randomly flinging store-bought knives at people?”

Wilbur sighed. “You know I support you when you act out your uncontrollable impulses. But we’re supposed to be social distancing! It’s not fair to me if you come home without having taken the proper precautions. I mean, if you want to quarantine yourself in your bedroom for three weeks after every kill...”

“You’re really being a jerk,” said Hank. “It’s bad enough that the media is focusing way more on the global pandemic than my regional killing spree. Hardly anybody is even talking about the Soupville Stabber anymore. How do you think that makes me feel, huh? I’ll tell you how: It makes me feel unloved. And now my own brother is saying he wants me to lock myself away in the darkness of my bedroom for three weeks. That’s some serious balderdash, bro.”

“I don’t care. If you’re going to claim victims, you’re going to do it responsibly.”

Hank stared at Wilbur for a long time. Finally, he shook his head. “All right. You win. I’ll throw knives at them and see how it works out.”

“And no killing essential workers.”

“What?”

“They risk their lives enough already to keep society functioning. It would suck for them to get murdered after evading the virus all this time.”

“Okay,” said Hank. “I’ll stay six feet away while I slay non-essential workers.”

“Thank you. You’re doing the right thing.”

This public service story has been brought to you by the caring folks at Freaky Briefs.

Bunny Ears

Have you met my buddy, Chet? No? You’d like him. Cool guy. Played hockey in college. Can eat more French fries than any man I’ve ever known. Once saved a snake from getting hit when it was slithering across a busy street.

There’s one thing about Chet that does really annoy me, though. When he’s in a picture with you, he always does that “bunny ears” thing where he puts his fingers up behind your head. I mean, he literally does it every single time.

I’m not saying it isn’t funny. Of course it’s funny. Everybody appreciates bunny ears. I just kind of wish he’d pick and choose his opportunities.

Like, if we’re hanging around at a bar and we want a picture to commemorate how much fun we’re having—sure, do the bunny ears! It’s a good laugh! But if we’re posing for photographs at my wedding, maybe that’s not the appropriate venue for it. Do you get what I’m saying?

Sorry. I’m not sure why I started talking about Chet. It’s good to see you again. I’ll let you get back to your grocery shopping.

* * *

Oh, hi! How long has it been? Wow, that long? Time sure does fly, doesn’t it?

Remember my friend Chet I told you about that one time? Yeah, the bunny ears guy. He’s still doing it. I’ll say, “Hey, Chet, maybe you could skip the bunny ears for just this one picture,” and he’ll say “Oh, sure, I can totally do that,” and as soon as we say, “Cheese!” his hand is right behind my head with his index and middle fingers up. When I call him out on it, he says he was doing the “V for Victory” sign, even though we both know he wasn’t.

I just can’t make him recognize that it’s only funny about half the time.

But that’s not even the worst part. Chet learned how to use Photoshop. So every single time I post a picture on social media, he re-posts it with him giving me bunny ears. Every one of them. I don’t want to be rude and un-friend him, but this is really starting to grate on my nerves.

Whoa, that’s an amazing price for grapefruit!

* * *

Hey, I guess we both do our shopping at the same time! Don’t worry, I won’t talk about Chet this time.

Okay, one Chet update. He hacked into my accounts. Now he goes in and edits my original posts of pictures so that I’ve got the bunny ears on them. And it’s not always his fingers—he’s started Photoshopping big fluffy pink cartoon bunny ears on my head, and also real ones, like from real rabbits. I keep telling him it’s not funny anymore, but he just won’t stop.

Do you know which aisle has great big knives?

* * *

It’s been an interesting couple of days.

I posed for a picture with Chet, and he did the bunny ears, and I chopped off his hand. I knew there’d be blood, but I didn’t realize it would come out of there with so much force. Say what you will about Chet, his arteries know how to pump.

I felt bad watching him scream and bleed, but he’d brought this on himself. If you take the bunny ears thing too far, eventually you’re going to get your hand chopped off, and there’s nobody to blame but yourself, right?

I thought I was going to finally get a good night’s sleep, but I woke up when my wife was shouting, “Leave him alone! Leave him alone!” I was dragged out of bed by men in black facemasks. They injected me with something, and the next thing I knew I was lying on an operating table, and the next thing I knew after that I was back in my bed, with my wife pointing and shrieking.

Yeah, Chet had his severed hand surgically implanted onto the back of my head, giving me permanent bunny ears.

My wife wants me to have it removed, but you have to admit, it’s pretty funny. Good one, Chet.

The Tragic Tale of Slappy McWankerville

There is darkness in the human soul. And nowhere is this more evident than in the tragic and horrifying tale of Slappy McWankerville.

He was born in a cave, with a misshapen head that leaked milky fluid when he thought too hard. All he ever knew was pain—always pain. His days were spent screaming in agony, cursing the cruel God who would create and then abandon him. Nobody loved him. His mother was dead; she’d wailed at the sight of the nightmare she’d birthed, and then slit her own wrists against a jagged rock to ensure that she could never create such a monstrosity ever again.

His father didn’t even know he had a son. The joining of bodies had not been consensual, and he’d walked away from his victim with a cold chuckle. He would eventually receive his comeuppance, as the cancer devoured his insides, but it would be a long time coming. Slappy McWankerville would never know this, and he would make up stories about how his parents were off sailing the high seas and having magnificent adventures.

Every night, Slappy McWankerville would wander the streets of the village near the cave. He’d peer into the windows of happy families, and a single tear—toxic to small animals—would trickle down his cheek. The only good thing about his sadness was that it made him forget his physical pain, at least temporarily.

“Why is life so hard for Slappy McWankerville?” he’d ask. “I’ve done nothing wrong. It’s not my fault I was born this way. Why must I forever suffer?”

And then Slappy McWankerville would weep long into the night.

One day a young child, out exploring without his parents, found the cave. He ventured inside, and began to sift through Slappy McWankerville’s belongings. “Who would live in such conditions?” he wondered.

He gasped in terror at the sight of a misshapen head. Slappy McWankerville was thinking particularly hard in that moment, so there was even more milky fluid leaking from his head than usual.

“I’m so sorry!” said the boy, backing away in fear. “I meant no harm!”

“What is your name?”

“My name is Gabriel. What is yours, sir?”

“I am Slappy McWankerville.”

Gabriel let out a tiny giggle. “That’s a silly name, isn’t it?”

It was one wretched step too far. Slappy McWankerville’s entire existence was enveloped in misery, but the one thing that gave him solace was that he thought his name carried great dignity. But, no, it wasn’t a good name at all. It was a silly name.

Slappy McWankerville picked up a large stone and bashed poor Gabriel to bits.

Then, consumed with self-loathing, he sat in a corner of his cave and never moved again.

There are no lessons to be learned from the tragic and horrific tale of Slappy McWankerville. It is told merely to make you feel bad.

Abner Wederman, Ribald Ostrich

Once upon a time, a village whose name has been forgotten was ruled by Abner Wederman. He was not a kind ruler. He was, truth be told, a jerk. He liked to hit people. You’d be standing there, doing something productive for the village such as, say, irrigation, and he’d walk right up and punch you in the head. “Ow!” you’d say, rubbing your head where he’d hit it. “Stop that, you wretched cur! I don’t care if you’re the ruler of this village—you can’t go around hitting people on the head while they’re irrigating our fields! Now get out of here before I kick your unsightly butt!” And Abner Wederman, a cruel leader who tolerated no disrespect, would have you thrown into the Cavern of Wolves.

The Cavern of Wolves contained only one wolf, but it sounded scarier plural. It also wasn’t much of a wolf. All wolves are intimidating to some degree, but this one only had three legs, and most of its teeth were gone, and it was more inclined to nuzzle up against your leg hoping for a treat than to rip your throat out. So after you were released, you’d return home without having learned much of a lesson.

The village thrived under Abner Wederman’s leadership. Most of the inhabitants felt that this was a coincidence, and that the village would have thrived equally well under alternate leadership, but still, it was a pretty good place to live for about twenty-six years. Then...Abner Wederman punched a baby chimpanzee.

Most of the village’s historical documents have been lost, but the few scraps that were preserved seem to clearly indicate that it was an extremely unattractive baby chimpanzee. That said, it was still a baby chimpanzee, and even if you rule a village with an iron fist, you can’t go around smacking baby chimpanzees and not expect people to get into an uproar. And get into an uproar they did!

