Author: R.

Unlicensed to kill

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Bond’s license to kill was revoked last year because he shot too many bartenders who stirred his martini.
“I said shaken, dammit!” he’d shout. “Shaken!”
Three warnings later, he was disarmed for the good of mixologists around the world.
“What do I do now?” growled Bond as his trademark Walther PPK was returned to the gun vault.
“Run really fast,” said the controller. “Or call the cops.”
Assigned to spy on Taleban slavelords, Bond lasted seventeen hours in the field. He was last seen dialing 999 on his bowtie cellphone as three midget ninjas carved him into itty bitty pieces.

Galad 2

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Andrew Ian Dodge follows the creepy tale of Galad…

Galad slammed the phone down in frustration; his food supplier had been arrested in Dover on his way in with another load.
His arrogance, as was typical with Romania gangsters, had got the better of him. Baiting the BBC had not helped either. It was a hindrance more than a problem; he would now have to deal with the Russians.
“Work” on the fill under the Olympic area would probably end for a few days; as it did not like working hungry. Galad could get a few homeless rounded up to keep things moving; dangerous in London.
People gave a shit here.

Observer Twelve

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Observer Twelve kept his seven eyestalks glued to the monitors flicking through signals from Earth, taking notes as interesting things came up.
Four buildings full of Observers were dedicated to keeping tabs on this information-rich corner of the galaxy, a constant source of amusement and concern.
One day, the endless chaos of entertainment, news, sports and sex polarized into panic and desperation.
Then, nothing.
All signals ceased.
Some Observers were reassigned to other units, but most were laid off. Earth had been a rare gold mine of signals.
Ex-Observer Twelve spat and cursed the “Iranians” for ruining a well-paying gig.

Not Quite Columbus’ Day

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You know the story: Columbus sailed the ocean blue and arrived in America with three ships: the Nina, the Pinta, and the Santa Maria, right?
What the story leaves out is that he left Spain with hundreds of ships, arriving with only those three.
Where did the rest go?
Well, Ferdinand and Isabella gave him so much money, Columbus could afford a massive armada. He bought so many boats, he would walk from Spain to America on the decks of his ships lined up in a row.
He was also a gambler. Lost all but three of them in cards.

Galad

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Do we have another epic tale from Andrew Ian Dodge in the works?

Galad stood before a large window overlooking London; having just gotten off the phone with his mate Ken.
He specifically bid for the contract to do building nearest the water; the most complicated work over lots of tunnels and sewers.
His company specialised in working underground. They were well-known for their prompt and impressive work. Their digging was always precise and straight. His workers never went on strike; neither were they seen terribly often.
He picked up the phone.
“How long for the load of treats from Eastern Europe. We need it motivated for the next phase.”
He growled coarsely.

Robots kill robots

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“Robots kill robots,” chanted the robots as they marched, rolled, tumbled, and hopped into the arena.
The crowd roared, thirsty for blood.
In the last three seasons, they got it. Robots had to consist of 50% organic components by weight.
And not just “dead” weight, either. No useless blood like earlier models used. Critical functions had to be wired through the meat and gristle, forcing the engineers to take risks and make difficult choices.
One engineer went so far as to sacrifice his own brain for his creation.
He’s over there, on fire.
Should have used a monkey, poor soul.

Murder Offer

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Usually, door hangers offer pizza or Chinese. Two bucks off, free delivery, fifteen dollars minimum order. That kind of thing.
This wasn’t one of those. It was an offer for discount murders.
They quoted rates for various circumstances. Like security considerations. Chronic health problems. Or they’re pregnant – that kind of thing.
I dialed the number and got another dial tone.
Two minutes later, my phone rings.
“Who needs killing?” asks a voice.
“My neighbor’s dog keeps barking late at night,” I joked.
A week later, I got a bloody collar and the bill.
Funny. I don’t sleep any better.

Weekly Challenge #9 – On The Beach

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Welcome to the ninth Weekly Challenge, where I post a topic and then challenge you to come up with a 100 word story based on that topic.
The topic this week was a on the beach.
Seven stories (one rookie) was submitted this week, plus the usual madness from the planet of insane bards, Planet Z. Go ahead and listen to them by clicking on the grammophone thingy there in the left column and then vote for your favorite:

Who wrote the best story this week?
B
Gary of Easter Lemming
Elisson of blog d’Elisson
Robert Nagle of Idiotprogrammer
Gavriel of Abbagav
Andrew of Dodgeblogium
Beck of Incite
The Mystery Writer From Planet Z
  
Free polls from Pollhost.com

Thanks to everyone for sending in their stories, and I look forward to what you’ve got to write (and say) next week.
The theme will be posted shortly.

Leroy

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Leroy had a habit of shouting when he was angry. Glass-shattering loud.
Okay, so it’s not as much a habit as a reaction to stuff that angered him, but he yelled so loud, I swear you could hear it a mile away.
We took measurements, compared notes, and triangulated with satellite maps on Google. The distance you could hear Leroy shout was determined to be one Leroy.
If you were two Leroys away, you’d be twice the distance from Leroy as you could hear him shout.
But he could still pick up a phone, call you, and shout that way.

Ship

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Andrew Ian Dodge tells a tale of a mighty crew…

“Get out of here! That…thing down there is coming! I warned them! I told them that it was bad being here! I warned them…”
“What’s coming for us?” I tried to give him a talisman.
“Don’t you understand? He knows I know he’s coming, nothing can save me…”
“You can come with us…”
“No! Then I will doom you too. You must go now!” He shoved us out the door. I caught a glimpse of the books on his desk; books with horrible names. There were odd characters scrawled on pieces of paper.
Cal slammed…bolted the ship’s door…we ran free.