Welcome to the 100 Word Stories podcast at oneadayuntilthedayidie.com.
This is Weekly Challenge, where I post a topic and then challenge you to come up with a 100 word story based on that topic.
We’ve got stories by:
- Tura Brezoianu
- Norval Joe
- Planet Z
by Jeffrey Fischer
Hank and Stu were the best of friends, so when Hank needed a loan of a hundred bucks Stu didn’t hesitate. Ditto when Hank asked to borrow Stu’s car, and when Hank wanted to move in with Stu after Hank’s eviction.
Stu had to admit he was relieved when Hank moved out, only to find that Hank had stolen Stu’s identity and was living large on fraudulently-obtained credit. Good pal or not, this was a step too far. Stu started to dial the police when cops showed up at his door. Seems Hank had been involved in a hit-and-run in Stu’s car. Hank must have figured Stu would lend Hank five to ten years of Stu’s life, because that’s what good buddies are for.
by Jeffrey Fischer
During the 1970s, my dad succumbed to the CB radio craze and bought a Radio Shack unit for the car. We rarely talked to anyone, but Dad paid attention when truckers warned one another about speed traps.
One day he had the opportunity to return the favor. We had encountered a state trooper with his radar gun out, parked just over the crest of a hill on the interstate. Dad braked just in time, then thumbed the microphone. “Hey out there, be on the lookout for Smokey past the ridge at mile marker 179. He’s in the median. Ugly hat with a radar gun. Ten-four.”
A few minutes later, we heard the bleep of a siren as a trooper pulled us over. The cop leaned into the car and said, “Ugly hat, huh?” That’s how Dad learned the police also listened to CB radio chatter.
On the Nature of Friendship
By Christopher Munroe
You can’t spell “Good Buddy” without “Good Bud,” and that’s why I believe that a true friend will help you find marijuana.
That follows, yeah?
I don’t often smoke the stuff myself, it puts me to sleep, but if somebody comments on wanting some I like the challenge, it makes for a fun game for me.
I’m a grown-assed adult, with zero drug connections, but I’m reasonably intelligent and extremely tenacious, and if I want to buy drugs, then BY ZOD I am going to find someone to sell them!
Yeah, I’m also surprised I don’t get arrested more often…
My good buddy is my friend, Prince. Prince is a rare Louisiana Catahoula Leopard Dog. He is mid-sized, but only in stature. His IQ was tested at the University of Davis Veterinary School, and measured 130. 130 is a few points higher than the mean IQ of Harvard students. Prince knows over 15,000 words, including common directives like sit, etc. Commands are frequently strung together to form intricate instructions like: “Go outside, evacuate your bowels then come inside for your supper and a drink. Be sure your anus is clean, and wipe your paws before entering. Thank you, Good Buddy.”
#1 – Good Buddy
From the moment I saw it, ‘Every Which Way But Loose’ was my all-time favourite film. More than that, it shaped my career and set me on a lifetime’s quest to live the dream of the long-distance big rig driver.
I won’t say it was easy – it’s a hard lifestyle and a lonely road we truckers drive, but we’re a real community, and sometimes, when I’m perched way up high, looking down on those lesser mortals hanging around my wheels, I can see myself as Clint Eastwood, just like in the film.
All I need now, is an orangutan!
#2 – Charlie
I had my doubts about Charlie.
Sure he could write a good tune and his band had bags of enthusiasm, but he just didn’t have the voice for it, or much else, for that matter… He was no Elvis, that’s for sure!
Presley had the hips, the lips, the looks and that look in his eye – not to mention the voice of an angel; what did Charlie have? A pair of spectacles and some catchy rhythms. There was no comparison.
Then he played me his song: ‘That’ll be the day’, and I was hooked.
“That’s good, that’s real good, Buddy!”
Dear Good Buddy,
It probably seems strange to you that I’m writing you a letter since we talk everyday. Some things are just better expressed in writing. I’ve known you… god… a lifetime, right? In that time, you’ve been an amazing person. Remember you went skydiving because you’re afraid of heights? And you sang in front of 5000 people because you have stage fright? You were… no, ARE my rock star. These last few months have been hard, I know, but it will get better. I’m here for you. Don’t make me leave. Please put the gun down.
Call him, call him.
He couldn’t call him… What about Helen? And the kids?
That nagging voice at the back of his mind wouldn’t give up though. Just call him and get it over with.