“Blackhearted bastards!” Abner Wederman shouted, struggling against the ropes as the villagers prepared to light the bonfire with their torches, moving slowly to drag out the suspense. “I will not stand here and let you burn me to death! I am Abner Wederman! I am your ruler! I am a ribald ostrich!”

The villagers blinked in unison. “What in the holy heck is a ribald ostrich?” asked one of them.

“If you burn me, you shall never know!”

The villagers hesitated. The unofficial policy was: You smack a baby chimpanzee, you get burned at the stake. But could they handle the secret of the ribald ostrich being taken to the grave? What if the ribald ostrich had hidden meaning that could enrich the lives of all who understood?

“I must know!” a woman cried out. “I must! As surely as I know that I enjoy the sensation of a separate man suckling at each of my teats simultaneously, I know that I must have the mystery of the ribald ostrich solved before his skin crisps and burns!”

The villagers took a quick vote. Fifty-one percent of them were in favor of allowing Abner Wederman to live long enough to explain what the hell he meant, and forty-nine percent of them wanted to ignite him. One of the villagers in the latter category tried to use a bit of odd and convoluted logic to convince the others that forty-nine percent was more of a majority than fifty-one percent, but his attempts at trickery were quickly silenced.

“Tell us,” the villagers said.

Abner Wederman nodded. “And so I shall, but first you must untie me.”

The villagers shook their heads. “Ribald ostrich first.”

“Oh, but I have so much more information to share!” Abner Wederman insisted. “If you untie me, not only will I reveal the secret of the ribald ostrich, but I’ll tell each and every one of you the solution to the riddle of the moustached ladybug!”

“Okay, now we know you’re just being weird for the sake of being weird,” said the villagers, and they burned the crap out of him.

The village flourished after that, but then it stopped flourishing and soon was lost. The moustached ladybugs moved in shortly thereafter. The wolf escaped from the Cavern of Wolves and ate a few of the ladybugs, until it got bored and headed west. Penguins were never involved, even indirectly. And the mystery of the ribald ostrich remained a mystery for all eternity, dammit.

Last One In

Please, please, please, thought Jimmy as he ran for the swimming pool. He was already behind the other kids. It wasn’t fair—Bonnie hadn’t given any notice before she started the race!

The best he could hope for was that somebody fell. If he could catch up to one of them, he’d shove them to the ground (a dirty but necessary trick), but he was the slowest of the group even when he wasn’t a few steps behind everybody else.

Bonnie, of course, leapt into the pool first, the big cheater. Nate and Mike jumped in at the same time, splashing around and laughing.

Only Cindy was ahead of him now, and Jimmy didn’t see any way he could beat her unless there was some sort of not-so-tragic accident. Maybe she’d step on a nail. Maybe she’d twist her ankle. Maybe she’d suddenly get dizzy for absolutely no reason.

Cindy leapt into the pool. Jimmy was last.

He dropped to his knees. He could already feel his flesh transforming, his bones turning to liquid. His skin turned white—not Caucasian white, but the white of snow. It became hard, yet ever so fragile. His arms and legs retracted into his torso. Smooth edges everywhere. An oval.

As he rolled along the tile, his insides sloshed around. No longer was it bone, muscle, blood, and organs. Jimmy was mostly yolk.

And then the smell—oh, God, the smell! Like sulfur. Sickening. Enough to make him want to puke.

But, of course, rotten eggs couldn’t puke. All they could do was lie on the ground, waiting for somebody to step on them and put them out of their vile misery.

“Get up, idiot!” Bonnie shouted at him. “Stop taking everything so literally!”

Miraculously cured, Jimmy got up and leapt into the pool.

Too Meta 2 Live

The Author absent-mindedly scratched his chin with the rusty claw hammer as he spoke. “When I first started this newsletter, I was all like ‘Oh! Oh! Oh! I should write an original story for every single issue!’ I’d be providing actual content alongside all the stuff where I desperately beg people to buy my books.”

“That makes sense,” said the Prisoner.

“No, it doesn’t! Worst idea ever! It meant that I had to come up with a brand-new story idea every time! Nobody has that many ideas! Nobody! The human brain was not designed to produce that much original content!”

“I don’t subscribe to your newsletter,” the Prisoner admitted, “but I was under the impression that not every story had to be a total winner.”

The Author’s eyes narrowed. “I didn’t chain you down here in this damp, gloomy basement so that you could criticize my free newsletter. I ran out of ideas after Issue #3, and since then I’ve been soliciting story ideas from people before I kill them.”

“Uh, what you mean is, you’ve been demanding ideas under the threat of death, right?”

“No. They give me the idea, and then I kill them.”

“Why would they give you the story idea if they know you’re going to kill them anyway?”

The Author’s chuckle was filled with raw, dripping menace. “Death sucks, but there are varying degrees of how much it sucks. So, basically, your fate is that I’m going to beat you to death with this claw hammer. That part is non-negotiable. Your choice in the matter is whether I whack you a couple of times really hard with the claw side, or if I whack you a few dozen times with the flat side, working my way around your face. Both options suck, but I think you get that they don’t suck equally.”

The Prisoner lowered his eyes. He knew the Author was right.

“You don’t have to write the story,” the Author said. “That would be dishonest of me. I just need a concept. Like, last month this guy suggested a sequel to The Tell Tale Heart. I thought, yeah, I can work with that. I slammed this claw right between his eyes and got to work. And I don’t mean to brag, but after I sent that newsletter out, a couple of people said they read it.”

“A couple?”

The Author frowned. “Well, maybe not a whole couple. That’s okay. I don’t share my art in hopes that people acknowledge its existence. It’s enough for me to know that if they don’t delete the newsletter unread and scroll down to the bottom, it’s waiting for them.”

“So, do you use every idea that’s given to you? Is that how the ribald ostrich thing got written?”

“Oh, no. I have maybe a 7% acceptance rate. You should see how many graves are in my backyard.” The Author flexed his biceps. “You see these? I didn’t get these from lifting weights. These are digging muscles, baby.”

The Prisoner had to privately acknowledge that they were very impressive muscles, though he said nothing.

“What have you got for me?” asked the Author.

“How about a story where a prisoner has been secretly picking locks during a conversation with his captor, and he’s just now succeeded? After a brief struggle, he gets a hold of the hammer and bashes in the author’s brains. Poetic justice for an evil author who has bashed in so many brains in the past.”

“Nah,” said the Author. “Too meta.”

“I disagree. I think it’s exactly the right amount of meta.”

The Author shook his head. “I’m the one writing this story. Not the one you think we’re living, but the one the reader is reading in my latest newsletter. Hi, reader! How’s it going? If I die in it, that’s one step too far. There’s only so much weirdness a reader will take before they say, ‘Dude, that’s too weird.’“

“Tough noogies,” said the Prisoner, holding up his free hands. He grabbed the hammer out of the Author’s hand and bashed him in the skull.

“Fool!” the Author shouted. “Impetuous fool! You have no idea what you’ve done! If I die, then nobody is writing the story! The narrow line between fiction and reality will snap apart! All will be lost!”

“I don’t believe you!” said the Prisoner, bashing him in the skull once again.

The Author fell to the floor, dead.

Thank goodness I’m safe, said the Prisoner. Hey, what happened to the quotation marks? Was I thinking that instead of saying it out loud? No I’m definitely talking because I can feel my mouth moving i guess id better get out of here before hey what happened to the commas and periods and apostrophes andspacesbetweenwordsohcrapohcrapohcrap
whathaveidone
whathaveidone
whathaveidone

“Nothing,” said the Author. “I’m still in full control of this story. But have we learned an important lesson?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What’s your story idea?”

“Ummm...this guy can’t understand why it’s ‘goose’ and ‘geese’ but not ‘moose’ and ‘meese’ and it eventually drives him to the brink of insanity and a bunch of people die.”

“I like it!”

The Author swung the hammer. There was a mighty crunch, and the Prisoner went silent.

So basically, all I’m saying is that people died for this story, so I hope you enjoyed it.

Steps

“Crap,” said Nate, glancing at his Fitness Buddy wristband. “Blew my streak again.”

“It’s still eighteen minutes to midnight,” said his friend Glenn. “How many steps do you have left?”

“Way too many. I have almost four thousand to go.”

“What’s your daily goal?”

“Ten thousand,” said Nate. “I make it most of the time. Sucks because I was on a six-day streak, and I would’ve earned the Week Streak Badge.”

“You need a better band. Have you heard of the Infinity Fit band? It’s way better. A lot more features. It keeps you motivated on days when you don’t feel like walking.”

