Month: December 2012

Welcome to the 100 Word Stories podcast at oneadayuntilthedayidie.com. I’m your host, Laurence Simon.

This is 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 Chance.

And we’ve got stories by a lot of people:

• Secret Rage
• Jeffrey
• Lizzie
• Chris the Nuclear Kid
• Tom
• Zackmann
• Alan Adena Tan
• Serendipidy Haven
• Munsi
• Singh
• Steven the Nuclear Man
• Cliff – Uncle Monster
• Tura
• Bonchance and Sevi
• Norval Joe
• RedGoddess
• Planet Z

The next 100 word stories weekly challenge is on the topic of Think.

And if you want to spam your social networks with this episode, use the Share buttons at the end of the post… this obligatory cat photo should help make the Internet go faster:

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SECRET RAGE

As She drove the deserted highway, thinking…, “My life’s become so predictably mundane … I just can’t live through another day of this boredom!” she noticed the train tracks to her right, turned up Highway to Hell playing on the radio, accelerated and decided her word for the day: CHANCE.
Gaining speed, ahead she noticed a cross street..and then ~ a train headed her direction. Smiling to herself~now was the time…her CHANCE. The train and car both neared the crossing. Speeding, she reached it… wildly turning, gates descending… thinking, “will I? will I? will I beat the train…….”

JEFFREY

A Game of Chance
by Jeffrey Fischer

At the Black Carnival, Death set up a booth. “Come one, come all!” he cried. “Take a dare with Death. One dollar only! Fifty-fifty odds – flip a coin, heads you win, tails you lose!”

A man walked up to the booth. He asked Death, “What do I get if I win?”

Death smiled. There’s one born every minute. “Sir, your prize is one hundred – yes, you heard me right, one HUN-dred years of life. A marvelous thing, unavailable elsewhere at any price.”

“And if I lose?”

Death looked somber. “Why, I collect your life tonight.”

The man placed a dollar on the table, his robust look giving the lie to his cancer-wracked body.

“I like those chances.”

LIZZIE

A book of clouds, that was my gift.

I opened it and turned the pages randomly. A face, a mushroom, a flying saucer, a world of lambent pictures in the sky. They made my child smile and point and laugh and giggle for no reason.

By chance, I opened the book on a page where the clouds had formed a 6, his age. He stopped, staring at the photo, then looked up.

“That’s me!”

“Yes, that’s your age,” I replied.

He beamed and said “I have been to the sky!”

Being a kid is such an amazing thing, isn’t it?

CHRIS

A Chance Of Snow

In Sunny Town it never snows so every Christmas is a downer. It doesn’t rain, hail, get foggy or cloudy, and it never snows. There is only the hot miserable sun. If it weeny for the glass domes we live in we would burn in seconds. Because Venus isn’t exactly what you might call cool.
There is a giant factory plant mining a material known as Laverium. It is a stone that stays hot no matter what.
It’s been fun not having to be inside all the Time though.And at least we can hope for a chance of snow.

TOM

I drive the Subaru into the City of Chance pass the towering temples of
temptation. What could possibly say Christmas more gloriously then Las
Vegas. A place that gives Paris a run for its money, as to a claim for
City of Light. And timeless, and by that I mean, search as you may you
won’t find a clock on a casino floor. As I pursue the practitioners of
possibility I chose the altar of avarice to lay my money down. Though I
win or lose in the end in my heart I know its best to be the house.

ZACKMANN

“Someday I, Chance RueLay, will be part of Chad Blastermann’s team, The Action Battalion, fighting the illuminati everyplace they try to hide ”
“Honey, I don’t think there is a chance you can do that?”
“Don’t you think I am good enough?”
“Joe, you do know Cheyenne just made Chad Blastermann up. Right?”
“Honey I said call me Chance so the illuminati doesn’t find us.”
“Joe, I mean Chance, don’t you think you should face reality?”
“My hero Chad Blastermann almost never faces reality why should I.”
“Because you love me.”
“I’ll leave my fantasy world before its I leave for work.”

