George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
Oh, sure, he always wanted to be a pirate.
He dressed up as a pirate every Halloween and went Trick-or-Treating.
One year, after hearing “Aren’t you too old to be trick or treating?” too many times, George went to the tavern.
Sure enough, there was a table full of pirates, and when they were done drinking, George tagged along.
At first, the captain was happy to get a new recruit.
But after so many screwups, he wished that George had dressed up like a clown and joined the circus.
Nobody debated that Melbourne Fitch was in the morgue.
The problem was, there were three of him.
Three Melbourne Fitches, completely identical.
Well, except in how they died.
One had a gaping gunshot wound.
The second had been poisoned.
And the third, drowned.
But everything else, they were the same.
Melbourne had no brothers, so he wasn’t any kind of triplet set.
Nor did any of the three show signs of plastic surgery to render two identical to the third.
The coroner shrugged, released one body, and dismembered the other two for disposal as medical waste.
So much less paperwork.
Medical schools have strict rules with how students are supposed to treat donated cadavers.
They’re not allowed to use them in pranks, abuse them, or conduct resurrection experiments.
On the other hand, there are no rules when it comes to the bodies of people that they grab off of the street and murder.
Well, besides the fact that they’re not supposed to be grabbing them off the street and murdering them.
The administration does its best to cover those incidents up.
They dress the frankensteins in janitor’s overalls, give them mops, and set them to cleaning with the night shift.
Halfway through the dinner, Foster tapped his glass to bring silence to the table.
“They say that holding a grudge is like drinking poison and hoping that the other person will die,” he said. “Which is why I’ve brought you here to apologize, and to beg for forgiveness.”
Foster’s enemies muttered among themselves, and then came to agreement to accept Foster’s apology.
They raised their glasses in a toast, and drank.
One by one, they clutched their throats, gasped, and collapsed.
“… and to serve you poisoned wine,” finished Foster.
He knocked over a candle, and left as the flames spread.
Josie wanted an abortion.
“My body, my choice,” she said.
A counselor was assigned to help her with her decision, just to make sure she didn’t regret anything later.
“What’s there to regret?” said Josie. “It’s not a person. It’s not human.”
So, the counselor gave approval, and Josie had the abortion.
The next night, the counselor invited Josie over for dinner.
She lifted the cover off of the main course: Josie’s aborted fetus, roasted and garnished.
“It’s not a person or human, right?” said the counselor.
And then she opened a bottle of wine… white goes with baby, right?
I tested my quantum teleporter on my lab assistant.
He reached the destination pod successfully.
Well, sort of.
He actually disintegrated into dust on the first pad as the scanners determined every one of his particle’s quantum states.
So, technically, I murdered my lab assistant.
And there was an exact quantum duplicate on the teleporter pad.
But before you arrest me for murder, please keep in mind that after I teleported my assistant, I teleported myself.
The me you see is a quantum duplicate of my original self.
Completely innocent of my original’s act of murder.
Or suicide, I suppose.
The truth is, Mark David Chapman didn’t want to kill John Lennon.
He really wanted to kill Yoko Ono.
However, when he finally got his chance, outside of the Dakota, Yoko grabbed her husband and used him as a human shield.
Lennon lay dying on the ground.
Chapman, out of bullets, pulled out his copy of Catcher In The Rye and began to smack Yoko with it.
Yoko paid off the witnesses to get them to say he wanted to kill John, not her.
She was terrified that a sympathetic jury would let him go to finish the grisly task.