“That’s most days!” Nate grinned. “Sometimes the thought of messing up my streak is the only thing that gets me up off the couch.”

“Then you definitely need an Infinity Band. They’re only $9.99 a month, and if you use my referral code, your first month is free. I’ll order you one, if you want.”

“Sure, thanks!”

* * *

The next day, there was a knock at the door. When Nate answered, a man in a dark red uniform stood there, holding a small cardboard box.

“Hi!” said the man. “Your Infinity Fit is here!”

“Hey, thanks,” said Nate, reaching for the box.

“Oh, I handle all of the installation and setup for you. This is a precision device. May I come in?”

“Sure, sure, no problem.” Nate stepped out of the way and the man walked into his living room. He slid his long fingernail across the tape to cut it, and then opened the box. “Black or silver?”

“Silver.”

“All right.” The man took what looked like a silver watch out of the box. “Hold out your wrist.”

Nate did as he was told. The man placed the band around his wrist and tightened it. “Too tight?”

“No, it’s fine.”

The man tapped the face of the watch. “Now you’re going to feel a small pinch.”

Nate felt a big pinch. “Ow.”

“Sorry. We just want to make sure it doesn’t go anywhere. Your initial goal is ten thousand steps a day, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Excellent. You’re all set.”

“Cool, thanks.”

“Customer service is our goal,” said the man. “So, ten thousand steps a day or the Infinity Fit band will explode.”

“What?”

“If you haven’t reached your ten thousand steps by midnight in your current time zone, the band will detonate, blowing off your hand and most likely doing a great deal of damage to the rest of your body.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Sure I can. We here at Infinity Fit aren’t into macabre humor. Don’t worry—if you’re short of your goal, starting at 6:00 PM it will beep every hour on the hour as a reminder.”

“This—”

“I’m sure you’re having a lot of thoughts right now. They’re all a normal part of the process. Unlike other lesser fitness bands, the Infinity Fit will not allow you to cheat. You can’t fool it into thinking you’re taking steps by shaking it. Ten thousand actual steps, or boom. You’ll be in such good shape!”

“I’ll call the police!” said Nate.

“I wouldn’t. The Infinity Fit is equipped with Snitch Mode. Blab about it and boom.”

Nate just gaped at him.

“You seem very upset, but this is all about your physical fitness. You’ll never fail to make your walking goal again. And, of course, we will steadily increase your goal. Soon you’ll look back and laugh at the days when you thought ten thousand steps was a worthy accomplishment. There will also be mini challenges. You’d be surprised how easy a six-mile run can be when there’s a boom awaiting you if you fail.”

“You son of a—”

“Whoops, nope, hold that thought. Because the Infinity Fit is a complete lifestyle band. Profanity is a sign of low intellect, so from now on, if you demonstrate a potty mouth, the band will beep. Three beeps and boom. Also, it tracks your diet, which will keep junk food from undoing the health benefits of all the walking and running you’ll be doing. The app explains everything, including the charity work schedule. I think you’ll enjoy it.”

The man left. Nate plopped onto the couch, horrified. What had he done?

Although, to be fair, he stayed in remarkably good shape.

Santa Claus Kills 2020

“Once again, you’ve done a great job,” said Mrs. Claus, brushing the chimney dust off Santa’s suit. “You delivered presents to children all around the world, keeping the gifts appropriate to their socioeconomic status, and now it’s time for a well-deserved rest.”

Santa shook his head. “There is one task left to complete. I must end 2020.”

Mrs. Claus frowned. “What do you mean? This year will end like any other year, right?”

“No. 2020 won’t go without a fight. It’s going to desperately cling to life. It’s already lasted seven months longer than any previous year, and it will take extreme measures to make it move aside for 2021. I, Saint Nicholas, have to make sure it doesn’t remain 2020 forever!”

Santa went out and began to hitch the reindeer to his sleigh. “Do you need me up front again?” asked Rudolph.

“I’m sorry, and you are…?”

“The most famous reindeer of all.”

“I know the other eight, but I don’t recall you. Anyway, we’re good.” He climbed into the sleigh and tugged on the reins. The sleigh flew across the night sky, toward The Land Where Time Lurks.

Santa Claus isn’t exactly known for being slow, and .00000023 seconds later he arrived at his destination. 2020, down to its final days, looked over at him.

“Well, well, well, it’s Santa!” said 2020. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“I’m here to make sure you step aside.”

2020 let out a high-pitched, deranged cackle. “You insult me. Would I overstay my welcome?”

“You’d overstayed your welcome by the end of March.”

2020 grinned. “Perhaps. But I have soooooo much more to give, Santa. And if you want to cast me aside, you’ll have to get through my friend, first.”

Satan, the Prince of Darkness, materialized in front of 2020. He folded his red scaly arms in front of his chest and laughed. His well-toned belly did not jiggle like a bowl full of jelly. “Return to the North Pole, Kringle. You cannot beat me.”

“How do you have time for this?” asked Santa. “I thought you were busy with construction of the special place in Hell where coronavirus-denying politicians who got first dibs on the vaccine were to spend eternity?”

The devil shrugged. “We decided that it didn’t need to be all that special. There’s a reason we use genital mutilation as our go-to punishment.”

“You won’t win!” Santa said. “I have God on my side!”

“Don’t drag me into this,” said God. “It should be pretty obvious that I sat this year out.”

The devil let out another booming laugh. “Begone, Santa! 2020 is infinite!”

Santa took a deep breath, working up his mighty courage. Then he clenched his fist and threw a punch.

The devil twisted around, and Santa’s mittened fist hit him in the arm.

“Ow!” the devil shouted. “Ow! Ow! Ow! Why did you do that? Ow! That hurt!” He sniffled and rubbed his sore arm. “That was very unfair.”

“Step aside,” Santa told him. Santa was surprised by the reaction, but apparently having that much power did not stop somebody from being a whiny little bitch.

The devil scampered back off to the pits of Hell. Santa walked up to 2020.

2020 hissed at him. “You’ll never get rid of me! Never!”

Santa reached into his pocket and took out a revolver. “You and I are just going to sit here together until it’s your time to go. And I’ll make sure it happens.”

Time passed. Conversation was strained.

11:59 PM arrived on New Year’s Eve.

“I am inevitable,” said 2020.

“And I am Santa Claus.”

At the stroke of midnight, Santa pressed the barrel of the gun to 2020’s head and, without a bit of remorse, pulled the trigger.

Yak Attack

The apparently suicidal squirrel sprinted across the road, but Chris swerved and missed it. Percy chuckled. “Not very smart, was it?”

“Nope,” said Chris. “But at least it wasn’t a yak.”

“Excuse me?”

“Nothing scares me more than the idea of hitting a yak.”

Percy frowned. “You’re terrified of hitting a yak?”

“Of course. Aren’t you?”

“We’re in Indiana. There aren’t any yaks wandering free around here. If we were in Tibet or Siberia, maybe, but they aren’t lurking around in the cornfields. I can literally say that I’ve never in my entire life been specifically worried about hitting a yak.”

“Interesting,” said Chris.

“Why is that interesting? It’s not the least bit interesting. Even if I purposely wanted to run over a yak, like it was some sick fantasy of mine, I wouldn’t be able to find one. Where did this fear come from?”

“I guess it’s the near impossibility of it happening. If I hit a squirrel or a deer, it’s not a big deal. People hit deer all the time. But a yak? A frickin’ yak? That would blow my mind. I’d never recover. I’d be thinking about that constantly for the rest of my life. Not only was a yak wandering where yaks simply should not exist, but our destinies converged at just the right moment for me to hit it with my car. Are you telling me that if you hit a yak, you’d just sigh and go on with your day as if nothing happened?”

“No, no, not at all,” said Percy. “It would freak me out. I just can’t imagine being paranoid about it.”

“Don’t call me paranoid.”

“I didn’t mean it in a disrespectful way. You just...you know, you said you were irrationally frightened of hitting a yak.”

“I never used the word ‘irrationally.’ I acknowledged the unlikelihood of it happening, and explained that the unlikely nature was part of why I feared it so much. If that makes me paranoid, well, then hand me my tin foil hat.”

“Are you scared of hitting a Woolly Mammoth?” Percy asked.

“No!” said Chris. “That would be ridiculous. They’re extinct.”

“I know! Can you imagine if this long-extinct creature came back, and you hit one with your car?”

“The yak thing is a near impossibility. You’re talking about a total impossibility. So, no, Percy, I do not fear hitting a frickin’ wooly mammoth. Jeez.”

