The FBI has a file on Frank Sinatra with over 2,000 pages in it.
And it’s still growing.
For a while after Frank’s death, FBI kept his grave under observation.
At first, with an around-the-clock stakeout.
But later, with cameras that fed into an observation post.
Nothing ever happened there, except for fans leaving flowers, or the occasional celebrity friend paying respects.
The agency maintained the cameras for a few years, until they were no longer in the budget. There were more important threats to society to watch.
Nobody ever picked up the cameras. They just left them there.
Author: R.
Captain Lou For Mayor
Back in the Eighties, nobody was more awesome than Captain Lou Albano.
He was this huge hairy loud Italian professional wrestling coach.
The dude was freaky. He had rubber bands in his beard and pinned to his face.
He was in Cyndi Lauper’s music videos.
But then, wasn’t everybody?
His blustering shouts of wisdom held simple truths.
No, I wouldn’t vote for him if he ran for president.
And I’d hate for him to be a governor, like that Jesse guy was.
Maybe a mayor of some dying Rust Belt city.
Like Youngstown. Or Akron.
Or somewhere in New Jersey.
Weekly Challenge #562 – PICK TWO: Lead, Floppy, Argon, Purple, Brunch, Taffy, Worried, Venerable
Welcome to the 100 Word Stories podcast at oneadayuntilthedayidie.com.
This is the Weekly Challenge, where I post a topic and then challenge you to come up with a 100 word story based on that topic.
We’ve got stories by:
JEFFREY
The Club
by Jeffrey Fischer
Brunch at the club was always a tedious affair. I would be surrounded by elderly women in floppy hats and purple flowery dresses, and even more ancient, venerable-looking men in threadbare suits that were the height of fashion in 1972. The maitre d’ would invariably lead me to the worst table in the club, as though he was worried I would do something shameful. Perhaps he was right. The service was indifferent and the food nearly inedible.
So why did I continue going to the club, week after week, despite what sounds like an all-around unpleasant experience? Two words: bottomless mimosas.
MUNSI
Upon being invited to Brunch
By Christopher Munroe
Yes, I’d love to join you for brunch.
It’s a good meal, after all, and you’re a good person, at least everything I’ve learned about you has led me to believe you are, and I suspect that the two of us could very much enjoy one another’s company over food.
Just pick the place, and I’ll be there with a smile on my face. I’m already looking forward to it!
However, I’ll offer fair warning, don’t be shocked if I arrive via party bus.
It’s been a long couple of weeks for me, I don’t want to get into it…
RICHARD
#1 – Medical Advice
The doctor told me I really shouldn’t be worried: “Everyone gets a little floppy now and again – maybe work is a little stressful, or you’re just tired… Or could be one of those signs that you’re simply not as young as you used to be. Worrying yourself about it isn’t really going to help matters”.
I asked him if there was anything he could prescribe, but he was reluctant to go down that route.
“See how things work out”, he said.
Actually, everything worked out just fine. Turns out the girls just can’t resist a rabbit… with floppy ears!
#2 – Purple
It was one of those unfortunate accidents – working late in the lab one night, a freak combination of a leaky reactor, a spilled test tube, and a small explosion combined to subtly alter Professor Argon’s body chemistry in a totally unexpected manner.
Sadly, for the professor, his resulting super-power, although Interesting, appeared in practical terms, to be useless.
No incredible strength, invisibility, x-Ray vision or fantastic speed for him – instead, he gloried in bright purple skin during daylight hours.
He did, however make a fortune from copyrighting his colour and selling the international retail rights to paint manufacturers.
TOM
Y’all Come Back Now
Purple Brunch, Purple Brunch I only wanted to see you do is eating purple brunch. One of Prince’s last songs. It was going on the last album he was working on, oddly titled: I would die 4 U. All the songs were about food. It was part of a tie-in to the launching of Purple Rain Burger Shacks the home of the Purple Burger. No more singing and dancing, just an old black guy in a white suite. It worked for KFC why not PRBS. Prince even lay down serious coin for an office Kentucky Colonel proclamation. Tongue wagin good
LIZZIE
Blindfold
“Wear a blindfold and follow the hordes. Blindness is liberating. Not even the venerable elders will lead us through. Don’t fight it. That growing lightness cradles a fading uncertainty, a state of alluring oblivion, of complete exemption, it will free us.”
“Turn it off. That’s depressing.”