ALAN ADENA TAN

It was by chance that I first met you. I had come from Mindanao and was resting in Cebu. You and your friends were at the boarding house watching Annabelle Rama making a fool of herself on TV, what else? Though we had only met, you gave me a slice of blueberry cheesecake that a friend of yours brought. I was hooked. But I had to return to Manila, and our love had no chance. The distance was unforgiving, despite the astronomical phone bills. You had to marry someone else. That was fated.

SERENDIPITY

It was the high school reunion: a party and a dance.

Across the room I saw him – and watched him steal a furtive glance.

There within his eyes, the silent hope for some romance,

But he wouldn’t have it easy – I looked back at him, askance.

I recalled how he had bullied me, called me names, and now perchance,

I wondered if he’d apologise, before making his advance.

He made his way toward me across the ballroom’s wide expanse,

Then smiling at me broadly, he assumed a haughty stance.

So I flipped him the finger! – Sorry mate… not a chance!

MUNSI

Chance

By Christopher Munroe

They say leave nothing to chance.

But I knew a guy nicknamed Chance once.

We worked together in Edmonton for years, hang out to this day, I see him whenever I’m up there. I make a point of dropping in to say hi.

We maybe aren’t the closest friends, but he’s good people, my life’s richer for having him in it.

Were I to pass away, I’d leave him something. At the very least a token, to remember me by.

Wait, now that I think about it, his nickname was Chase, not chance.

No, yeah, I’ll leave nothing to chance.

SINGH

Who’s Your Daddy?

by Chris Mooney-SIngh/Singh Albatros

Dolly had been giving Daddy trouble. If he asked her for coffee, she hesitated.
If he suggested a back-rub, she’d whine sweetly. “What about me?”
When his best friend visited, she seemed out-rightly flirtatious, passing him the tumbler of scotch with two rocks of ice.
“There, Teddy Bear.”
Strangely, Daddy didn’t object. Instead, he smelled a challenge.
“Roll over,” he said in bed, later.
“Yes, Daddy.”
“It’s time to shift things up a notch, girl.”
“Yes, Daddy.”
He pressed open the motorised slot in her polymer neck. There were three buttons. He took a deep breath and pressed number 1.

*
Dolly’s instruction manual boasted 188 sympathetic functions like blinking, preening, smiling, frowning, singing, even shedding a saline tear; and there was a self-learning cycle programmed into her memory chip to mimic independent thought.
“Daddy, Let’s go out.”
He was excited by her suggestion. The artificial intelligence factor was kicking in.
Soon, his hover sedan was varooming them toward Citadel Towers and parking beside the ocean.
“It’s big, Daddy,” she said, her synthetic cheeks flushing red. She pressed the seats to recline mode and was soon riding him.
“More!”
“Yes, Daddy.”
He couldn’t resist and reached to press Button 2.
*
“Let’s go swim now,” said polymer Dolly.
Daddy was thrilled with her new random assertiveness. He liked women with spark, supremely confident he could always master them. Unlike his plump ex-wife who had drained him emotionally and financially, Dolly didn’t need food, so she never lost her charming figure with its modifiable tummy, breasts and hips.
No one worried about sex-bots any more. It was normal to see them walking around naked at the beach. As soon as they hit the water, webbing appeared automatically between fingers and toes, and next, Daddy was riding Dolly like a jet-ski.

*
She took him in queasy circles, then, dolphin-dived him underwater.
“You like that, Daddy?” She gurgled.
Gasping air-bubbles, he nodded his head.
Then she came to shore, beached and straddled him aggressively. He loved her rough new style, then got even more excited seeing ten needle-points come from beneath her fingernails. She clamped them on his pectorals.
“Harder,” he ordered.
“Yes, Daddy.”
He felt light-headed pleasure.
“You’ve really got your hooks into me now!”
“Yes, Daddy,” she winked, crushing those perfect breasts against his chest.
Daddy knew he was taking a big chance, and pressed Button 3.