“What about a ghost yak?”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“A ghost yak. The spirit of a yak that roams the earth with unfinished business to complete before it can cross over.”

“What kind of business would a yak need to complete?”

“I don’t know. You tell me.”

“I have no idea.”

“Can you imagine your car passing right through a ghost yak?” asked Percy. “I’d never stop screaming.”

“You’re making fun of me,” said Chris.

“Not at all. I’m running with the conversation that you started. If you’re scared of hitting a yak, then hitting a ghost yak should be even higher on your list of fears. There could be a ghost yak on top of the car right now. Pull over and take a look.”

“I don’t appreciate your mockery.”

“Then don’t say mock-worthy stuff.”

Chris was silent for a moment. “I just like saying yak, okay? It’s a fun word to say. It makes the drive go faster.”

Percy nodded. “I get that. Yak, yak, yak. Yakkity yak.”

“Yak, yak, yak, yak, yak, yak?”

“Yaaaaaaaak!”

“Yak, yak, yak, yakker, yakko, yakkie.”

“Yak, yak, yak, yak, yak, yak—watch out!”

* * *

Both men lost their lives that night.

They did indeed hit a yak. But it wasn’t a coincidence. The yak had been placed in the middle of the road by Chris’ brother, who did odd jobs for unsavory clients. The concept was that they would nearly avoid hitting the yak, after which Percy would share the amazing story of how they almost struck a yak when they had just been talking about such a thing. But Chris would deny everything, and their business associates would question Percy’s mental stability, allowing Chris to take over the company.

Unfortunately, when Chris saw the yak in the middle of the road, he realized that the irrational fear he’d fabricated was, in fact, entirely real. He froze up with pure terror, and they plowed right into that poor yak at 55 MPH.

The yak survived, though, for those who were concerned, and lives a healthy and happy life to this day.

Job Reference

“Hello?”

“Hi, this is Abigail Woolwright, calling for Gertrude Smith.”

“That’s me.”

“Thomas Quinn had you down as a reference on his job application.”

“Right, right. Tom told me you might call.”

“Can you confirm that Mr. Quinn worked at Gertrude’s Groceries from 2017 through 2021?”

“That sounds right, yes. We were sad to see him go, but he’d been talking about moving up north for quite a while, and it’s good that he finally took that step.”

“He was a stock boy, correct?”

“Yes.”

“And what exactly does that job entail?”

“Well, a lot of it involves restocking the shelves when necessary. He also helped unload the delivery trucks and kept track of inventory. And there was some floor-mopping. You know, ‘Cleanup on aisle six!’ if a little kid puked or something.”

“So, there was a great deal of physical labor involved?”

“Yes. It’s very hard work.”

“And what was Thomas’ attitude toward his job?”

“Oh, he was a pleasure to work with. I can’t remember a single time that he came in late. Very upbeat. Everybody liked him. Like I said, we were sad to see him go.”

“Would you consider him open minded?”

“Excuse me?”

“Was he receptive to new ideas?”

“Oh, sure. When we changed the inventory forms, he picked it right up, no problems at all. And in the grocery business you have to mix things up on a regular basis. So, like, in the summer grilling season you move hamburger buns and potato chips to the front of the store. Stuff like that. He never had any trouble keeping up.”

“How strong is his stomach?”

“His stomach?”

“You have a meat department, right? Did Thomas ever, for example, get queasy around animal parts? Was he somebody who got grossed out easily?”

“Ummm...I don’t think so. We didn’t butcher anything in the store. I’m not aware of any incidents where he got sick.”

“But you knew him well, right? In your opinion, did he have a strong stomach?”

“It’s honestly hard to say. He did have to mop up barf, so I’ll say that yes, he had a strong stomach.”

“Thank you. This is all very helpful. Did his job require any digging?”

“Digging?”

“Is this a bad time? You keep quoting an abbreviated version of my question back to me.”

“Sorry. No, it didn’t require any digging.”

“Did it require anything similar to digging?”

“Like I said, there was a lot of lifting. That uses the same muscles, I guess.”

“What about prying? Were there any large wooden containers that he had to pry open?”

“Sometimes, maybe.”

“Tell me about his ability to handle sensitive matters with discretion. Would you describe his attitude as more ‘call the police’ or ‘snitches get stitches?’“

“There’s nothing shady going on at our grocery store.”

“Oh, I never meant to suggest otherwise. I’m saying that when they discover a co-worker sobbing and covered in blood that’s not their own, some people will call 911 and some people will try to find a solution where nobody goes to prison. Which category would you place Thomas in?”

“What kind of job did Tom apply for?”

“Stock boy.”

“Then why are you asking these questions?”

“Just want to get a well-rounded view of his skills.”

“I feel like your intention is to hire him as a stock boy, and then after he’s built up your trust, you’re going to ask him to do some grave robbing on the side.”

“It wouldn’t all be robbing. Some would be depositing. But, yes, that’s the information I’m trying to acquire from you, without coming right out and asking you if you thought Thomas would be good at digging up and burying graves in the middle of the night.”

“It’s hard to say. From a manual labor perspective, absolutely. I just don’t know what the stench of death might do to him.”

“Fair enough, fair enough. This has been very helpful. I think we’ll give the boy a shot. Thank you for your time.”

“May I ask why you’d need him to dig up graves?”

“Unholy rituals.”

“Okay, I’m afraid that’s going to be a problem. Tom despises black magic. If he thinks you’re contacting evil spirits he will absolutely try to gather the forces of light to defeat you.”

“Well, fudge.”

“Sorry.”

“No, no, it’s good to hear that now, before we waste too much time in the interview process. We can’t have a minimum-wage employee interfering with our efforts to summon the Spider Skull Lord to help us rule this plane of existence and cast all into darkness and misery. Once again, thank you for your time.”

“No problem at all.”

The Man Without Nails

My name is Vincent, and I have no fingernails or toenails.

I was born this way. It’s an extremely rare condition called anonychia congenita. You can be afflicted with it and have nails on some of your fingers or toes, but not me. I don’t have a single nail on any of my ten fingers or my ten toes.

You would think that people would shriek when they see me, or gasp in revulsion, or gape at my hands. They really don’t. They generally don’t even comment on it. I guess it’s because my fingers aren’t particularly grotesque, and I can use them like normal fingers.

It’d be nice if just one person pointed and screamed, “Freak! Mutant!” but nobody ever does.

One time I went to a nail salon to get a mani/pedi. The lady seemed mildly amused by my prank. She offered to put polish on the skin where the nails should’ve been, but I declined.

I don’t understand why people aren’t scared. What’s the point of having anonychia congenita if it doesn’t horrify the people around you?

I’m not saying that I want to terrorize the populace and cause widespread panic. All I want—and I don’t think it’s too much to ask—is for people to stop treating me like a normal person. I’m not normal! Look at my hands! Look at my feet! They’re incomplete! They’re weird! Why is everybody so nonchalant about them?

I bet if my nose was missing nostrils they wouldn’t act like it was normal. They’d be all like, “Dude, where are the holes in your nose? It’s messing with my mind to look at you!”

I once considered removing my nostrils, but you can’t really get rid of them—you can only make them bigger. You could turn them into one big nostril, I suppose, but that wouldn’t be as bizarre as a complete lack of nostrils.

I did purchase some Silly Putty and shove it into my nostrils, yet no matter how much I tried to smooth it over I couldn’t pull off the illusion of having a hole-free nose. And when I sneezed the Silly Putty shot out of my nose and onto the floor. Can you imagine if I’d sneezed when somebody was inspecting my nose? So awkward and shameful.

You may think it’s peculiar that I want people to be unkind about my abnormality. I understand that. Most people with anonychia congenita would be happy that nobody was commenting on their lack of fingernails and toenails. It makes total sense, and under normal circumstances, I’d feel the same way.

My issue is that if people were mean to me about my fingers and toes, I’d feel better about the hit and run from twenty years ago.

I didn’t even stop to find out if the guy was alive or not. I’m guessing “not” from the crunch. I floored the gas pedal, got the hell out of there, and never drove through Louisiana again.

This memory haunts me every single night. Whenever people chew too loudly, I hear the crunch of his body underneath my tires. When I listen to music, I hear that crunch in a percussion beat. When I watch movies or television shows where people get hit by cars, I relive that moment.

So, yeah, it would help me cope with the guilt and self-loathing if somebody would be a dick about my fingers, okay?