The silence invaded the darkest corners of the room as the two friends sat side by side in front of the TV.
“Did you notice she was pregnant?”
“I don’t want to think about it.”
“Did you notice…”
“No.”
“You’re wearing your blindfold already… You’re doing what they want.”
“Just shut the hell up.”
JON
Your Skin Color Wasn’t Relevant On The Radio
By
Jon DeCles
“Taniwa, Fury! It is I, Straight Arrow!”
The bus driver is old. He remembers World War II. He is also aware that you need passwords to do anything after the Millenium.
“Come on, what’s that from?”
“Radio,” says my friend Bruce. “He is a White Rancher by day, but when danger threatens he is the Heroic Indian, Straight Arrow. That’s how he greets his horse, who he keeps in a secret cave. First Native American radio hero I can remember.”
Bruce grins at me.
“It is I, Straight Arrow: and my friend, Not-So-Straight Arrow!”
“Come on aboard!” the driver smiles.
***
In Modern Washington
By
Jon DeCles
The venerable Taffy worried that the brunch she had planned would be heavy as lead. She wanted it to be as light as argon, and she hoped as inert. She was tired of parties that disintegrated into brawls. She hoped for parties where everyone was cheerful, happy, non-corrosive: but she would settle for simple good manners and pleasant conversation.
Lobbying had always been done by women. At least the best of it. She longed for the days when Elsa had seated General Eisenhower next to Marilyn Monroe. She put on her floppy purple hat, sighed, and headed for the garden.
***
SERENDIPITY
The Venerable Reverend Albert Shuttlestone closed and locked his vestry door, threw his purple robe carelessly over a chair, and poured himself a large scotch.
Sinking into a battered leather chair, he pondered, over his position.
Had selling his soul to Satan been a bad thing? He wasn’t sure. Certainly, he had a massive and loyal congregation now, none of whom suspected they were on their way to the eternal fire, but there was still one constant irritation that troubled him.
Being the devil’s disciple was definitely cool…
But those bloody black masses were boring the hell out of him!
TURA
Lead; venerable
———
There were lead shot sewn into the hem, to make the robes hang better, enhancing their gravity to enhance the gravitas of the Venerable Primate. Hah! He had never felt less venerable, with the new king openly contemptuous of everyone outside his coterie.
“These robes,” he said to his dresser, “do not meet the moment.”
“Yes, the times are changed,” said the dresser discreetly. “Ex officio, you can wear a military coat, but perhaps something ambassadorial would suit.”
“An excellent idea,” said the Archibishop. “Expressing intent on constructive accommodation.”
But he feared that he might not long survive the coronation.
———
DANNY
Venerable Captain Spaulding of the Taffy industry woke up one day to realize he could not get any lead in his pencil. Suffering from Floppy penis, aka, erectile dysfunction, off to the Urologist he went. “Good News!” the urologist exclaimed, “We have just invented a purple Argon therapy that will make Viagra obsolete! All we have to do is shove a fluorescent tube up your urethra in what can only be described as a painful operation!” Worried, Spaulding replied, “are there any side effects?” “Only if you get an erection,” Doc retorted. “OK, doc, I’m convinced. One prescription for Viagra!”
NORVAL JOE
As the dust settled around the startled exploring party, Thurbing worried that their adventure had come to an end. When the ringing finally faded from his ears, he discovered that an unusual crunching sound was actually the venerable wizard’s laughter.
“What find ye so blasted humorous, old man?” Karbunkle asked. “We be in our tomb.”
“Not to be worried, my worthy companion. Follow my lead and you, like the rest of us, will be free of this crypt, forthwith,” Fenestration said.
A purple glow surrounded the wizard from his boots to his floppy black hat. Still cackling, he strode forward.
PLANET Z
Purple Argon topped the charts for weeks with their Venerable Taffy album.
Not that the charts meant much anymore.
When was the last time you went to a record store? Or bought an album?
Sure, the charts take into account online stores, like iTunes and Amazon Music.
But the record companies and recording industry get all the money anyway.
Bands get nothing.
This is why bands tour so much. Ticket sales that pay the bills. Or don’t.
They’ll break up, reform as Lead Brunch, and go out on tour again.
But the cool kids will still wear Purple Argon shirts.
Vermin
My friend the economist tried to convince me that economists are like master gardeners.
Some of them tell the hired help to pull weeds, while others tell the hired help to spread seeds.