*
It was then she forced him, hard, inside her. She began to simulate her most sexual performance to date. Daddy was her rocking horse. Her eyeballs began to swivel in their sockets, in tune with an inner mechanism as the ten needles sucked up and syphoned off his blood.
He felt himself losing control and tried to break her power-grip.
“Enough!” he gasped, but she continued her programmed revery having multiple orgasms.
“Yes! Daddy! Oh, Daddy! Oh!” baring down on him harder, all the while increasing his blood-flow rate into her stomach-sac.
Sucked dry, he gasped his last.

*
As soon as the blood-dribble stopped, a light-button flickered, sounding in her forehead. She touched it to answer.
“Dolly 3330.”
“Control Centre here. Report.”
“Assignment complete, Control. Need a blood-station.”
“Look behind you, then reset.”
There was a terminal in the wall of the building.
After disposing of Daddy’s body in the ocean, she connected her stomach-hose to the blood-station and uploaded.
Done, she reached behind her neck and reset each button. Her head rolled, then clicked back into place. She smiled, ready.
Then, her forehead-phone sounded again.
“Hello Dolly. Teddy here. Remember?”
“Yes, Daddy.”

STEVEN THE NUCLEAR MAN

The boy clutched the edges of his blanket, huddling into the flannel, hiding against the cold and his sister’s condescending glare.

She tapped his shoulder. “Santa’s not coming. Not even a chance. Come to bed before…” she shuddered “…he sees and beats us again.”

The boy didn’t move. Finally, his sister shook her head and hid in the tiny room they shared.

The boy started awake at the hoofstep on the floor.

The demon, Santa’s prisoner and helper, punisher of the wicked, handed his chain to the boy.

“Merry Christmas,” it hissed. Boy and demon smiled the same smile.

CLIFF

The grand prize was a new car. It was worth a buck and besides, the money all went to help orphaned pandas or balding whales. Some goofy charity.
I didn’t expect to win, but I did. Not the car. No, I won a time machine. The Mad Scientist Museum had gone under and all the exhibits were donated for the raffle. The documentation for the device was terrible. Obviously, the madman who had built it was no technical writer. I could see how to make it work but not how to set the destination. So, should I take another chance?

GARY

She sounds perfect for me. Or I sound perfect for her.

Both of us a little past prime, never married, no kids, seeking intelligent companionship on one of those—how did I end up here—sites.

I’m looking for someone to help kill the boredom of next Sunday. I hate Sundays.

She’s jaded—waded through a dozen phonies.

I clicked the wrong distance—stupid mouse. She’s 500 miles away.

I’m no jet-setter.

Aw hell, I’ll email anyway. I like to write and she sounds funny…

Now, two years gone by. The nurse just handed me my new baby girl.

TURA

“How do you reckon our chances, Dad?”

“Well now, there’s a chance it’ll be cold. That’s fine, then we won’t work up a sweat. There’s a chance it’ll be warm. So our trigger fingers won’t stiffen. In a blustery wind, the game won’t hear us, but if it’s still, we’ll hear the game. If the sky’s clear, we can see for miles. If it’s cloudy, the sun won’t be in our eyes. Maybe there’s a chance of rain. Then there won’t be any dust. It might even snow, which makes tracking easy.

“Don’t worry about chances, son. Make your own.”

BONCHANCE AND SEVI

Hotel

He looked across the room where she was sitting at a table alone,
appearing above all the others in the room.
She was sucking on a candy cane and he couldn’t help but focus
in as she pursed her lips sucking on it. He smiled as he heard the song
take a chance on me playing over the sound system.

He stood to go introduce himself.
The conference was three days of boring speeches separated by
long breaks in between at the hotel restaurant or lobby.