I don’t think that’s asking too much.

Comeback

“Hey, the ‘80s called. They want their hair back.”

“Yeah, well...same to you!”

* * *

Twenty years later. Present day.

“Time travel is dangerous and expensive. Are you certain you want to go back for this?”

“Absolutely. I came up with hundreds of better responses while I lay awake in bed that night. It’s haunted me ever since.”

* * *

“Hey, the ‘80s called. They want their hair back.”

“Yeah, well...same to you, jerk!”

* * *

“So, you choked?”

“It’s because I’ve been obsessing over this moment for the past two decades. I was nervous. I need another chance.”

“You understand the risk, right? I strongly advise against this. You could dissolve into molecules. You could destroy the space-time continuum.”

“Please. I need this.”

* * *

“Hey, the ‘80s called. They want their hair back.”

“The ‘90s called. They want their clothes back.”

“I’m wearing jeans and a t-shirt. What are you even talking about?”

“That’s so ‘90s. And they called about getting their clothes back. They just called right now. I’m on the phone with them.”

“Jeans and a t-shirt are timeless. Unlike that perm.”

“Yeah, well...same to you!”

* * *

“No.”

“Please. I’m begging you. Just one more chance.”

“I could get fired for this! Or even arrested! You had your chance—twice—and you blew it. It’s time to move on.”

“I’ll do anything. Anything at all.”

* * *

“Hey, the ‘80s called. They want their hair back.”

“Die, bitch!”

“Aaack...I can’t breathe...”

“Die! Die! Die!”

* * *

“Why didn’t you let me finish strangling her?”

“What the hell is the matter with you? That’s not why I sent you back!”

“I need resolution!”

“I don’t care! You can’t do that!”

“One more shot, please? Please, please, please, please, please? Remember last time when I said I’d do anything and then I had to change it to almost anything? This time I’ll do anything!”

* * *

“Hey, the ‘80s called. They want their hair back.”

“Listen to me very carefully. In two weeks, on a Saturday night, a tornado will pass through town. Three people will be injured, and it will knock down the tire swing in Miller Park. When this happens, I want you to remember that I told you about it, and that I’m bringing you information from the future. Seven years from now, you will die. I’m not going to tell you how, because it’s absolutely horrific. Entire books will be written about your grisly, torturous demise. It will be awful on a level you cannot possibly imagine. So just think about that for the next seven years, won’t you? Bye.”

* * *

“I’m sending you back.”

“No.”

“That was cruel. And untrue.”

“She’ll figure it out in seven years.”

“You’re going back.”

“Okay. Fine.”

* * *

“Hey, the ‘80s called. They want their hair back.”

“I’m sorry I told you that you were going to die in seven years.”

“Excuse me?”

“It wasn’t true.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

* * *

“Why are you upset? I apologized!”

“You weren’t supposed to apologize! You were supposed to relive the moment without talking about her dying in seven years!”

“I told her it wasn’t true!”

“You left her wondering about it! I’m giving you one more chance to fix this. You mess up again, and I’ll send you back to the Middle Ages, and the Middle Ages sucked crap.”

* * *

“Hey, the ‘80s called. They want their hair back.”

“Ha ha! Good one!”

“Thanks!”

The Last Egg

Molly sat up in bed as the door slowly creaked open. The figure in the shadows—definitely not human—filled the entire doorframe. When it hopped into her bedroom, it had to duck down to make room for its giant ears.

The Easter Bunny!

“Hi, Molly!” said the rabbit.

Molly clapped her hands in delight. “Hi, Easter Bunny! Thank you for all the treats!”

“You’re welcome! Did you enjoy eating the effigy of me? Tasty, huh?”

“It was yummy!”

“And the jellybeans? Were they delicious?”

Molly nodded. “I loved them!”

“What about the Easter basket grass? Was it scrumptious?”

“I didn’t think I was supposed to...”

“Ha ha!” said the Easter Bunny. “I’m just teasing!”

“Tee hee!” said Molly.

“And did you have a good time on the Easter egg hunt?”

“I sure did!”

“How long did it take you to find them all?”

“All morning!”

“Hmmm.”

“What’s wrong, Easter Bunny?”

The Easter Bunny hopped closer to her bed. “Here’s the thing, Molly. You decorated twenty-four eggs. I hid twenty-four eggs. How many did you find?”

“Twenty-four.”

“Santa Claus isn’t the only one who abhors liars, Molly.”

“I...thought I found all of them.”

The Easter Bunny reached into his basket. He extended his fuzzy paw toward her. “Recognize this?”

It was a light blue egg with a yellow stripe on it.

“Oh.”

“It wasn’t that hard to find. It was under the couch, not even that far back. You could have found it with a little effort, but you got distracted by the jellybeans, didn’t you?”

“Maybe.”

“The thing is, Molly, the Easter egg hunt is about finding all of the eggs. It’s a high-stakes challenge, and there are consequences for failure. Didn’t your Mommy and Daddy tell you that?”

Molly very slowly shook her head.

“A pity. You were one egg away from victory, and instead you must pay the price.” The Easter Bunny’s ears flopped down, and he looked sad, apparently taking no pleasure in sharing this news.

“Are you going to kill me?” asked Molly.

“Oh my goodness, no! But my friend is waiting outside.”

“Who’s your friend?”

“The Tooth Fairy. She’ll be collecting early.”

Six Cents A Word

Subject: Payment Question

Hi, Kim! Hope things are going well. Thanks for sending my payment. However, “Romance at The Gallows” was supposed to be paid at 6 cents a word. 4500 words x 6 cents = $270. I only received $65.94, so I think you may have just miscalculated somewhere. No big deal! Send the rest when you can! Thanks!

-- Nate

Subject: Re: Payment Question

Hi, Nate! Thanks for writing. Your contract does indeed specify 6 cents a word, but obviously I didn’t mean 6 cents for every word. For example, your story contains the word “the” 316 times. That’s $18.96 worth of “the,” which is obviously not a good investment on my part. The word “and” appears 89 times ($5.34), “a” appears 119 times ($7.14), “to” appears 217 times ($13.02), and we haven’t even got to “that,” this,” “what,” “in,” and the other words that contribute very little to the story. Sorry, but it doesn’t make sense to pay you for words that just connect the important words together. I hope you understand.

Sincerely, Kim

Subject: Re: Re: Payment Question

I’m a little baffled by your response. I’ve sold dozens of short stories and never encountered a situation where certain words have no payment value. Are you suggesting that I should write an entire story without conjunctions?

--Nate

Subject: Re: Re: Re: Payment Question

I’m not saying you should write an entire story without conjunctions (Thanks! I couldn’t remember what those were called!). I just think it’s silly that you expect to be paid for them. Do you really think you deserve six cents for typing the letter A? In the phrase “Punch a giraffe,” I’m happy to compensate you for “punch” and “giraffe,” but it’s odd to think that you truly earned your six cents with the “a” that bridges them together.

Yours Truly, Kim

Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Payment Question

Are we even talking about the right story? There was nothing about punching a giraffe in mine. That’s horrible! How would you even do that? Climb a ladder?

Without the word “a,” we’re left with “Punch giraffe.” Is English my main character’s second language? Did he transform into The Hulk? What the hell, Kim?

--Nate

Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Payment Question

Of course you wouldn’t climb a ladder. What are you going to do, lean it against the giraffe? You’d climb a tree and wait for the giraffe to eat some leaves from it, or, alternately, you’d draw the giraffe’s attention so that it bent its head down to investigate, and then you’d punch it.

Actually, looking back at my prior e-mail, I didn’t specify where you were punching the giraffe. You could punch it in the leg. I’m not sure where your confusion stemmed from. Perhaps you should read e-mails more carefully in the future instead of just angrily firing off a knee-jerk response.

You also seem to be missing my other point. I’m not saying you shouldn’t use the word “a.” I’m just saying it’s utterly deranged of you to expect full payment for it.

Warmest Regards, Kim

Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Payment Question

Fine. Whatever. That still doesn’t explain why I received only $65.94. That’s payment for 1099 words. I turned in 4500 words. I re-read my story, and I assure you it’s not 75% conjunctions. Care to explain...?

--Nate

Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Payment Question

You’re going to make me say it, aren’t you? Look, Nate, not every word in your story was a winner. You had your main character looking into the mirror and thinking about her appearance as a way to describe it to the reader. I’m not paying you for that tired technique.

The relationship between the mother and her teenaged daughter rang false. Clearly, you have not encountered many teenaged girls in your life. I elected not to pay you for ineffective character work.

