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Write for the world....
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Categorize >> Fiction/Humor
Organism" (or, "Penis Shrinkage at Cocktail Parties: Crisis or Hype?")
(or "If You Eat Glass, Use Hot Sauce")
(or, "I Don't Want Hamhocks for Thighs")
"Well, I had my day in court."
(Picture yourself a small but expensive apartment in Barcelona. If the living room curtains had been open, you could have seen the top of Gaudi's Casa Mila but they aren't. The owner of the apartment has just woken up. Right now, he's peeing into the wash basin. In about one minute's time, he'll be flossing his teeth – and then his i-Phone, which lies hidden under a cushion of the living room couch, will go, “La donna è mobile... La donna è mobile...La donna è mobile... La donna è mobile...”)“Fuck.” “La donna è mobile... La donna è mobile...La donna è mobile... La donna è mobile...” “Fuck, fuck, fuck...!” “La donna è mobile... La donna è mobile...La donna è mobile...” “Ah – there you are...!” “La donna è mo...” “Hello?” “Jack, is that you?” “Yes. Who's this?” “It's Iris. Please, Jack...” “Iris! I haven't seen you in ages. Not since...” “Jack!” “Yes? Don't tell me...” “Jack!” “I remember! It was that dinner at Pablo's. When I first saw your mother's new boyfriend, if I remember well. That was...” “JACK!!!” “Yes?” “Shut up...” “Jeez; what's wrong with you...?” “... and listen!” “Okay?” “There's a bomb in your apartment.” “There's what?” “A bomb.” “Here? In my apartment?” “Yes. You've got to...” “You're kidding me, right?” “No, I'm not ki...” “This is like 'Candid camera' or something, yeah?” “NO!” “I am so not falling for that. I am not going to...” “Jack...!” “Yes?” “You have to get out of there. Right! Now!” “Sure, sure...” “I'm serious.” “Right.” “Remember that piece you wrote about the Mohammed cartoons?” “Yes?” “You know how Misha said he would translate it and send it to the Al Nilin?” “That Egyptian newspaper? Yes, I remember. That was some party. Pity you couldn't be there.” “So, he did.” “What? Oh, right, that. The Cairo rag and all.” “Yes, that.” “Cool.” “Not cool. Remember Rushdie?” “So you say...? “Yes.” “So...? YES!” “...” “So, get the fuck out – NOW!” “But...” “Jack?” “Yes.” “NOW!!!” “Okay...” “Right.” “Bye then. And thanks.” “Don't mention it. Goodbye.” “Bye.” “Jack. Get the fuck out already!” “Yes. Bye.” “Bye.” “You hang up first...” “What...?!” “You hang up first.” “Are you fucking insane...?! Alright, alright... I will hang u...”
(Insert one mighty BOOM here.)“Jack? Jack? JACK...?!" (Imagine the sound of far-off sirens, almost as intrusive and elusive as the ring tone of a mobile, hidden under the cushion of a now extinct couch. Then, at last, silence again – and a whispered, “Fucking moron...!”)
On a cold, rainy afternoon in October, a tall, thin man wearing horn-rimmed glasses and carrying an umbrella walked into Sam's Bar and Grill on Crosat Street. There were a few regulars in the bar talking with the owner, Sam Taylor about who the best running back was in the NFL. The tall, thin man walked past these men and sat down at the far end of the bar and ordered a beer and a shot of Peppermint Schnapps. "It's Walter Payton," Bob Washkowiak said. "No question." This was Chicago Bears' territory and anyone who said otherwise was a traitor and likely to get tossed out on the street; that is, if one survived the verbal pummeling that would most likely ensue from outraged patrons and the bartender. "Hey Buddy," Dave Smith, a husky man wearing a Chicago Bears sweatshirt said to the tall, thin man at the end of the bar. "Who was the greatest running back in the NFL?" The man didn't say anything. He just sat there and sipped his beer.