They were in the city that never sleeps and should be making some noise!

The Odds

Pepe had really strained his relationship with his pops, Pablo.
But he had a plan to fix all of it. He saved enough cash to replace the TV that he broke
and did all of his assigned chores without a complaint.

It’s been a month since the chairman incident. He summoned the courage to run it by his mom.
Ma what’s the odds pops will reduce my being grounded to just one month since I’ve been so good?

Espy looked up as if she was doing a difficult mental calculation then shook her head firmly saying,
not a chance buster!

NORVAL JOE

Elbownor, being as lightfooted as any elf, eased himself close to the open door and listened. Moments later he was back with the rest of the company.
“The sound of three people breathing, one of which was distressed,” he told them.
“We could take a chance that the one is the princess, but if it is not, we may have three to battle, needlessly,” Shareeka said. “Is there another way into the throne room, Flindert?”
The dwarf, still in his black mood, slowly looked from his folded hands.
“Aye. I do believe there be a secret way into the room.”

REDGODDESS

Lola stares at the elegant Christmas tree in the hotel lobby as guests hurry by, waving hello. Each one speeds up faster than the last to the exit door. Lola has dreamed about traveling somewhere exotic for the holidays but each year she takes on more hours and responsibilities, to pay crushing debts. She abruptly places her head down on the counter and sighs, “ when will something good come in my life.” She lifts her head as she wipes her eyes and finds herself face to face with her “guy.” She stood speechless yet pleased to see him. Before she could utter a word, he pleads, “give us a fighting chance.’

PLANET Z

It’s nice out, but I won’t open the windows.

We have screens on the windows to keep out the bugs, but the cats like to knock them out of the frames and go out to hunt.

The only way to keep the screens in place is to screw them into place. However, that would make it difficult to escape out a window if there was a fire.

Perhaps I’ll screw all the screens into place except one, and that will be the window I’ll use to escape if there’s a fire.

I hope it’s still nice out when I’m done.

Welcome to the 100 Word Stories podcast at oneadayuntilthedayidie.com. I’m your host, Laurence Simon.

This is 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 Funk.

And we’ve got stories by a lot of people:

• Jeffrey
• Serendipidy Haven
• Tom
• Munsi
• Lizzie
• Singh
• Cliff – Uncle Monster
• Zackmann
• Steven the Nuclear Man
• Bonchance and Sevi
• RedGoddess
• Norval Joe
• Planet Z

The next weekly challenge is on the topic of Chance.

And if you want to spam your social networks with this episode, use the Share buttons at the end of the post… this obligatory cat photo should help make the Internet go faster:

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JEFFREY

Christmas
by Jeffrey Fischer

Marilyn invariably fell into a deep funk around Christmas. The stress of the season got to her, what with buying presents for ungrateful recipients, baking cookies for disdainful eaters, and having the same arguments every year with visiting family members.

This year she decided to cheer herself up. She mailed socks to everyone as gifts, baked nothing, and told her relatives she would be out of town for Christmas. Then she sat at home by herself, consuming a bottle of Wild Turkey and two pints of Cherry Garcia ice cream on Christmas Eve.

Despite the hangover, Marilyn deemed this the best Christmas ever.

TOM

Colorblind

I play trombone in Parliament, not the body the band. Julliard trained in oboe, I am sort of a musical shaman, one foot in hyper white, the other in hyper blue. Funk is the blues on Acid. Sorrow turned inside out. Where the blues lets it out, funk lets it go. My job is providing the hairpin turns when the Parliament train reaches full steam. I use to think George collected this circus parade to create a march of joy. Actually he was a music guerilla true to Che’s revolutionary vision. Funk is the driving beat of love. Be dangerous.

SERENDIPITY

Funk

– The Call –

High in the Himalayan peaks is an ancient monastery where sacred monks devoutly pursue the mastery of the discipline of funk.

