Category: Elisson

It happened that there were two mouse-brothers.
Life was hard for these mice. Vicious cats roamed the neighborhood; other animals constantly made life difficult.
There was the duck, all harsh voice and shrill temper.
There were the dogs. One, though he could speak the language of people, was so dimwitted as to be a danger to himself and others. The other was, after all, a dog, and what dog does not enjoy sport with helpless mice?
It all changed when brother Mickey, after lengthy study, procured a Steamboat Operator’s License.
Moral: Wish upon a star, my ass. Study to succeed!

My people, they are a stiff-necked people.
Been that way for thousands of years. Back in the Sinai days, Moses had it all figured out. You think he climbed up Mount Nebo to die, giving up on his dream to enter the Promised Land just because God told him to?
Think again.
He simply couldn’t stand any more of the constant bitching, whining, and nagging.
“It was better back in Egypt.” “This manna sucks! I want meat!” “I’m thirsty!” “We’re all gonna die!
So Moses said, “Enough, already!”
Can’t say I blame him. Other people may complain, but Jews harp.

Eldrick was furious.
He had recently scored a set of classic persimmon-head clubs. Not for work, he had told himself. Never for work. These beauties are for pleasure.
Their heads glowed with a deep varnished luster, the brass screws set perfectly flush. Four gorgeous clubs: driver, brassie, cleek, and spoon. Products of a bygone age.
And now they were missing.
How can they be missing? he asked himself. How many golf club thieves can there be at an Oceanographic Institute on the south shore of Cape Cod?
Eldrick groaned, thinking of the headlines. “Woods Loses Woods at Woods (Hole).” Crap.

Dr. Zimmerman shook his head in frustration.
Since hanging out his shingle, he had had hundreds of patients. Not a single one ever came back a second time.
It was a damned shame. A poor choice of specialty. Prostate exams…
He had been a football player in his younger days. With hands the size of Smithfield hams, he could snag almost any pass. But when a knee injury buried his NFL dreams, medical school beckoned.
Crap, he thought.
You don’t need a weatherman to see which way the wind blows…or that the world has no need for a Meaty Urologist.

Superman’s forehead glistened with a film of sweat as he strained with momentary effort.
Clink. House note.
Strain. Clink. Car note.
Strain. Clink. Electric bill.
Every month, the same routine. Scarf a few charcoal briquettes, crap out a few water-white diamonds. That was how the world’s most famous superhero kept the wolf from the door. Couldn’t very well knock over a bank, could he?
The system worked. Most of the time, anyway.
Of course, there was that grim Tax Day back in 2016 when Lex Luthor doped the charcoal supply with plutonium. Where Metropolis had stood was now radioactive glass.

They carried his broken, bleeding body to the cave, weeping with every step.
They laid him down, bade their farewells, and sealed the cave entrance with a massive rock.
Three days later, he arose, clad in pure white raiment. He leaped to the mouth of the cave, rolled the rock away, and stepped into the blinding sunlight. Almost as quickly, he retreated into the depths of the cave, shaken and fearful.
That terrible dark shape on the ground! He shivered in horror. Could it have been the Devil himself?
No matter. After six more weeks, Punxsutawney Jesus would try again.

Furtive whispers in the dark.
Thirty pieces of silver change hands. In moments, the purported Messiah is in irons.
He is led in chains through the streets of Jerusalem, where the mobs howl for his death.
“Behead him! Behead him!”
He is led to the hill at Calvary, where stands the grim scaffold. The axe falls.
Two thousand years later, James Avery enjoys a successful business selling miniature Chopping Blocks, and on Good Friday, Christians everywhere commemorate the Decapitation.
In this world of Humane Romans, the Nicene Creed reads:
“He lost his head so that you could lose your sins.”

Technology always was a double-edged sword, and the Orgasmotron was no exception.
That was the popular name for it. The geeks that created it called it the Cerebrostimulator, and it swept the world.
A minor surgical procedure was all it took to implant the socket. The control unit was about the size of a Blackberry. You could stimulate every pleasure center in your brain with a touch of a button.
Hamburger. Pizza. Orgasm.
Aaaahhhhhhh.
76 countries banned it, even before people started dying.
700 consecutive orgasms, no food for weeks. They died like flies, but with smiles on their faces.

He had been waiting a long time for this evening.
Everything was ready; he’d seen to that. The chilled Champagne, the candles, the flowers, the scented oil. The freshly laundered sheets.
And now she was in his arms.
His chest pounded with desire. He forced himself to breathe.
She nestled her head in his lap, sought him greedily. He moaned, pleasure building within him like a breaking wave.
AFLA-A-A-A-A-CK!
Afterwards, Donald lit a Mallardboro and exhaled slowly, blowing flattened smoke-rings. The night would not be cheap, but so what? His credit was good. She would put it on his bill…

Pope Papadapoulos the Portly stood at the window of his basilica, surveying his domain, reflecting on his life’s work. He was pleased.
Singlehandedly, he had effected what had been thought impossible: the healing of the Great Schism. Now, Greek, Roman, and Russian churches all obeyed a single authority, kissed a single ring. His ring.
With the elaborate ceremonies that were to mark the historic relocation of the Holy See from Rome to Buenos Aires about to begin, the Holy Cheerleaders were in position, clutching their pompons.
Papadapoulos strode forth. It was time to deliver the first Bull of the Pampas.