Malakas the Sculptor hated rush jobs.
He preferred to plan out his work, drawing up the plans and measuring out the perfect proportions for everything. Sharpening chisels and testing the material was his favorite part of the process, not the actual work.
Fat chance. The king was due back in Athens tomorrow, and the priests needed the temple frieze completed tonight.
So, Malakas worked. And he drank. Heavily.
The intricate battle scene turned into a screed mocking King Demetrius. By the time he fit the last word in, the priests saw what he was doing, screamed, and had him executed.
Want to know what’s more fun that a barrel full of monkeys? Watching the idiot trying to put them in there.
Okay, so you put a monkey in the barrel, close the lid, and grab another monkey. Sure enough, the monkey you got in there will escape the moment that lid comes off.
Frank has an easy solution to this: He kills the monkeys.
Sure, you could tranquilize them, but Frank really hates monkeys. And he really likes killing them.
By the time he fills up the barrel, well, he’s had about as much fun as he could possibly have.
Wendy rubbed her sweat-covered forehead and gritted her teeth.
It was always the same: first the pain, then the visions. Screaming. Seeing Satan in her five children. Drowning them in the tub.
And blinding, mad agony.
“Why is this shit happening to me?” she screamed, reaching for the Excedrin bottle. “I don’t have any kids!”
The pain stopped.
“No children?” said a voice in her head. “I’m sorry, is this the Yates Residence?”
“They’re next door,” whimpered Wendy.
“Oh,” said the voice. “My mistake. Sorry for bothering you.”
The demon flowed from Wendy’s nose, shrugged, and wafted out the door.
It’s a rare thing to see the president walk down the middle of the street, but people who looked out their windows on that fine April morning caught a glimpse of Abraham Lincoln slowly strutting down Pennsylvania Avenue.
“You really should head back,” said an adviser.
“Never,” said Abe. “I’m a slow walker, but I never walk back.”
“Are you sure of that?” asked the advisor. “You should really consider heading back.”
“Never,” said Abe. “Never in my life.”
“Even when you’ve forgotten your pants?” asked the adviser.
Abe looked down, blushed, and shrugged.
“Hail to the chief!” said Lincoln.
“You must travel this path alone, Mister President,” said The Librarian, and he slammed the trapdoor shut.
Abe held the torch in front of him and walked through the hidden corridor of books.
Oddly enough, the cobwebbed ceilings in this book-filled cellar were tall, so Abe didn’t have to duck.
“Amazing,” he said. “Simply amazing.”
When he came to the end of the hall, he saw a stack of books with his name on it.
He opened one, and was shocked.
“These are my thoughts!” he shouted. “What witchcraft is this?”
Abe torched the unholy books and ran.
Back in the Twenty-First Century, “complete” vacation packages would leave out things like drinks and meals. That $999 tour of Europe ended up costing several thousand dollars when you factored in those items, despite their appearing on all the brochures.
These days, vacationers are still ignorant of what’s missing in these kind of heavily discounted tour packages.
Sure, you can assume that gravity may not be present if you’re in a spinless hull. But woe be to the traveler who goes to sleep in their cabin and misses the alarm signalling the end of the complimentary ten minutes of oxygen.
On the first day of school, the most important thing to do is to identify who’s dealing what drugs this year. Sometimes, your connection ends up getting transferred to another school or sent to juvie, and you need to get your fix through someone else.
One thing’s for sure: the prices always go up. The stuff they sell might change from grade to grade, even though you can always find the classics if you look hard enough, but you’ll always shell out more for that same high.
And people think the three months off is why I teach.