Clad in colourful robes, flared trousers and the distinctive holy afro that designates the devotees of funk, the brothers live simple, ascetic lives on a strict diet of funky chicken, magic mushrooms and James Brown.

I have heard the call… my feet feel the beat of that funky music, it’s time to get on up, gather my funky stuff and pack my brand new bag, for higher ground.

Time to ditch my junk and become a monk of funk!

– The Disciple –

“My son, you’ve gotta give it up… and don’t stop ’till you get enough”

The monk’s words were wise, yet perplexing.

Again, I asked him… “When will I attain mastery?”

“Son – that’s the jive talking, you gotta be yourself… now, try again”

It seemed so simple: when I could perform the ritual moves of the sissy strut, without tearing the rice-paper beneath my feet, I would have attained enlightenment – a true funk master.

I failed again.

And again.

And again.

The monk demanded I try once more.

“More? – What is it good for?”

“Absolutely nothing!”, came the enigmatic reply.

– The Enlightened –

Is it really ten years since I ascended this mountain?

With each step, the path downwards brought me closer to civilisation. I pulled the sheepskin coat tighter, my afro bobbing in the wind.

Soon, the monastery was out of sight and I knew my journey was at an end when I found myself at the carwash – the town spread before me.

Eager to spread the word of funk, I headed for the clubs and dance floors…

But, what was this?

A new sound in town!

The funk monk had discovered punk!

High in the Himalayas, live the monks of punk..

MUNSI

Occupy Funk
By Chris Munroe

1% of this country controls 70% of its funk. And that’s not right.

I’m not criticizing the funky, plenty do their part, sharing funk with the world. Prince, for example, releases music every year, and we’re all better for it.

However, not everyone shares Prince’s decency. How long’s it been since Maurice Day and the Time released an album?

So we’re taking to the streets, the 99% of us who aren’t funky, and we won’t be silenced. Join me, let our voices be heard!

We want the funk.

Give us the funk.

We need the funk.

Gotta have that funk.

LIZZIE

“The end of the world… close call,” thought Lisa fearfully.

Bag? Check. Ticket? P28. It was time to leave the planet.

At the local flight-pod station, a sign said “No flights. The end is here.” What? Again? “Open this door right now,” she shouted in despair. When no one came, she kicked the door in, searched for P28, locked herself in it and clicked “Go”.

Where she went, no one knows. That pod model had been discontinued just the day before due to serious technical problems; it sort of disintegrated people. Well, apparently the end was here alright… for Lisa.

SINGH

Heard it Though the Pumpkinvine

By Chris Mooney-Singh/Singh Albatros

The Desert Bowl Festival was nearly over. An Australian singer-songwriter travelling America, I’d luckily scored this Phoenix gig. My Cockatoo Rock and Didgeridoo Hullabaloo (with local blues legends The Gila Monsters doing back up) brought the house down. Then, the Bad Cactus Brass Band played.

A negro gardener paused on his rake.

“Any good, Mate?” I asked. “Can white boys play New Orleans jazz?”

“Why sure. But dey needs to stank it up a whole lot more.”

“Me too?” I asked cheekily.

He reached for something. “Here!” Put dis seed in yo garden back home, son.”

He smiled, and was gone.

*

I really did not know the first step in growing things, but my Dad had a greenhouse, home in Melbourne, so he helped me strike the weird psychedelic-coloured pod. He was pleased. Finally, I was showing interest in his lifelong passion. I did the daily watering and found myself humming new tunes. Soon a frond appeared, and next, a pumpkin vine snaked from the big terracotta pot. I really got into the routine, excitedly seeing my plant develop and sprout first produce. But this was no ordinary vegetable: the weird-coloured fruit was elongated and resembled the horn of a tiny saxophone.

*

Other emerald nubs began to unfurl child-fists along the vine. They looked delicate and pretty. One morning opening the greenhouse door, I heard a riff coming from the psychedelic fruit. Then it stopped. Dad had gone fishing, but I got through on the mobile.