I think they’re all just tossing a load of shit around, and they don’t care if it gets all over the hired help, the weeds, or the crops.
And they issue commands to their hired help, but none of them actually get their hands dirty.
Based on how fat my economist friend is, he doesn’t leave much of the harvest for others.
If anything, economists are vermin.
Pile Of Collars
Some of our cats have been big, while others were small.
We’ve had red ones, orange ones, black ones, stripey ones, silly calicos, and other crazy coat colors.
They eat. They sleep. They poop. They barf.
We get them collars so that people know that someone loves them very much.
“This one is mine,” we are saying. “That one is mine too.”
I keep spare collars handy, in case they lose their collars.
There must be a pile of collars somewhere out there.
Just like the pile of collars here, the ones we took off, and don’t give out again.
The Given Tree
Me and this tree have had a long life together.
I was born under this tree.
I did all my homework under the branches.
Learned archery by firing arrows at this tree.
How to make a fire, from the branches.
Proposed to the woman who became my wife under it.
Married her here, obviously.
And hung her from that branch over there.
Buried her on the other side.
I hid in the branches while the police looked for me.
I refused to come down, so they set fire to my tree.
The flames are spreading quickly.
Everything smells like smoke.
How Stuff Got Made
I like to watch the “How Stuff Gets Made” show.
But I watch it on Youtube, not television. I don’t like to be told when to watch things, and I like to watch a lot of them in a row.
Most industrial production of the stuff we use is done by robots and gigantic mixers, with as little human intervention as possible.
Watching these videos, I wondered what would happen when the human component of the production process were replaced by robots.
Then, I had an epiphany… what if these videos were produced by robots?
And, ultimately, viewed by them.
Cat Shifts
Tinny the cat loves hugs.
Most mornings, she jumps up on the sofa, walks to my chest, turns around, and lays down on my collarbone for a nap.
However, she likes to do this a few minutes before I need to shower for work.
So, sometimes I’m a little late getting to the shower, need to dress quickly, and end up a few minutes late to work.
That’s okay, because I can stay a little later at work to make up for it.
Which means I’m a few minutes late coming home.
Which is when Myst likes to lay on me.
The Other
Joe recently upgraded his iPhone to the latest software, and it now says that he has 25 gigabytes of Other.
What’s Other? he thought
He looked this Other up on Apple’s support site, and they wanted him to completely reinstall his phone from a backup, and that’s a pain in the ass.
“Fine,” he said, plugging in the phone and telling iTunes to sync up.
The sync began, and his headphones began to tingle.
When the sync was over, Bob looked at the screen.
“25 gigabytes of Other? Again? Damn this stupid thing!”
He exchanged his iPhone for a Droid.
Weekly Challenge #561 – Bus
Welcome to the 100 Word Stories podcast at oneadayuntilthedayidie.com.
This is the Weekly Challenge, where I post a topic and then challenge you to come up with a 100 word story based on that topic.
We’ve got stories by:
JEFFREY
The Wheels on the Bus
by Jeffrey Fischer
Phil’s son was eight, and Phil loved him very much. This is why, against his better judgment, Phil volunteered to be a parent chaperone for the class field trip to the science museum in Middleburg, the nearest big town. Thirty eight-year-olds, two parents, a teacher, and one frazzled bus driver in a single vehicle. Phil had also forgotten that the science museum was about 50 miles from the school.
After the fifteenth round of “the wheels on the bus go round and round,” Phil snapped. He remained in a catatonic state until delivered home. Only then did he come around, revived by copious quantities of beer. As a result of the trip, Phil never boarded a bus again.
MUNSI
The Party Bus: Volume II
There will come a day when you’ll want off the party bus.
Not forever, of course not, but for a while. You’ll realize you’re not as young as you were, and that the party bus lifestyle is no longer something you can live full time.
There’s no need to feel ashamed.
It’s part of growing up, and when the time comes accept it with grace.
Pull over, get off, and don’t look back as it drives away.
Feel neither guilt nor shame.
Cuz while there ain’t no party like a party bus party, still, a party bus party must stop.
CHARLIE
Uncle Ralph dug the hole with his Cat 416 backhoe. After the hole was dug, an old, 61 passenger bus was slid into the hole.
We used the bus as a clubhouse through middle and high school. A large hatch and a ladder was constructed under a disguised trap door on the forest floor, and several vents were neatly and cleverly hidden inside hollow trees.