There is a great deal of cursing in your story. I don’t pay for potty-mouth.

I liked the twist ending, but it was highly telegraphed. I paid you for the ending but not the material beforehand that made it so predictable.

So, overall, I believe that you sent me a 4500-word story that had 1099 words worth paying for. I think this is more than fair; after all, I could have rejected it altogether.

You can withdraw the story if you wish, but you’re a writer, and I know you need the money.

Accept Reality, Kim

Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Payment Question

You’re right. I need the money.

Thank you for the $65.94.

--Nate

Encore

The entire crowd was rocking hard as the band played their final notes. “Thanks for coming, everyone!” said the lead singer. “We’re Chicken Fried Punk! Goodnight!”

The band waved to the audience and walked off-stage. The audience applauded and cheered. They continued to applaud and cheer for a full minute, and then the cheering grew in intensity as Chicken Fried Punk walked back onto the stage. They took their places and went immediately into “Goldfish Hate You.” The crowd went insane.

* * *

“What a great show!” said Rich as they drove back to campus.

“The best concert I’ve ever been to, hands down,” said Bridgett.

James sat silently in the back seat, staring out the window.

Bridgett turned around to face him. “What’s wrong? Why are you being so quiet?”

“Are we not going to discuss the elephant in the room?”

“What elephant?”

“The lie!”

“What lie?”

“Never mind,” said James. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Tell us,” said Bridgett. “What lie?”

“The band told us the show was over. They waved goodbye and walked off the stage. Then they came right back and played another song.”

“Right. It was an encore.”

“But they planned it all along! They played ‘Goldfish Hate You.’ That’s their biggest hit! Everybody was waiting for it the entire show! What were they gonna do, not play ‘Goldfish Hate You’? It was all a ruse!”

“That’s how encores work,” said Rich.

“Encores are supposed to be the result of the natural popularity of the concert. The show is sooooo good that the crowd demands one more song! But that’s not what happened here. They looked right into the audience and lied to our faces! They were always going to come back to play another song, whether we demanded it or not! It was all one big deception!”

“Why is this a big deal?” asked Bridgett.

“I don’t like being lied to. Mandy lied to me all the time. That’s why we’re not together anymore. These tickets were twenty bucks, plus a ridiculous service charge, and I feel like I paid all of that money for the privilege of letting Chicken Fried Punk act like I’m stupid. They were probably just standing there off-stage, laughing at our gullibility. Well, they didn’t fool me.”

“Bands do this all the time.”

“And why do we let them? Why do we play along with their dishonesty? We’re all just being happy little puppets in this charade. Look, I’m okay with them playing another song. All I’m saying is that it pisses me off that they lied to us about the circumstances.”

“Is this going to explode into violence?” asked Bridgett.

“What?”

“Are you going to have a psychotic breakdown and start killing people over this?”

“Why would you even ask me something like that?”

“It just seemed like things might be headed in that direction.”

“Um, no,” said James. “That would be excessive.”

“You’re not going to kill us? Not going to hunt down the band? Not going to engage in self-harm?”

“No. I’m just annoyed about the encore is all. I’m pretty much over it already—it felt good to get it off my chest.”

“Okay,” said Bridgett.

They drove in silence for a moment.

“So, that’s it, huh?” asked Rich. “Just a rant about encores?”

“Yeah,” said James.

“All right, then.”

They drove in silence some more.

“It’s hard to explain,” said Bridgett. “I feel like things should be gorier.”

“Not everything needs to end in bloodshed,” said Rich. “I said my piece, and—look out!”

Rich was so engaged in the conversation that he didn’t see the semi-truck in the intersection that had run a red light. They smashed into the side of it, the front of the car crumpling and their bodies jerking forward upon impact. Metal twisted and glass shattered.

“Is everybody okay?” asked Bridgett.

“I’m fine,” said James.

“Thank God we were all wearing our seat belts,” said Rich.

They got out of the car and confirmed that the driver of the semi was unharmed. It was an unfortunate way to end the night, but Rich’s car was insured, nobody was injured, and they had a great story to tell their friends. Though the encore still didn’t sit well with him, James had to admit that it was still the best concert he’d ever seen in his life.

Making The Most Of It

When Martin opened his front door, he saw a skull-faced man in a black cloak, holding a scythe. He immediately closed the door again.

“Let me in,” said a spooky voice from the outside.

“No! You have to be invited in, and I say no!”

“I’m not a vampire. I’m Death.”

“You’ve got the wrong house!”

“Look, Martin, either you can let me in, or I can magically walk through your door, and somebody passing through solid matter is really unnerving for a mortal to watch.”

Martin reluctantly opened the door. Death stepped through the threshold.

“May I take your scythe and cloak?” Martin asked, hoping to score mercy points for being polite.

“No, that’s all right. I suppose you know why I’m here.”

Martin wasn’t sure if he should play dumb or not. He didn’t want to make Death angry. “I’m not ready to die. I’m only thirty-one. There’s so much more I wanted to accomplish. It’s not fair!”

“Death isn’t fair. You should know that. Look at some of those really old jerkwads who are still around.”

“All I ask is for a little more time. Just a little. Please.”

Death shook his head. “That’s not how it works. So, let’s get down to...uh-oh...”

“What?”

“I’m off schedule. Today isn’t the 23rd. I’m a day early.”

“Oopsie.”

“Hell yeah, oopsie. I’ve been looking at the wrong day for the past seven souls. That’s not cool. Anyway, Martin, I guess you’ve got the reprieve you wanted. I’ll be back at this time tomorrow.”

“No need to come all the way back. I’m sure you’re a busy guy.”

“See you tomorrow.”

* * *

Death passed through Martin’s front door and walked into his living room. Martin glanced back at him, and his eyes widened in horror. “Is it time already?”

“Yes. It is time. I, the Grim Reaper, am back for your soul.” Death’s facial expression was fixed in place since his face was a skull, but if it hadn’t been, he would have frowned. “Are you watching YouTube videos?”

“Uh…maybe.”

“What about all the things you wanted to accomplish?”

“Well, I wanted to finish the episode of The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel that I’d started before you showed up, and I guess I ended up binge-watching the entire season. Then I got on YouTube to find a video about how to prepare a last will and testament, but I got distracted watching videos of otters.”

“You knew I was coming to take you across the River Styx, and you’re watching otter videos?”

“I didn’t intend to watch otter videos. I mean, I didn’t intend to watch more than one. It just happened! Excuse me for being mortal.”

“This is why I don’t give people extra time.”

“Hey, I don’t know if you’re taking me to Heaven or Hell. If I’m going to Hell, at least I’ll have the memory of cute otters to comfort me during my eternal torture.”

“You don’t have family or friends?”

“I texted them. We exchanged a bunch of frowny faces.”

“Fine. Whatever. It’s time to go now. What’s that otter doing?”

“Just swimming. But he’s driving the cat crazy.”

Death chuckled. “You can tell that cat wants so badly to get the otter, but he’s not going to jump in a pond to do it. Look at the little guy, pacing back and forth.”

“See what I mean? This stuff’s addictive.”

“Let me see your phone,” said Death.

“Why?”

“I said, let me see your phone.”

Martin handed his phone to Death. Death tapped at the screen.

“My bone fingers aren’t working on the touchscreen. Pull up the feature that shows how much time you’ve spent using certain apps.”

“Fine, I spent three hours playing Candy Crush, okay? Did you want me to die without finishing Level 147?”

“What was your final meal?” asked Death.

“I beg your pardon?”

“If I go through the dirty dishes in your sink, will I see the remnants of a Hot Pocket?”

“Fine!” said Martin. “I squandered my last day on earth! I’m so sorry I didn’t cure cancer or solve world hunger or climb Mount Everest! I didn’t even shower or put on pants! My big accomplishment was that I shared a meme! That’s right—I didn’t even beat Level 147! It’s too frickin’ hard! What were the designers thinking?”

“What was the meme?”

“One where Willy Wonka is being condescending.”

Death beckoned. “Come with me, Martin. It is time.”

* * *

“Martin, let’s go!” said his grandfather, who’d died three years ago. “The chocolate buffet closes in ten minutes, and we want to get good seats for the Bowie concert!”

Martin sighed. “Hold on, okay? I’ve almost finished this level.”

After

“Welcome to the afterlife, sir.”

Henry glanced around the nondescript room. “Am I dead?”

The man nodded. “You are.”

“I don’t remember dying.”

