Tag: book

One Blow

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The Angel Gabriel sat on the curb and wept at the destruction and misery he’d witnessed over the centuries.
“It’s all my fault,” he moaned. “If I hadn’t lost my trumpet, I’d have ended this a long time ago.”
He’d backtraced his steps many times, but they all led back to a pub where he’d drunkenly pawned his horn for a bottle of whiskey.
The curb he sat on was in front of the skyscraper built where the pub used to be.
Sighing, Gabriel pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose.
The skyscraper wobbled, and Reality began to fade.

Not Quite Panning Out

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Peter told Wendy to capture the second star to the right and fly straight on until morning.
Wendy wasn’t good at telling left from right. Instead of Neverland, the kids wound up shooting straight at a gas giant.
John screamed all the way down into the swirling, deadly maelstrom.
Wendy backtracked and tried again, but she miscounted and headed for the fourth star below.
Michael’s corpse can be found on an asteroid, his face frozen forever in horror.
Wendy flew back home and, when cornered, told a cock-and-bull story about kidnappers.
She’d gotten sick of John and Michael’s snoring, anyway.

Sevens

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Back in Springfield, Raul and I would climb up the willow tree, lay back on the branches, and watch the moon through the leaves.
We pondered important things up there.
“Who’d win in a fight: The Magnificent Seven or the Seven Dwarves?” asked Raul.
“I have no idea,” I said. “Let’s find out.”
We looked down from the tree and watched a group of men in Wild West gear square off against brightly-colored little people.
The echoes of gunfire.
The clang of heavy mining equipment.
Blood everywhere.
The dwarves would have lost if the singing broad hadn’t have showed up.

By The Barrel

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“Never pick a fight with someone who buys ink by the barrel,” slurred Mark Twain, staggering drunkenly in the street.
“Certainly, sir,” said the police officer. “But I think you’ve had too much to drink.”
“That’s because I buy wine by the barrel,” said Mark Twain, falling flat on his face in the dirt.
The officer dragged Twain back to the hotel lobby, and that’s when the newspaper office exploded.
“Great Scot!” shouted the cop.
“I also buy black powder by the barrel,” mumbled Twain. “That’ll teach the son of a bitch to be late paying me for my articles.”

My Cheese

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Who moved my cheese?
You don’t know?
I’ll tell you who moved my cheese… it was you. You moved my cheese.
Don’t lie to me. Stop lying to me!
Oh, sure, you moved my cheese. But… I don’t know why.
Why did you move my cheese? Why couldn’t you just leave well enough alone.
The cheese wasn’t hurting anyone there. It wasn’t bothering anyone. It was fine.
But you moved it. You moved my cheese… somewhere.
Tell me. Where did you move my cheese?
Tell me where you moved my cheese, and I’ll tell you where I threw your elephant.

One Pill

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Alice held the pills in her hand and remembered what the strange lady sang: “One pill makes you larger and one pill makes you small.”
Alice looked at herself in the mirror. “What if I want to make my ass smaller and my boobs bigger?”
The strange lady thought for a moment and looked through a leather-bound notebook. “If you mash up one pill in bananas and smear it on your chest while using the other as a suppository…”
They experimented on the Mad Hatter, the two Tweedles, and most of the residents of Wonderland before getting it just right.

Return To Ascender

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“Ever since he came back, he’s been a real dick,” said Luke.
“We were out walking when we saw a boy with a crippled leg,” Matthew said. “He begged to be healed, but Jesus broke his crutch and struck him lame in the other leg.”
“Don’t forget the wine!” said Timothy. “We were going to celebrate his return, but he waves his hands and poof! It’s turned into water.”
“There’s no way we can make this church work with him screwing around,” said Mark. “Finish him off?”
Everybody nodded, and they drew straws.
“We’ll just say he… ascended,” said Luke.

Unlicensed to kill

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Bond’s license to kill was revoked last year because he shot too many bartenders who stirred his martini.
“I said shaken, dammit!” he’d shout. “Shaken!”
Three warnings later, he was disarmed for the good of mixologists around the world.
“What do I do now?” growled Bond as his trademark Walther PPK was returned to the gun vault.
“Run really fast,” said the controller. “Or call the cops.”
Assigned to spy on Taleban slavelords, Bond lasted seventeen hours in the field. He was last seen dialing 999 on his bowtie cellphone as three midget ninjas carved him into itty bitty pieces.

Reality Show

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The producer called the show “Back From Hell.”
The rules? Die, go to Hell, and then make it back.
First one wins a million bucks.
We’d take cameras with us and send video back through a new technology someone had invented.
They weeded us down to twelve, handed out pills, and said “You have to do this willingly. Suicide is a mortal sin.”
A dozen deaths later, we arrive in the Woods – the middle ring of the Seventh Circle. Our corpses hang from our branches.
“Now what?” we say.
I knew I should have tried that Ballroom Dancing show instead.

The Monkeys

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Bill bred the monkeys specifically for manual dexterity and docile temperament.
The typewriters, hauled out of some warehouse, just needed dusting and fresh ribbons.
Writers Guild representatives caught wind of Bill’s plan and used everything short of poisoning the banana supply to stop him.
Despite these evil schemes, Bill persevered, and his simian legions grew.
And produced.
At first, random garbage was the result. Lots of stained, crumbled sheets of typing paper covered with garble.
Then, smashed typewriters and the occasional dead monkey.
They never did manage to produce Shakespeare, but made a fine line in Bill’s obituary years later.