We opened up membership to our exclusive club and sold time inside the bus to locals that wanted a private, secure place to partake of their dalliances and drug use.
The bus is still there.
RICHARD
Bus
My father was a bus conductor. He wasn’t employed by the bus company, neither did he inspect tickets. In fact, it’s true that he never boarded a bus in any official capacity.
Neither, for that matter, did the rest of the band.
The percussionists sat on the back seat; brass and woodwind on the left; strings to the right, and dad would stand by the luggage rack holding on to the straps for dear life!
In the end. The bus company banned them, of course. Not because of the noise, but because there was never any room to carry passengers!
LIZZIE
Right by the bus stop, Roger noticed a strange flower. It seemed to have grown exponentially overnight.
He walked closer and noticed the flower was panting. Suddenly, it spat out some bones.
Roger jumped back, alarmed, hiding behind the glass of the bus stop. Those looked like fingers, he thought.
“Where’s the damn bus?”
The following morning, the reports on TV were slightly intriguing. A whole bus and a young man waiting at the bus stop had mysteriously vanished.
“I think we have finally developed it right. We are ready to take over that miserable planet. Start the count down.”
TOM
In the Long Haul
Jack had been wedged into the Greyhound seat between the window and an 80 years old farmer for the last two days. Said farmer was only going as far as Omaha, but he had spent hour upon hour describing all the places he had visited in Chicago in 1917 always ending with the punctuation, “probably tore down.” When the seat became empty in Nebraska the Gods of Crappy Bus Trips didn’t fail to deliver. An ex-grade school teacher from Omaha who remembered the name of every single student she had taught, and was quite happy to share with Jack
SERENDIPITY
We used to sing songs on the bus… A happy bunch of kids, without a care in the world, heading off to school.
Or should I say, a happy bunch of kids, and one crazy, disturbed bus driver.
He hated those songs, and he hated us kids. Hated us with a passion defying reason, which ultimately caused him to snap. That fateful day the school bus, with all on board, plummeted from the cliff road… The school run finally silenced.
But not quite…
We still sing our songs tormenting the driver.
Only now he must suffer them for all eternity!
JON
Your Skin Color Wasn’t Relevant On The Radio
By
Jon DeCles
“Taniwa, Fury! It is I, Straight Arrow!”
The bus driver is old. He remembers World War II. He is also aware that you need passwords to do anything after the Millenium.
“Come on, what’s that from?”
“Radio,” says my friend Bruce. “He is a White Rancher by day, but when danger threatens he is the Heroic Indian, Straight Arrow. That’s how he greets his horse, who he keeps in a secret cave. First Native American radio hero I can remember.”
Bruce grins at me.
“It is I, Straight Arrow: and my friend, Not-So-Straight Arrow!”
“Come on aboard!” the driver smiles.
NORVAL JOE
My plan for when I finally lose my mind is that I’ll use my social security check to get a small apartment downtown and a monthly bus pass.
Everyday, I’ll ride the bus to the shopping mall wearing swimming goggles, a speedo, and a beach towel wrapped around my shoulders for my super hero cape. I’ll spend my day eating mall food, assisting the mall cops apprehend criminals, walking around the mall addressing all the shoppers as “Citizen”, and other super hero activities.
Just because I’m crazy doesn’t mean I can’t have fun or spend my time doing something worthwhile.
TURA
Bus
———
“The Routemaster was the best bus ever made,” he said, with a gleam in his eyes. “Built for efficient maintenance, did you know it only takes twenty minutes to swap out the engine? But people say it’s old-fashioned, they go for fads like bendy buses and driver-only, no romance.
“Bradford City Council still uses the Routemaster, and not only do I know the bus manager there, he knows me, and sometimes I can help him get hold of spare parts. You just try finding an original stainless steel throckle bracket these days!”
That’s the last time I date a bus-spotter.
Z
Organizers fill the schoolbus, and hand out signs as the driver carries the group across the city to the protest.
As the passengers exit, the organizers tell each: “You’ll get your fifty bucks when the protest is over and you hand back your sign.”
They join the others, and the organizers send the bus back to the pickup point to get more.
Twenty schoolbuses running a circuit, all morning long, until they run out of fuel.
“We’ll be back,” the organizers say, and they abandon the bus.
At the end of the day, the organizers watch the news, and laugh.