The kingdom awaited the arrival of a royal heir.
But three witches captured the queen and divided her up.
The witch with the legs gave birth to a beautiful baby boy. A prince.
The witch with the middle suckled him as the witch with the head sung him to sleep.
They killed the witch with the legs and shared them, trading at dawn.
When the boy could eat solid food, the witch with the head killed the witch with the middle, and took all the queen for herself.
The prince giggled happily as she carried him back to the kingdom.
Just as the Leprechaun guards his pot of gold from rainbow-chasers, the Leperchaun flees the people who follow his trail of rotted-off appendages.
Why people would follow a trail of bloody fingers… toes… or worse, I have no idea.
Sometimes, it’s the police, After that John Wayne Bobbit incident, anything’s possible, really.
The dogs sniff out a trail, which leads to the miserable creature, hunched over a pot of glue.
With antibiotics, he can be cured of the horrible affliction. But the disfigurement is permanent.
With prosthetics and a 3D printed half-mask, he’ll still look like a goddamned Irish midget.
Every year on Martin Luther King’s birthday, the reverend’s ghost wakes from his eternal dream.
He peers from his tomb, across the moat, and into the offices of The Center Of Nonviolent Change.
The dream. The dream where his children would be judged one day by the content of their character.
His daughter was talking to copyright attorneys, setting rates for the use of his legacy, and organizing the takedown notices and lawsuits for those who refused to pay royalties.
“I wished for so much more for you,” he whispered.
Then he settled back into his tomb for another year.
I always set my alarm clock before I go to sleep, and I always set the alarm clock on my phone as a backup.
Even though I set two alarms every morning, I wake up before them. But I still set those alarms, just in case I sleep late and need them.
It’s like circus acrobats and trapeze artists who use nets. If they are good, they don’t need or even want the net, but they have it there anyway.
So, I set the alarms, go to bed, and I dream of being a circus acrobat.
Without a goddamned net.
Soulstones are easy to use.
After a couple swallows a pair of soulstones and goes to sleep, they will wake up in each other’s bodies.
When you’re ready to switch back, wait for the stones to come out, wash them off, and swallow them again.
I don’t know how they work. I just know they work.
What’s it like?
It’s disorienting, seeing yourself standing in front of you.
“A deal’s a deal,” says Natalie, pushing her cock into my mouth.
Her mouth. My mouth.
Pronouns can be so confusing with soulstones.
But you adapt quickly.
“That’s nice,” says Natalie, smiling.
I spent the whole night on the beach with her.
Sat next to her and watched the tide come in.
She begged for me to dig her out of the sand, but there’s no way I’d do that.
So, I gagged her before she started screaming.
As each wave rolled in closer, she went from scared to angry to what I swear was forgiveness.
Like all the others.
Sometimes, I dig them out after they get a wave or two against their face.
But not this one. This one belongs to the Sea Gods.
“Yes,” they demand.
And I comply.
I was there when Superman said he would never fly again.
“I’m never going to fly again,” he said. “Ever.”
Then he took off his cape, tossed it in the trash, and walked to The Daily Planet.
“I QUIT!” he shouted.
It took them a few minutes to realize that he was Clark Kent.
Then he did a few interviews and speaking engagements for money. Even posed in Playgirl.
“Easy money,” he said. He thought about selling his services to the highest bidder, but he decided to stay retired.
“If you monkeys screw this planet, I’ll just fly to Mars.”