"No, I don't believe it," Carl Dergance said. "No one could throw up at will. I mean sure, one can induce vomiting. But throw up on will? Don't think so." "I'm telling it's true," Roy "Butch" Hendricks replied. "A guy came into the shop today with this flyer and told me how he paid a buck up in Chesterfield to see this guy do his thing." Carl pushed back the baseball cap on his head and leaned back on the rickety chair in his office at the back of the Shell Station on Lafayette. He had been holding court with a couple of the regulars who also worked downtown-Roy, who had the barber shop down the block, Mike Mullins, the proprietor of Mike's Fishing and Hunting World and Sammy Vargas from Sammy's Pizza-chewing the fat on a lazy, Indian summer afternoon. A bell outside rang as a car drove in. "Hey Floyd, you want to get that," Carl yelled to his daytime helper, Floyd Thomas. A skinny kid with his hair tied back into a pony tail slowly got off a dilapidated couch outside the office and walked out to the gas pumps. "Now, just because some guy claims he saw this stunt in Chesterfield doesn't mean it's true. What was that line that Slim Pickens said in Dr. Strangelove, ‘I've been to one world fair, a picnic, and a rodeo, and that's the stupidest thing I ever heard...or something like that. Anyway, I'm not saying this guy who came into your shop was stupid or anything, but I've also been to some carnivals and circuses in my time and I've seen some pretty weird stuff in them sideshows, but never a man throw up on will. It's got to be a stunt."
At last! A cure for cancer!
Aden Budreux, who was given the moniker of “Dragontongue” as a young child but became famously known as the “Drunkard of Asden” along with other spiteful nicknames he's earned throughout his life, is a 300 year old Half-elf who loves nothing more than a bottle of ale or a jug of mead. He is asked to save the world a second time to fulfill yet another prophecy... ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
(Right, I'm killing time here: Waiting for Marta to return from the post office, before we head back to her cottage. Lately, I've been working on some short stories - old & new, It's been fun getting back to them, though I still find them harder to write, or get right, anyway, than any other form of writing. Anyway, the following story is more or less new. I don't really think it will be a keeper but it was fun to write - and perhaps some here will enjoy reading it. Do keep on your hard hats though: it's still very much under construction.)
This is an imaginary story for the most part. I am often accused of taking things to far. This is me saying "What if I really did take it this far?" I was sitting at my desk last Thursday working diligently on my day's tasks when Abby walked in. Abby works part time and she usually strolls in casually around noon. Last Thursday was no exception. The first thing I noticed as Abby walked past my desk was that she was wearing a Green t- shirt with lettering on the front that read "Enjoy Coke." As I read those two words, I thought to myself, "Yeah, whatever. Don't tell me what to enjoy." I'm the kind of person who doesn't like to be told what to do. I consider myself to be a unique individual who refuses to be pushed around by authority. A lone wolf, if you will. "No rules!" I always say. No rules. Lone wolves like myself don't follow the herd or the rules of others. We make our own rules and those are the only rules we will obey. Since I am a rebel bad ass with no rules, quite naturally I was bothered by what I had read on Abby's t-shirt. I took offense to it, but tried not to let it bother me. This would prove to be impossible.
I continued working diligently just as I always do, but I could not get the image of what I read out of my head. "Enjoy Coke" was all I could think about. Abby's t-shirt wasn't even the right color to be a Coke shirt. It was Green. Who did her t-shirt think it was to tell me what to do? I'm sure the Chattanooga Coca-Cola bottling company would not even endorse such a t-shirt, being the wrong color and all. Where did she even get that fucking t-shirt anyway? Probably a flea market somewhere.
Abby works directly in front of my desk and every time I looked up, I saw her t-shirt saying, "Enjoy Coke". It was beginning to be uncomfortable to even look away from my computer screen. I sat at my desk and stewed over this situation for quite some time. I knew I couldn't work the rest of the day like this, so I decided I would have to say something to her about this matter.
"Abby, I don't care what your t-shirt says, I'm not going to enjoy Coke. Ok? I don't appreciate being told what to do by a t-shirt."
"Yes you will, Keith. You will enjoy Coke......" Abby replied.
"Bull fuckin' shit!" I interrupted. "I don't get told what to do by you, by Chip (pointing to the dude sitting at a desk nearby), or by some stupid t-shirt you chose to wear up in here today!"
"You'll do whatever my t-shirt tells you to do, Keith!" said Abby.
I couldn't believe what a bitch Abby was being about this whole thing. Why was she sticking up for her t-shirt like that? What power did it possess? I had many questions I needed answers to.
"I will not, Abby! I'm a renegade badass!", I explained. "No rules!"
