Spare Santas

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We watched the sleighs take off in the night, patted ourselves on the back, and headed back into the Workshop to enjoy our only night off before we’d have to plan for next year.
An hour later, one of the sleighs comes back.
Rocket’s got three bullets in his flank and Chancer’s hanging dead from the harness.
There’s a big black boot caught in a sleigh skid. I tugged it loose, and a few bloody toes fall out.
“Squad seventy-two,” I mumble.
Pacific Northwest. Trouble over Pocatello.
We warned the Santa, but they never listen.
That’s what spares are for.

Breaking Eggs

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Doctor Odd held the eggs against the phase-regulated vacuum pump and flipped the switch.
“Watch!” he yelled.
The eggs vibrated for a moment, glowed red, and then their insides dropped into the skillet below.
“Success,” said Odd, inspecting the shells.
Not a crack.
“You can’t do this!” shouted his assistant. “This is madness! You cannot make an omelet without breaking a few eggs!”
“You’re right,” said Odd, looking at the bubbling eggy goop in the frying pan.
“Thank God you came to your senses, Doctor,” said his assistant.
“What was I thinking?” said Doctor Odd. “It needs peppers and mushrooms!”

Anchors Aweigh

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Yes, It was my treachery that sank the ship.
I was paid by the enemy to scuttle it during the night watch.
However, as I swam towards the rowboat that was waiting to pick me up, I was entangled in the anchor chain and dragged to the bottom of the ocean.
Straight to Hell.
The anchor chained to my leg feels like it gets heavier every century I drag it, but I know that it’s my mind playing tricks on me.
Or is it my soul playing tricks on me?
I regret nothing.
Well, except getting tangled in this anchor.

Hatestorm

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Howard Stern was the least of it. Foul-mouthed juvenile miscreants, amoral priests and vile partisan pundits, spreading filth and putrid rants throughout the ether around the clock and around the world.
You see, Marconi never finished his equations. The Principle of Saturation went unpublished, so the garbage and hatred building up in the invisible spaces between matter and antimatter went unrealized.
Until one day, after a particularly gross midget-sex roundtable on Opie and Anthony, the Saturation point was exceeded.
Clouds of rancor spilled across the skies. Marconi’s worst nightmares realized, a thousand years of darkness.
The fools blamed global warming.

The Adventures of Mustard Man – Chapter 17

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Whether you call it Sulfur Mustard or Mustard Gas, it doesn’t matter. It’s a chemical weapon with no relation to mustard itself besides the slight mustard or garlic like odor if it’s impure.
Otherwise, it is odorless and tasteless. There’s absolutely no warning you’ve been exposed to it until your skin blisters a few hours later.
Or when you die.
On the other hand, Mustard Man Mustard has a savory bite to it. And it doesn’t make your skin blister. Most of all, it won’t kill you.
Unless someone crushes your skull with a jar of it.
Be careful, okay?

The Wacky Adventures Of Abraham Lincoln 44

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It was Christmas at the White House. Everyone was getting into the holiday spirit.
Except Abe, of course. He’d grumble and roam the halls instead of decking them with boughs of holly.
So, Mary Todd convinced him to play Santa Claus. Being so thin, they figured he could actually slide down the chimney.
However, they didn’t count on the amount of padding it would take to get him to fill out the suit. Or the fact that he was so tall.
The suit looked ridiculous. Gangly, gaunt black-bearded Santa.
So, they celebrated Hanukkah instead, burning Southern cities instead of candles.

Simple Math

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The warden got tired of screaming at Governor Jackass about running out of room on Death Row. Simple math: too many walking in, not enough leaving feet-first.
On the day the last empty cell was taken, the warden got word yet another prisoner was coming.
No room. That’s when he took matters into his own hands: Any new prisoner coming in that needed a cell would have to kill a man for his cell.
One in, one out. Simple math.
Eventually, word got out.
Horrified, the governor put a new warden in office.
The old one left feet-first. Simple math.

Accidents will happen

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The Wonkavator didn’t work as expected. Instead of flying around the city, amazing the occupants as it danced around the sky, the carriage was smashed to bits against the top of the elevator shaft.
You see, the blueprints called for a sturdy bullet-resistant glass with a steel skeleton on the carriage and an ultrathin shatterglass cap on top of the elevator shaft.
Someone got them reversed, and that got Wonka, Grampa Joe, and Charlie shredded into a bloody pulp.
Strange, orange-faced midgets gathered up the bloody bits, put them in canvas bags, and alerted the factory’s lawyers of the accident.

The Box

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I see you like the box. Would you like to know what it does?
Press the button once, and the box will buzz.
Press the button two times, and the box plays music.
Press the button three times, and the music stops.
Press the button four times, and the box will sparkle with pretty green lights for five seconds.
Press the button five times, and the box will emit a cloud of lemon-scented steam.
Whatever you do, don’t push and hold the button.
What happens? Well, according to my blueprints, the world ends.
Fifty bucks?
You have yourself a box.

Hello, God.

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It was a nice day out until the meteors came.
Or maybe they were asteroids. Or comets.
I have no idea. I’m no astronomer.
Big rocks, smashing into the earth. How’s that?
Good.
All I know is that one minute it’s nice and sunny, and the next minute I’m holding my hands to my bloody ears, screaming at the sky.
I think I’m screaming, because I can’t hear myself. My throat is raw and I’m shaking.
And then I stop.
If my ears have blown out, then everybody else’s have.
What’s the point of screaming if nobody can hear you?