Pain… so much pain…
The priest pats my ankle and tells me everything is going to be fine.
No it won’t. I’ve been nailed up here all morning.
All I’ve known in this life has been pain.
And it fucking hurts like Hell.
I wish they’d never found my blood on the Spear of Destiny. With the DNA, it took the cloners four months, and now they’re geared for global mass-production.
Truly, it’s Communion gone mad.
If I were fed pieces of myself, would they turn to wine and crackers in my stomach?
I feel the knife.
Damn you all!
If you want to come in Hell’s Den, you need to play by the rules:
Leave your shoes outside. Your socks, too.
Cut the knuckles on your left hand with a silver knife.
Knock three times. Two raps, a pause, and then one hard knock.
Really hard. It’s a long way down, and it’s sometimes hard to hear.
Stand back. Door opens fast.
No saints allowed.
Got diseases? Bad diseases?
Good. The more the better.
But when you come to Hell’s Den, come alone.
Once you’re inside, trust me, you won’t be lonely.
Tell them Jesus sent you.
It was a dark and stormy night. Lightning was striking everywhere but Dr. Frankenstein’s lightning rods.
Transylvania Edison kept refusing to run industrial-grade capacity to his castle, so it was lightning or nuclear.
Sure, Dr. Frankenstein was mad, but he wasn’t crazy. Lightning it was.
And without lightning tonight, his creature couldn’t come to life.
He called the rod manufacturer’s tech support line when the phones went dead.
That’s right. Lightning had struck the telephone pole.
Not even a dial tone.
He shrugged, hooked up the creature to the phone line, and that’s when lightning hit the rods.
Bus full of nuns… fried.
Child molester… spared.
Honorable soldier… fried.
Al Franken… spared.
Paul Harvey… fried.
“THOR!” yelled Odin.
The Father of The Gods scowled.
Thor’s thunderbolts had become increasingly wild over the past century, concerning his father Odin to the point where he consulted an orthopedic surgeon.
Thor was scheduled for Tommy John surgery a month ago, and after a few months of therapy and weight-training, it is my professional opinion that he’ll be as good as new.
Before he headed back to Asgard, he said “Thank you” and left me this hammer. Isn’t it cool?
Count Viper may not have been born a Yankees fan centuries ago, but he certainly died one.
For eighty years, the Count took in every night game, feeding on rude fans.
Well, never the ones with 3 on their back, out of respect for Ruth.
Last year, Alex Rodriguez shattered his bat and a piece flew into the stands where Viper had been a permanent fixture.
It pierced the vampire’s heart and reduced him to ash instantly.
A minute later, one of those rude fans brushed the Count’s ashes aside and watched the Yankees lose to the Red Sox.
Even though the Red Cross has opened up multiple massive shelters for the survivors of Hurricane Katrina, it is imperative that people are moved out to smaller accommodations.
Large, anonymous masses of people afford opportunities for criminal elements, or much worse kinds of predators.
Many people are opening their homes without any question or fear, but just as the dead float in the flooded streets, some still walk them.
Whether voodoo zombie or vampire, protections against inviting undead into your home should be in place. I’d suggest greeting your new roommate with plenty of garlic and exposed mirrors.
Oscar’s toaster made any bread stuck into it vanish.
“So, where does it go?” asked Karen.
“I have no idea,” said Oscar. “But I’ve had to switch to cold cereal.”
“Does this happen with bagel halves, too?” asked Karen. “Or just toast?”
“I don’t eat bagels” said Oscar. “Just toast.”
Karen bought some bagels, sliced one in half, and stuck it in the toaster.
She waited for a minute, and the bagel halves popped out.
“I guess it’s just bread,” said Karen.
Oscar shrugged and went out to buy a new toaster.
He smashed the old one with a hammer.