“We did that on purpose. It wasn’t...pleasant. If you remembered, you’d be shrieking and flailing around, and it would be embarrassing for both of us. Better to wipe your memory so we can get down to business.”

“Oh.”

“Any other questions?”

“Did I save the kids?”

“Yes. All of them.”

“That’s good.”

The man nodded again. “It is good. And I think we both know you’re not going to Hell. Sometimes, in the case of a bibliophile like yourself I have this little gag where I say that you would be going to Heaven except that you have an overdue library book. But you were in there almost every day, and you always returned your borrowed books well ahead of time, so you’d see right through my joke.”

“I’m going to Heaven?”

“Sure, I don’t see why not. You’d lived a pretty good life even before your final act of heroism. No murder, infidelity, or any of the deal breakers. You liked dogs. There’s no reason not to send you there.”

“Well, thank you.”

“Anytime. Heaven is right through that door over there,” said the man, pointing to a door Henry hadn’t noticed before. “Go on in. I think you’ll like it.”

The door opened by itself as Henry walked over to it. It shouldn’t have surprised him that Heaven had self-opening doors. He passed through the doorway and found himself in a small cozy room, with a recliner and a bookshelf.

The same man was there. “Welcome to Heaven. Yes, it’s me again. People in Heaven can teleport. Anyway, welcome to your room. It’s a really comfy recliner. I mean, really comfy. Have a seat.”

Henry sat down. The recliner was indeed extremely comfortable.

“Go ahead and extend the footrest if you want. It’s the lever on the side.”

“I’m okay for now.”

“All right. When you were alive, do you remember what you said your idea of Heaven would be?”

“Sitting in a recliner, with a cup of hot chocolate, reading my favorite books.”

“We forgot the hot chocolate. Sorry. We’ll fix that. Anyway, yes, that’s your reward. You get to sit in a comfy recliner, sip hot chocolate, and read your favorite books. Sound okay?”

“That sounds amazing,” said Henry. “I can’t believe this. Is there an ironic twist?”

“Nope. They save those for Hell.”

Henry pulled the lever. “Wow. Re-reading all of my favorite books. This is paradise.”

“Nobody said anything about re-reading.”

“Excuse me?”

“There are well over one hundred and thirty million books in the world. Even a voracious reader like you only sampled a small fraction of them. It just so happens that there are two hundred and seventy-nine of them that you would have enjoyed even more than your very favorite book. Those are the books you will be reading while you sip your hot chocolate. Your favorite books that you never got to read.”

Henry gaped at him. “Seriously?”

“Seriously. Good job saving the kids.”

Acknowledgments

Thanks to Tod Clark, Donna Fitzpatrick, Lynne Hansen, Jamie LaChance, Jim Morey, Bridgett Nelson, and Paul Synuria II for their help. And also thanks to all of my newsletter subscribers, past and future!

“Bonus” Story

The November 15th, 2018 issue of my newsletter was mainly to announce my novella Cold Dead Hands, but it’s best known for “Corky & Snorky.” Jim Morey, who proofread each newsletter story ahead of time, did not like it. That was okay. I didn’t write “Corky & Snorky” with the expectation that it would be universally beloved.

It got the most comments of anything I’d sent up to that point, and they were almost all positive, though obviously there were plenty of people shaking their heads sadly at home who did not take the time to register their feedback. My usual copyright notice included a comment about how it was a waste of time to put a copyright notice next to a story that nobody would want to steal.

The Freaky Briefs test readers were divided. There was passionate advocacy for including it, and also “That one should go.” Up until the very last moment, it was part of the main lineup, but now it has been banished to its new home, after the acknowledgments.

If you don’t like it, you only paid for seventy-five stories, so this one was free.

Corky & Snorky

UPBEAT JINGLE: He’s Corky! And he’s Snorky! They’re stuuuuupid!

ANNOUNCER: Tonight’s episode is brought to you by Duluth Butter. Duluth Butter: We use better cows! And now, please enjoy Corky & Snorky in “A Bad Ear.”

CORKY: Hey, Snorky! You’ve got a banana in your ear!

SNORKY: What?

CORKY: I said you’ve got a banana in your ear!

SNORKY: What?

CORKY: I SAID YOU’VE GOT A BANANA IN YOUR EAR!

SNORKY: Sorry. I can’t hear you. I’ve got a carrot in my ear.

[Audience laughter.]

CORKY: I meant the other ear!

SNORKY: What?

CORKY: I said I meant the other ear!

SNORKY: What?

CORKY: I SAID I MEANT THE OTHER EAR!

SNORKY: Sorry. I can’t hear you. I’ve got a banana in my right ear and a carrot in my left one.

[Audience laughter.]

CORKY: Why are you always putting fruits and vegetables in your ears, Snorky?

SNORKY: What?

CORKY: Oh no, we’re not doing this again!

SNORKY: What?

CORKY: I said, oh no, we’re not doing this again!

SNORKY: What?

CORKY: I SAID, OH NO, WE’RE NOT DOING THIS AGAIN!

SNORKY: Doing what?

CORKY: Talking to you when you can’t hear me.

SNORKY: What?

CORKY: I said, talking to...nope, I’ll slash my own wrists before we go through this again. Take the carrot and banana out of your ears. You look ridiculous.

SOUND EFFECT: [Hilarious “pop” x 2]

SNORKY: Ah, that’s better. It’s hard to hear when you have a carrot and a banana in your ears.

CORKY: Why do you do it, Snorky?

SNORKY: What?

CORKY: Oh no, we’re not doing this again, you can hear me just fine!

SNORKY: I meant “what” for clarification, not because I couldn’t hear you.

CORKY: Oh, okay. Why do you put fruits and vegetables in your ears?

SNORKY: For a joke.

CORKY: It’s not a good joke, though. It’s actually rather irritating.

SNORKY: When I was three, Grandpa did it and got a big laugh.

CORKY: Was it his delivery? Was he pretending it was a telephone or something?

SNORKY: No.

CORKY: Did people dislike your grandfather? Were these mean-spirited laughs of ridicule?

SNORKY: No, everybody loved Grandpa. The laughs were for his clever wit. I knew on that day that I wanted to be just like Grandpa, and I’ve been chasing that high ever since.

CORKY: Well, some of the magic is lost when you do it. It honestly fills me with a mild loathing toward you.

ANNOUNCER: “Corky & Snorky” will be back after this important message!

HOUSEWIFE: I try to feed my family a delicious and nutritious dinner, but they always complain about the butter! What can I do?

GUARDIAN ANGEL: Try Duluth Butter! It’s made from better cows!

HOUSEWIFE: Better cows?

GUARDIAN ANGEL: Most brands make their butter from inferior cows! At Duluth Butter, we have a sophisticated quality control system to ensure that our butter always comes from the best cows available at that particular moment.

HOUSEWIFE: Wow! Thank you!

HARDWORKING HUSBAND: Look, kids, your mother made us tuna noodle casserole for dinner! With rolls!

SON: Yay, rolls! But the butter is going to be disappointing.

DAUGHTER: Wow, it’s not disappointing at all! Mom bought Duluth Butter!

HUSBAND/SON/DAUGHTER: Hooray! We love Mom!

SOUND EFFECT: [Mom winking.]

ANNOUNCER: Duluth Butter. Made from better cows. And now back to “Corky & Snorky.”

SNORKY: If only I knew Grandpa’s secret.

CORKY: What kind of fruit or vegetable did he use? Maybe that’s the secret.

SNORKY: I can’t remember. That’s why I keep trying different possibilities. I feel like it was yellow or orange, but a squash is too big to fit in my ear.

CORKY: OMG! I figured it out! Quick, Snorky, go get some corn on the cob!

SOUND EFFECT: Snorky hurries into the kitchen and retrieves a cob of corn from the refrigerator.

SNORKY: I don’t see how this will help.

CORKY: Put it in your ear! Now!

SNORKY: Okay.

CORKY: Look! It’s an EAR of corn!

[Audience laughter.]

SNORKY: That’s it! That’s the joke that made Grandpa the life of the party for a few moments! Oh, Corky, you’re the best friend a guy could have!

CORKY: What?

SNORKY: I said, that’s it! That’s the joke that made Grandpa the life of the party for a few moments! Oh, Corky, you’re the best friend a guy could have!

CORKY: What?

SNORKY: I SAID, THAT’S IT! THAT’S THE JOKE—oh, now, you’re just messing with me, aren’t you? There’s nothing in YOUR ear!