“You are imagining things, Son.” Like any parent, he was concerned about the gig scene and bad influences.

“I don’t do drugs, Dad” Offended, I hung up.

It was weird that the vegetable would not play in my presence. So, one evening I sneaked up, rushed in and caught it howling like a New Orleans jazz legend.

*

It couldn’t hide its funk from me now, blowing harder after each watering. The other pumpkins were already transforming into psychedelic trumpets, trombones, sousaphones and a fat tuba. I had read about the psycho-physical effects of music on plants, but this was ridiculous. What’s more, the funk pumpkin ensemble was turning me into a James Brown. I did the Boogaloo, the Mashed Potato and the Camel Walk –there on the greenhouse slab. Even weirder was that each audible vegetable was now growing Afro hair and side burns and upbeat jazz funk was on fire throughout the house and the garden.

*

I had never really got down with funk before, so I hunted for old collectible vinyls and CDs. I rescued James Brown’s Greatest Hits, loads of Marvin Gaye, Herbie Hancock, The Temptations, Stevie Wonder and Sly and the Family Stone doing their famous hits like ‘I Want to Take You Higher’. I collected more and more, while the funk pumpkins kept rioting like rutting elephants. Meanwhile, I thought of all the Aus-rock, pop ballads and Indy folk tunes I had written as a thing of the past and felt the distinct wiry pressure of tight curly hair pushing through my scalp.

*

Tran our Vietnamese neighbour peered over the fence. “Having a party?”

“Sure am.” I said. “Come over.”

I showed him the funk pumpkins and soon we were both dancing. The music reminded him of Saigon. A negro soldier was once going to marry his sister and he also gave Tran soul records.

“What happened?”

“Got killed,” Tran said. “ Then my sister got blown up in the street.

He passed me some fresh Pak Choy he had grown.

“All these pumpkin very ah..groovy,” he said pulling the word from his rebuilt past.

“Let’s have a real party. Call your friends, Tran.”

*

The whole Vietnamese Chinese neighbourhood were grooving from greenhouse to living room by the time Dad got home. I wore sunglasses, polo neck and striped pants and sporting a full afro, my black-skin transformation complete.

“Whasupp Daddyo? Gimme some skin!”

“What’s going on? Where’s my ratbag son?”

“I really dig dis old doghouse you got here, Big Daddy? Da joint is jumpin. Listen to da music!”

That was enough. “Ok, all of you — Out! Before I call the police!

“Hey man! No need for da fuzz’.

I grabbed my ghetto blaster and did the Funky Chicken out the front door.

*

It was a strange rebirth for an old soul brother from Motown, now downtown in Melbourne, Australia — funk busking with all the moves, plus the Robot, the Swim, and Soul Train steps, pumping to the music machine for thrown pieces of silver. Then, craving some home cookin’ I bought myself a chilly cheese wiener from American Hot Dogs franchise before dragging my black ass onto the St Kilda tram for some club action at the Tongue and Groove. There, I hit the dance floor creating a sensation that climaxed with me doing the splits worthy of ole’ James Brown himself.

*

Meanwhile, I wondered if the greenhouse effect had softened Dad at all. After sleeping on a park bench, I sneaked back the next day, only to find — funk was dead. The pumpkins were all sliced and diced waiting to become soup. Feeling cut off from my roots, I then had my brightest idea and rescued the seeds from the pumpkin guts tossed in the compost bin. I was saved! And started to do the Gospel side-step, marvelling what Almighty blessings come from weird desert travels. I’d become Johnny Pumpkinseed for the African-American funkinisation of Australia. The psychedelic seventies were back!

CLIFF

Casimir Funk was born in Warsaw back when it was part of the Russian Empire. A biochemist by training, he became intrigued by the idea that certain foods helped fight certain diseases and set out to isolate the elements responsible. In the end, he created the concept of vitamins. Every time you pop a Flintstones chewable, you should be thanking Casimir Funk. He died in 1967 in New York City. His work improved the health of millions and yet, it’s sad. He never once got to play his bass for an audience and truly be Casimir Funky, Master of Funk.

