Category: Guest Authors

Tom Swift stood at the launching ramp. In minutes, the S.S. Appleton would be christened and sent on its maiden voyage. With ports of call as far apart as Fairbanks, Alaska, and McMurdo Station, Antarctica, the Appleton would make the world’s first Bipolar Cruise.
The ship was a technological marvel, constructed with a pure lithium hull. “A metal so light, it floats!” Tom said, airily.
Smash! went the Champagne bottle. The Appleton slid into the harbor as Tom’s admirers cheered.
With the hull sizzling ominously, Tom realized too late that highly reactive alkali metal was not, alas, good Hull Material.

Beads of sweat began to trickle down Ibrahim’s brow. This bothered him. He did not want to appear nervous, but it was stifling in the small room.
His next card skidded across the table. Four of spades, not much help there. He was in too deep to back out now, having jumped into the betting with his pair of pocket aces. Maybe they would be enough…
No, they weren’t. Fuad raised, confident as always. Ibrahim folded: no choice.
He was down to a grimy pair of boxer shorts and an explosive belt. Gaza Strip Poker was not for the faint-hearted.

The aptly-named Dr. Isaiah Tusch was, without exception, the most well-regarded proctologist in the entire state. More than a few would have said “the entire country.”
Nobody was more knowledgeable about the Nether Regions of the human body. Nobody could conduct a physical examination more expertly. Nobody could palpate a prostate more professionally. The snap of his gloves as he put them on was like music, and patients queued up outside his waiting room to hear it in their turn.
His hands were his livelihood, and so he insured them: Lloyd’s covered his Ring Finger for a cool thirty mil.

Scheherazade was pleased.
She was still alive, after all. One thousand nights ago, she had fully expected to be beheaded come morning, the fate of three thousand women before her. The Shah was not only randy, but paranoid: Ever since his first wife betrayed him, it was a fatal honor to join his hareem.
The stories had kept her alive.
For a thousand nights, she had entertained the Shah with her hundred-word stories. For a thousand days, he had postponed her execution so he could hear the next tale.
Today was their wedding day. Helluva time to get writer’s block.

Lois had had her sights trained on Superman for years, and tonight was the night it would all pay off.
Coaxing him out of his iconic super-tights had taken all of her feminine wiles. He had resisted, citing her safety, his desire to avoid romantic entanglements.
“What if you get pregnant?”
“You’re from Krypton. We have no DNA in common. No worries.”
Now, sitting astraddle his hips, she grasped his Super-Manhood, guiding it into her. She moaned with pleasure…
…until his orgasm blew her to pieces.
Damn, he thought. A Woman of Kleenex shouldn’t mess with a Man of Steel.

The line outside the Las Vegas Chabad House snaked around the building, with Morty bringing up the rear. He mopped his forehead, feeling the sweat darken his armpits. Despite the heat, he smiled.
Every two minutes, the door would open and someone would come flying out with a shoeprint on his buttocks, a happy grin on his face. “Next!”
A curious passerby got Morty’s attention. “What’s going on?”
“You know that Kabbalah racket? Load of crap. This here’s the real deal, worth every penny they charge.”
“You mean…?”
“Yeah. Can’t make it in this town without a lucky Rabbi’s foot.”

Alfonso’s was the best Indian restaurant in the Sierra Madre. In fact, it was the only Indian restaurant in the Sierra Madre.
[By Indian, of course, we mean East Indian, not Indigenous American.]
Gnarled, bewhiskered prospectors seeking a fine Chicken Korma or a piquant Lamb Vindaloo flocked to Alfonso’s, where you could get anything from hot naan to creamy saag paneer. For dessert? Kheer, delicately scented with cardamom.
The only weak spot on the menu? Fritters. Alfonso couldn’t make a fritter to save his life.
But did he care? No, he did not.
“Bhajis? We ain’t got no stinking bhajis.”

He had brought King Kong back alive from Skull Island at the cost of fifteen men and untold thousands of dollars. His attempt to exhibit the beast on Broadway was a complete flop, thanks to the kind ministrations of the SPCA, PETA, and the unions. And Ann Darrow was in therapy.
But big as he was, Kong was still a monkey.
Denham dodged as Kong lobbed a Volkswagen-sized turd. Moments later, ten gallons of hot Ape-Spooge spattered the bars of the gargantuan enclosure.
Eighth Wonder of the World, my ass, thought Denham. Still a fucking monkey.