Good. You’re awake.
I’d like to explain why you’re laid up in the infirmary, Captain.
Ensign Smith is from Far Colony through a rehab assignment. Among other practices, Far Colony’s customs include the pictographic branding of all criminal acts.
Pointing to his mother’s image and saying “Is that what’s waiting for you back home” is a two-fold insult: reminding him of her murder and suggesting lewd acts with his mother.
Well, three-fold if you consider necrophilia, which they actually still consider a serious no-no.
Well, you can still hold the pen in your mouth to sign the transfer order.
Abe’s favorite hobby was breeding racing flies. He worked hard at breeding different bloodlines for sprinting and long distance races.
Every now and then, he’d breed up a super-fly, capable of competing in both the sprints and the marathons.
The fact that he raised them from maggots deep in the flesh of his calves seriously hampered his chances at public office. So, in the end, he gave up his one true love for politics, as many ambitious men do.
Still during the worst battles of the war, Abe secretly snuck out to indulge in his favorite pastime with enemy corpses.
Gerald the Geek was famous for biting the heads off of live chickens. I don’t think there’s a county fair that hasn’t had chicken blood drooled by Gerald on its midway.
One day, those wiseasses from PETA knock on my door, yelling all sorts of crazy demands.
“Let the elephants go free!”
“Stop torturing the horses!”
“Does the Snake Lady have an on-staff, full-time herpetologist?”
Blah blah blah. Damn hippies.
They also wanted Gerald fired. So Gerald did what came natural and bit their heads off.
If he gets out, it won’t be for fifty years.
So, want the job?
During his summers, Abraham Lincoln worked in a circus as a Tic Tac Toe-playing chicken.
“Bawk,” said Abe, pecking at the center square.
“That’s no chicken,” growled the farmer he was playing against. “I think that’s just future president Abraham Lincoln in a chicken suit. I want my nickel back!”
“Cluck,” said Abe.
“Did you say future president?” asked the carnival owner.
“Yes,” said the farmer. “Why?”
The carnival owner hired the farmer on as a Hindu psychic.
Abe was fired, but he kept the chicken suit just in case the whole rail-splitting lawyer and president gig didn’t work out.
Rene slapped off the radio, shot out of bed, and ran to the studio.
His greatest idea yet! So much better than the men in bowlers, the green apples, and the hanging boulders!
He slashed at the canvas with his brush. No sky! No clouds! No background!
Tan. Just tan. Endless tan.
Rene then dabbed his brush into the various colors, shaping and shading the object of his desire.
“Fini!” he shouted. “Ceci n’est pas une foret!”
The lifelike electric drill shone proudly from the canvas.
“Rene, non foret,” said Georgette.
“Non foret?” said Rene. “Beluge? Chat?”
“Pipe,” Georgette said.
Abe looked out the window and spotted the stagecoach.
Four angry Arabs sat on top of it, whipping the horses and shouting curses with every lash.
“This can’t be good,” said Abe.
“Relax, Mister President,” said his chief of security. “Everything’s been taken care of.”
The stagecoach rumbled along Pennsylvania Avenue, jumped the curb, crashed through the fence, and made a beeline for the White House.
“Oh crap,” said Abe.
The Arabs shouted one last ALLAHU ACKBAR before they and the stagecoach smashed into the building.
“Sixth one today,” said Abe. “Is there nothing civil about their war against us?”
Without language, nor lust. I guess you could still call it love.
They played backgammon at the café every evening. A bottle of wine between them – a smile, a wink. Nothing more than that.
One night, a madman shouted “GOD IS GREAT!” and exploded.
As if He needed reminding.
A week later, the man looked at the rebuilt café. He folded his tear-soaked paper, picked through the alleyway, and found a bloody chip.
Most people place stones on tombstones; he placed the chip.
Her husband showed him the way.
He never went back, except in his dreams.