CORKY: Ha ha! You caught me!

SNORKY: What?

ANNOUNCER: That has been another hilarious episode of “Corky & Snorky.” Tune in tomorrow, when you hear Corky say...

CORKY: Christopher Columbus committed acts of genocide!

UPBEAT JINGLE: He’s Corky! And he’s Snorky! They’re stuuuuupid!

ANNOUNCER: Buy Duluth Butter! It’s made from better cows!

Another Bonus Story

I wrote this story late at night and really liked it. In the morning, I questioned the idea of spoofing “Who’s on First?” in a way that was pretty much incomprehensible to those who were unfamiliar with the Abbott & Costello routine.

Reminder: You paid for seventy-five stories. This is seventy-seven. It cost you nothing but some time you won’t get back.

What’s on Second?

“They sure have strange names for baseball players these days,” said Buddy. “For example, Who’s on first.”

“Who?” asked Louis.

“Right. Bartholomew Who.”

“Ah, okay. You’re right. That is a very strange name. It could cause confusion, taken out of context.”

“What’s on second.”

“What?”

“Jack What.”

“Got it. For a moment I thought you were literally asking me what was on second, but now I understand that you were talking about the player’s name. Crazy that there are players with the last names Who and What on the same team, playing first and second base. If I were the coach, I would’ve put one of them on shortstop or something.”

“I Don’t Know is on third.”

“You don’t know who’s on third?”

“I Don’t Know is his name.”

“The name of the player on third base is I Don’t Know?”

“Right. Charles I Don’t Know.”

“Bullshit.”

“I’m serious.”

“I Don’t Know isn’t a real name. I’m sure that if I went through the New York City phone listings I could find a few Whats and the occasional Who, but nobody has the name I Don’t Know. That’s just stupid. It’s three words.”

“Hey, I said that they have strange names for baseball players these days!”

“Go to hell, Buddy. First you put ketchup on a hot dog, and now you’re just fabricating player names in an attempt to make me feel foolish and frustrated.”

“I’m sorry. I just thought it was funny is all.”

“Well, it wasn’t. It was hurtful. It’s not how you treat your best friend.”

“I apologize, Louis. It was wrong. It’ll never happen again.”

“It’s all right. So, what’s the name of the shortstop?”

“I Have a Great Big Ding-Dong.”

“You son of a bitch!”

“That’s his name! I Have a Great Big Ding-Dong! I told you baseball players have strange names these days!”

Louis got up and walked away.

“Where are you going?” Buddy called after him.

“Where’s the pitcher.”

“I don’t know, isn’t he right there on the mound?” Buddy glanced out at the field. “Say, wait a minute...”

“Just giving you a taste of your own medicine,” said Louis with a smile, returning to his seat. “Now give me a bite of your hot dog.”

“You mean my Great Big—”

“No.”

About the Author

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Other Books By Jeff Strand

The Writing Life: Reflections, Recollections, and a Lot of Cursing. A comedic (but entirely true) non-fiction book about surviving in a brutal business.

Candy Coated Madness. Another demented collection of gleefully macabre tales.

Autumn Bleeds Into Winter. A coming-of-age thriller set in Fairbanks, Alaska in 1979. Fourteen-year-old Curtis saw his best friend get abducted, and he’s going to confront the man who did it.

The Odds. When invited to a game that offers a 99% chance of winning fifty thousand dollars, Ethan rejoices at the chance to recoup his gambling losses. But as the game continues, the odds constantly change, and the risks become progressively deadlier...

Allison. She can break your bones using her mind. And she’s trying very hard not to hurt you.

Wolf Hunt 3. George, Lou, Ally, and Eugene are back in another werewolf-laden adventure.

Clowns Vs. Spiders. Choose your side!

My Pretties. A serial kidnapper may have met his match in the two young ladies who walk the city streets at night, using themselves as bait...

Five Novellas. A compilation of Stalking You Now, An Apocalypse of Our Own, Faint of Heart, Kutter, and Facial.

Ferocious. The creatures of the forest are dead...and hungry!

Bring Her Back. A tale of revenge and madness.

Sick House. A home invasion from beyond the grave.

Bang Up. A filthy comedic thriller. “You want to pay me to sleep with your wife?” is just the start of the story.

Cold Dead Hands. Ten people are trapped in a freezer during a terrorist attack on a grocery store.

How You Ruined My Life (Young Adult). Sixteen-year-old Rod has a pretty cool life until his cousin Blake moves in and slowly destroys everything he holds dear.

Everything Has Teeth. A third collection of short tales of horror and macabre comedy.

An Apocalypse of Our Own. Can the Friend Zone survive the end of the world?

Stranger Things Have Happened (Young Adult). Teenager Marcus Millian III is determined to be one of the greatest magicians who ever lived. Can he make a live shark disappear from a tank?

Cyclops Road. When newly widowed Evan Portin gives a woman named Harriett a ride out of town, she says she’s on a cross-country journey to slay a Cyclops. Is she crazy, or...?

Blister. While on vacation, cartoonist Jason Tray meets the town legend, a hideously disfigured woman who lives in a shed.

The Greatest Zombie Movie Ever (Young Adult). Three best friends with more passion than talent try to make the ultimate zombie epic.

Kumquat. A road trip comedy about TV, hot dogs, death, and obscure fruit.

I Have a Bad Feeling About This (Young Adult). Geeky, non-athletic Henry Lambert is sent to survival camp, which is bad enough before the trio of murderous thugs show up.

Pressure. What if your best friend was a killer...and he wanted you to be just like him? Bram Stoker Award nominee for Best Novel.

Dweller. The lifetime story of a boy and his monster. Bram Stoker Award nominee for Best Novel.

A Bad Day For Voodoo. A young adult horror/comedy about why sticking pins in a voodoo doll of your history teacher isn’t always the best idea. Bram Stoker Award nominee for Best Young Adult Novel.

Dead Clown Barbecue. A collection of demented stories about severed noses, ventriloquist dummies, giant-sized vampires, sibling stabbings, and lots of other messed-up stuff.

Dead Clown Barbecue Expansion Pack. A few more stories for those who couldn’t get enough.

Wolf Hunt. Two thugs for hire. One beautiful woman. And one vicious frickin’ werewolf.

Wolf Hunt 2. New wolf. Same George and Lou.

The Sinister Mr. Corpse. The feel-good zombie novel of the year.

Benjamin’s Parasite. A rather disgusting action/horror/comedy about why getting infected with a ghastly parasite is unpleasant.

Fangboy. A dark and demented fairy tale for adults.

Facial. Greg has just killed the man he hired to kill one of his wife’s many lovers. Greg’s brother desperately needs a dead body. It’s kind of related to the lion corpse that he found in his basement. This is the normal part of the story.

Kutter. A serial killer finds a Boston terrier, and it might just make him into a better person.

Faint of Heart. To get her kidnapped husband back, Melody has to relive her husband’s nightmarish weekend, step-by-step...and survive.

Mandibles. Giant killer ants wreaking havoc in the big city!

Stalking You Now. A twisty-turny thriller soon to be the feature film Mindy Has To Die.

Graverobbers Wanted (No Experience Necessary). First in the Andrew Mayhem series.

Single White Psychopath Seeks Same. Second in the Andrew Mayhem series.

Casket For Sale (Only Used Once). Third in the Andrew Mayhem series.

Lost Homicidal Maniac (Answers to “Shirley”). Fourth in the Andrew Mayhem series.

Cemetery Closing (Everything Must Go). Fifth in the Andrew Mayhem series.

Suckers (with JA Konrath). Andrew Mayhem meets Harry McGlade. Which one will prove to be more incompetent?

Gleefully Macabre Tales. A collection of thirty-two demented tales. Bram Stoker Award nominee for Best Collection.

Elrod McBugle on the Loose. A comedy for kids (and adults who were warped as kids).

The Haunted Forest Tour (with Jim Moore). The greatest theme park attraction in the world! Take a completely safe ride through an actual haunted forest! Just hope that your tram doesn’t break down, because this forest is PACKED with monsters...

Draculas (with JA Konrath, Blake Crouch, and F. Paul Wilson). An outbreak of feral vampires in a secluded hospital. This one isn’t much like Twilight.

For information on all of these books, visit Jeff Strand’s more-or-less official website at http://www.JeffStrand.com

Subscribe to Jeff Strand’s free monthly newsletter (which includes a brand-new original short story in every issue) at http://eepurl.com/bpv5br

And remember:

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