His life would crumble to pieces or it would start anew. The lying, the hiding, the cheating, the faking, all would be a faint recollection of a tortured past.
But the damn questions he’d have to face. Where did you meet him? When did you meet him? Did you ever love me?
Call him. “Hello? Martin? This is Frank.”
That was it. It started. Finally.
A good buddy is hard to find, but you’re the very best.
You have all the qualities, and more, that set you above all the rest.
A good buddy is always there for you, holding your hand, wiping away your tears and helping you back onto your feet.
A good buddy laughs at your jokes, knows your secrets and shares the good times and the bad.
So I know you won’t mind taking the rap for what I’ve done… And, I know you really won’t mind that I used your carving knife, covered in your finger prints.
Thanks, good buddy.
BrainDead and Damn Proud of It
What do you do when you have no idea of what to write about? Parse the Topic. Well the root of buddy is bud and by context this would be a reference to a person whom shares their father’s name, better than the diminutive Junior, but not by much. Metaphorically a pre-photosynthetic appendage on a family tree. Now placing a “Y” at the end further diminutifies the term, double diminutive. It doesn’t get better, for comparisons: Best, Better, Good, good is pretty much a 3rd rate adjective. Thus you end up with a triple diminutive term of endearment. Ten Four.
You know your Fad has reached maximum exposure when someone writes a humorous pop song. The Streaker, King of the Road, Beethoven’s Third Symphony. Did anyone write a pet rock song? When CB-ing smoky and the bandited into mom and pop America the doseit droning of “Convoy” oozed out of every radio pore. In short order even your Grandmother started saying, “10-4 Good Buddy. Right at you Rubber Duck” I wish to god I didn’t have to confess this, but while CB-ing I was actually wearing a leisure suit. Did anyone ever write a song about Polyester Nehru Leisure Suit?
The original “Good Buddy” app was just a chatbot. You’d let it read your social media accounts, and it would learn to be your virtual companion. It really took off when we bought a robotics company and created the Good Buddy robot companion. We got so huge that when Facebook tried to acquire us, we bought them.
The real money is in the advertising. If you ever chatted with your Good Buddy about where to take a holiday, you went where someone paid us to suggest.
The NSA would love to get access, and “Don’t Be Evil” is so yesterday…
Gil and I have been friends for a long time. Every few months when our routes match, we’ll stop and have lunch. Gil has a teddy bear that he calls Monkey McKay. Today we stopped in a truck stop called the Uncharted. After Gil picked out a new souvenir shirt for Monkey McKay, he met me near the Little Debbie’s wafers. Sure enough just like last time I stopped for peanut butter wafers two cars turned into giant robots then started to fight. So here I am stuck in the Uncharted’s dessert aisle with Gil again and his little buddy.
Strangest man I ever met. Everywhere he went, he would be talking to his
imaginary friend called ‘Good Buddy’.
At first I thought he was talking to me. But his words were aimed into empty
airspace and over time I realized I was outside of the conversation.
Then one day I found him folded over, crying.
I put my hand on his shoulder as comfort.
“Good Buddy died” he choked between sobs.
“Reality,” I offered with a sympathetic shrug.
He looked at me squinting through tears. “You don’t understand. He died
twenty years ago today. Good Buddy was my son.”
(music: Galoshes by Podington Bear is licensed under Creative Commons
Attribution-NonCommercial 3.0 International License / curated by
Dergle walked into the Bust-a-Gut 24 hour gym.
Long John followed, but stopped at the door and sat.
Dergle turned back, patted the wiener dog, and said, “You’re a good buddy. I’ll be out in an hour.”
The owner, Rick Racker, smiled from behind the counter.
“Can I pay you cash for a month membership, so I can use your shower?” Dergle asked.
“The water’s not working at your place?” Rick asked.
“No. I don’t exist anymore,” Dergle said. “So no one will rent to me.”
“That’s pretty harsh,” Rick said. “Park your van in my lot, if you want.”
Dr. Pepper used to advertise that you should drink a bite to eat at 10, 2, and 4.
But if you drank that much Dr. Pepper, your teeth would rot from all the sugar, and you’d be dead from diabetes before forty.
Hell, you’d be better off drinking vodka that often and early.
Unless, of course, you’re a truck driver.
Cletus always kept a jugs of Smirnoff’s in his cab.
He crossed the median line one day and went head-on with a church van.
He was driving a Dr. Pepper truck.
See? I told you that shit will kill you.