Category: Norval Joe

Billbert squeezed the little koala toy and took it off his shirt. “So. Someone is after me? Let me guess, it’s an army of robot koala bears, and this little guy is my only protection.”
Sabrina’s face went bright red. “Don’t be silly. This isn’t some science fiction space opera. This is about magic. Now, put that back on so you will be protected.”
Billbert folded his arms. “Okay, then. Who’s looking for me?”
Sabrina headed toward their home room. “You have to remember this battle has been going on for centuries. They’re called, The guild of the black knights.”

Billbert clung to his tree branch and wished he had thought it through when Roderick told him to grab a bag. How was he to know it would become his only article of clothing.
Considering jumping again, he suddenly lost the choice when his branch gave way.
Either the bag he wore was magic, or he did have superpowers. Instead of falling to the ground, he shot off, above the heads of the unsuspecting students and landed gracefully on the administration building.
He just had to figure out how to get his clothes back from Roderick and get to class.

“Come in,” Halberk Crottage called from behind his government surplus desk. Local Super Hero Liaison was by necessity a low profile job.
A man stepped in. Bright red lipstick matched his flowing red hair. He wore a black satin jacket over a silver French cut leotard, and black fishnet stockings.
“Let me guess. You’re Drag Queen Man,” Halberk said.
“I prefer, just Drag Queen.”
“Okay. What’s your super power?”
“Among other things, I can talk with my mouth closed,” a voice said from behind.
“Why not?” Crottage said. “What brings you in?”
A tear form in Drag’s eye, “Timmy’s Dead.”

Long John Silver pushed through the doggie door at the back of the house.
Dirgle, sitting in front of the TV, heard the click of toenails crossing the kitchen before the wiener dog appeared at his knee and dropped his food dish on the floor.
Pouring the last of the bag and barely filling the dog’s bowl, Dirgle hurried off to the grocery store.
As the cashier scanned four large bags of dog food, he slid his card and punched in his PIN. The little window read, ‘Account Not Found’.
Apparently, Wiener Dog Man had pissed off the wrong people.

“Hey, Lewis. Can we stop for just a minute? I need to get a rock out of my boot.”
“Come on, Clark. We just started hiking again since we stopped for you to water a tree.”
“Sorry, some times you just gotta go. Can’t we just stop from the night? It is getting late.”
“We will, Clark. Just over that next rise. If you just keep moving we’ll be there in just an hour.”
“That’s what you said just before we got to the top of the last hill.”
“We haven’t even left Misouri, Clark. Could you just stop whining?”

All was silent, save for the hum of the tuning fork.
“Do you think we’re dead?” Flerdy asked. “I never believed in the bright light or the tunnel.”
“Shhh. I’m listening to the string drive. You have to switch it off at just the right point. You’re still holding the switch, right?” Borle asked in return.
“Psychological counseling,” Flerdy said. “It’s just a suggestion.”
“On my mark, flip the switch,” Borle said. “Three, two, one, mark.”
With a click the view screen lit with myriad stars and the capacitors roared with the sudden strain.
“What’s your suggestion?” Borle asked sarcastically.

Dergell Dunderspawn pulled his hood over his head and peered through the peep hole on his front door.
“Ow,” he groaned. He’d forgotton about the long nose on his mask again.
Cracking to door, he listened. Nothing moved on the rural highway. He rushed to the VW microbus, cradling a laundry bag in the crook of each arm. Jumping into the van he cursed as he crushed the wings strapped to his back.
Many people made suggestions of how he could get rid of thirty-seven of them, but Dergell thought gifts from the wiener dog fairy was the best idea.

The ogre scraped the last bits of meat from the femur with his teeth. “The meats the sweetest close to the bone, me mum used to say. Ain’t that the truth.”

He threw the bone onto the putrefying pile in the corner and picked at his teeth with a piece of rib.

“Germans are too chewy,” he chuckled, “and the French, too cheesy. The Brits are always lean and tasty, and go down so bravely. But the Scots are the easiest to eat. You can tell which ones have the meatiest thighs, even before you peel off their little kilt.”