ZACKMANN

Every afternoon, I take the Grand Funk Railroad into Funky Town then stop at the Cornelia Funke Library and Playground. Orville and Wilbur play instrumentals and I say “Play that funky music Wright boys.”
I am often in a funk because as much as I want to rendezvous with my wife for a night of fun at Funky Town Dance Hall, I have to go to work making electricity at the funkiest place in funky town the Funky Town Sewage Treatment and Methane Plant. Our fair city may have been built on rock and roll but it runs on crap.

STEVEN THE NUCLEAR MAN

The stink rose from the dancer. The singer looked at the director. “Are you sure?” he asked.

“Look,” the director said, putting an arm across the singer’s shoulders, “you want to make a splash with this video. To recreate your image, right?”

“Well, yeah…”

“Look, trust me. That guy may not smell the best, but he’s got some serious moves.” The director handed the red leather jacket to the singer. “He’s got… An old groove.”

The singer smiled. “The funk of forty thousand years?”

They watched a finger fall from the dancer’s hand.

“At least,” the director said. “At least.”

SEVI AND BONCHANCE

This Cold will be the Death of him!

Jack was a substantial bloke who loved to push people around. He didn’t give a damn about anybody!

He literally got away with murder.

His favourite past time was to glide down the street, bump people, daring them to make something of it.
Jack’s latest victim was robed in black. He hit him straight on and shockingly Jack fell on his ass.
They stared at each other. The cloaked darkness glared coldly and projected a deathly grin.

In a sepulchral voice he bellowed “No time for you today Jack Frost, but I have an opening next week….Oh and bring the funk!”

REDGODDESS

Hunger is not seasonal, and suffering is not a trend. Yet every Christmas, there is a surge about feeding the poor. The same working poor and homeless who are visible year round suddenly present a fantastic opportunity. Lola got in a funk when the hotel Manager launched a food drive. This is the same woman who treats her staff like slaves. The same woman who smiles when she calls the cops to remove homeless saying ‘come fast, they have drugs.’ Lola watches as wealthy clients place cans into boxes and thank her manager for caring so much. A disgusting funk!

NORVAL JOE

The company was safely through the thick oak door, though Spleen had to be dragged from within the slavering jaws of the water creature. The muffled roar of the creature could still be heard as it scratched at the unyeilding door in frustation.
A distant light down the tunnel raised everyone’s hopes, but Flindert’s. For some reason, the dwarf remained in a silent funk and only glared at the companions when they tried to cheer the unrecognized heir to the ancinet tunnels.
“An eternal flame lights the dwarven throne room,” Shareeka said. “I beleive we’ll find the princess just ahead.”

When Hosmer heard the musical question, “Are you funk enough?” he had to answer no.
He’d watched Soul Train every week and spent hours practicing the popular dance moves.
He didn’t have enough hair to get a perm, so he bought a large blonde afro wig. Tight Angel Flight pants, a wet look nylon shirt, three inch platform shoes, a gold chain and he still couldn’t get a girl to dance with him at the local disco.
Dispondent, he gave his wiener dog a mohawk, pushed a safety pin through his ear and waited for punk rock to catch on.

PLANET Z

The phone rang.
The police technician nodded his head.
So, I picked up the phone.

“Hello?” I said.
“We’ve got the funk,” said a voice.
“Let me hear it”

Telephones don’t have the best audio fidelity, but what I heard was funky.

“What do you want?”
“We want the funk. But we really want the soul.”

I looked at the briefcase that the police had brought.

“Do you have it?”

I dialed the combination on the latches… six six six.

One peek.

Bright light.

“Yeah,” I said, closing the briefcase.

They had the fink. But without soul, it was worthless.