That dude Chip chimed in with, "It's only a t-shirt...."
I told Chip to shut the fuck up.
"This doesn't concern you, Chip! This is between me, Abby, and Abby's stupid ass shirt!" I said.
Abby came back with some shit like,"Don't call my shirt stupid!"
I did my best Abby imitation and said "Don't call my shirt stupid!" in such a convincing manner, she thought she had said it twice.
I told her once again that I will not be told what to do by her or a t-shirt. "Enjoy Coke", her shirt kept saying.
"It's merely a suggestion...." Chip said, butting in to a conversation that didn't concern him.
"I thought I told you to shut the fuck up, bitch!"
I went on to explain that "Enjoy Coke" was not a suggestion. It was a demand. Suggestions are made once, in a subtle way. I know a demand when I hear or read one, but I don't listen to suggestions. No rules, I say!
"Who the fuck do you and your t-shirt think you are, Abby? It's not even officially licenced is it, Abby?" I asked.
"Yes it is! And besides that, didn't I see you drinking a can of Coke yesterday, Keith? I bet you enjoyed it too!"
"Don't fucking tell me what I enjoyed, Abby!" I replied.
It was true, I had drunk a can of Coke the day before. It was hot outside and I did enjoy it a little, but I wasn't going to tell her that. As a matter of fact, I had a can of Coke in the refrigerator just waiting for me to drink it. I had a point to make and I was about to make it.
"Hey, Abby! Watch this!" I said.
I got up from my desk, walked over to the refrigerator, pulled out the can of Coke. I walked back to my desk and sat down in my chair, cracking open the can..
"You see this, Abby?" I asked, holding up the can of Coke I was about to drink.
"Yeah, I see it! What are you going to do with that, Keith? Drink it?"
I sat and chugged the whole can of Coke right in front of her. I burped four times as loud as I could, crushed the can with my bear hands and threw in across the room. Chip walked over and picked it up and put it in a nearby trash can.
"See that shit, Abby! I didn't enjoy that shit!" I said.
"Keith doesn't enjoy anything........" Chip tried to say.
"Chip! Shut! The! Fuck! Up!" I exclaimed.
But Chip wouldn't shut up. Instead, he said some shit like "It's just a way of advertising. In today's economy, Coke is at least employing people and.........."
Lucky for me, I got a phone call. I took that call and 15 minutes later, Chip could be heard saying,".....and that's why Capitalism works for all of us."
I said, " Chip! Shut the fuck up! I'm serious! I didn't enjoy that Coke, Abby. I enjoyed not enjoying it! Ya hear that? I did not enjoy that shit at all!!"
"Keith, I don't care what you say or think you enjoy. This is stupid. I'm not talking to you anymore." Abby said.
"Ha ha! You're admitting defeat! You can't fuck with me, Abby! No rules!" I said.
"Whatever." Abby said. "Chip, what was that you were saying about a mixed economy?"
"Well...." said Chip, "I was saying....Keith, you might want to hear this too,...."
"Fuck you, Chip!" I said as I shot him a bird. "No rules, motherfucker! No rules! Don't tell me what to enjoy!"
As the day dragged it's ass to an end, I sat in silence, gloating at my awesome and brutal victory. Let this be a lesson to you all. You don't have to be told what to do, what to enjoy, what to think, you only have to remember two words.
No Rules.
. . . Betty's Sister, Tammy!" (or, "Stealing Old Peoples' Teeth")
Today I have the honor of presenting you with an amazing scientific discovery. Surges of radiation were discovered bouncing off the Horsehead Nebula. Just this morning the surges were decoded as information we could read. They are the thoughts and ideas from the future, from a time when human beings have evolved past the needs of mortal bodies and have become creatures of energy and thought. The numbers before each entry are thought to be some advanced form of dates, though the system it is based on is unclear. While certain parts of speech become muddied without corporeal form, the messages are clear.
Did you notice that I joined this community and then didn’t contribute forever? No? Well, why would you? I don’t contribute. Maybe you’ve forgotten who I am.
. . . (or, "Is That a Knife in Your Gut?")
. . . Straight to Your Thighs" (or, "I Am Drawing the Line at Snake Sex")
. . . Are Everywhere" (or, "I Ate Cheerleaders for Breakfast")
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