Frank had told Tony and Vinny to beat the punk to within an inch of his life to teach him a lesson.
So when he heard that his goons had beaten the guy to death, he was pissed.
“What the hell did you two do that for?” he yelled.
“Sorry, boss,” said Tony. “Vinny’s trying to teach me this new Metric System they got in France, so we tried converting centermeters to inches and all that, and we kinda went too far.”
Frank hung them both in a meat locker set to minus forty degrees.
Same in Fairyheight and Celtsius.
Category: My stories
War No More
In Micah and Isaiah, spears are bent into pruning-hooks and swords into plowshares, but in Joel they are bent back.
I guess they didn’t have enough metal to maintain a reasonable inventory of both.
These days, we’ve got lots of metal, but it’s always good to recycle.
Plus, who really needs plow-shares or pruning-hooks these days? Instead of bending swords and spears into them, you can make good money selling weaponry to some Renaissance festival role-player.
Sure, you might need to dull the edges a bit or encase them in a hard resin for safety, but that’s easier than bending.
Ghost Writer
When I was young, my guidance counselor asked me what I wanted to do when I grew up.
I said “I want to be a writer.”
The guidance counselor laughed. “Writer? Not a doctor? A lawyer?”
“No, I want to be a writer.”
“Nobody is a writer,” said the counselor.
I pointed at his bookshelf. “Then who wrote those?”
He picked one out. “Shakespeare. He’s dead.” He picked out another. “Freud. Dead.”
Every book chosen, it was by someone dead.
So, I got a typewriter, paper, and killed myself.
People assume I’m a ghostwriter.
But these days, I prefer editing.
The Road
The soldiers gather up the women and children from the village, tie them together, and drive them out into the road.
Every so often, you hear an explosion and screaming.
Then crying… and shouting from the soldiers, gunfire in the air to get them walking the road again.
The commander’s translator shouts: “If there are any mines left in the road when we move the convoy through here, we will burn the village down and kill everyone.”
Thirty minutes goes by without an explosion, and the commander gives the all-clear signal.
More gunfire, the villagers are slaughtered.
Dirt. Stones. Blood.
A Hard Lesson To Learn
The teacher held a globe near a bright light.
“Let’s say the light is the sun,” she said. “As we turn the globe, we see how the sunlight falls on different parts of the world, making night and day.”
She went on to demonstrate the earth’s axis, seasons, the earth’s orbit…
But Joshua had heard enough.
“This proves that there is no God, no Heaven, no angels,” he whispered to the angel standing next to his desk. “So go away.”
“Who do you think set all this up?” asked the angel.
Joshua sighed, and changed his milk to chocolate milk.
Humpty Pepsi
The sodas in the break room machines are free.
If you select the wrong one, you’re supposed to put it on the table for someone else to take.
Nobody ever does, though. They’re warm by then.
So, I took a diet Pepsi and put it on my cubicle divider.
I named it Humpty Pepsi.
After five months, a coworker’s elbow hit it, and it fell on the floor, spraying him and all of his stuff.
He was not amused.
I wasn’t either, because all of my horses and all of my men will never put Humpty Pepsi back together again.
Strawberries
Molly didn’t bother with a lawn around her house.
Instead, she had one big strawberry patch.
She raised strawberries year-round, making jams and preserves with them, or just filling up baskets, and giving those out as gifts to everyone.
Everyone thinks the scent in the evening is wonderful.
Except for one guy: Carl.
He was allergic to strawberries, and he threatened to sue.
One day, Carl vanished. Nobody ever saw him again.
But I suspect that Molly keeps him in some of those jars in her basement.
Good. Because he was an asshole.
And nobody liked him.
Thank you, Molly.
Unoccupied
It’s Tuesday. Time to visit John’s money.
I insist on meeting my broker in person.
Traffic’s bad. There’s protestors.
They call themselves “Occupy Wall Street.”
So, I get out, and they cheer.
“YOKO!”
Looking around at these wannabe revolutionaries, I mumbled that these fools couldn’t topple a government, let alone a tower of Jenga blocks on a wobbly kitchen table.
Whatever.
“Fight the power!” I said, and they cheered.
How many of these people hating bankers and lawyers for “not making things” actually make things themselves besides FB updates and noise?
Pathetic.
I get back in my limo and leave.
The Second Job
It’s been a long day, but it isn’t over yet.
Going home means one job ends and another begins: Being a mother.
It’s like work, but with none of the benefits.
The kids never greet me with “Hi, Mom!” or “Welcome home!”
It’s always “What are we having for dinner tonight?”
Well…
“Hold your mouth.
Close your eyes.
Open your mouth.
And here’s the big surprise.”
And then I stick a wad of pizza coupons in one of their mouths and my cell phone in the other.
Little shits will probably order three larges with anchovies on all of them.
Easier Said Than Done
Amir was well known for speaking his mind, and his friends placed bets on when he’d lose his tongue.
It was soon after getting caught stealing. The things he shouted as his hands were cut off were so profane, the priests insisted his tongue be removed at once.
Unable to speak or write, Amir found himself on Beggar’s Row, holding out a bowl with his wrist-stumps at passers-by.
A passing soldier tossed a few coins at Amir, missing the bowl.
“Some things are more easily said than done,” he grinned, watching Amir try to pick the coins from the dirt.