The man with the wild hair

The manager took the waitress aside.
See the guy at table seven?
The one with the wild hair.
He’s rich. He’s famous.
He’s a good tipper.
So, treat him nice.
Okay, said the waitress.
Famous last words, I suppose.
The next day, she was found dead at the guy’s mansion.
The guy claimed she’d shot herself.
Suicide? Accident?
Just as long as it wasn’t him.
Because he was a success, and she was a failure.
Guilty, they said.
See the guy in cell seven?
The one with the wild hair.
He’s rich. He’s famous.
And he’s going to die here.

Birth person

Angry leftists want people to stop using the term “Mother” and instead use the term “Birth Person.”
They think the term “Mother” is sexist and denigrates transgender people or something.
By trying to change the term, they’re denigrating Foster Mothers and Adoptive Mothers.
People who step in and try to help a child who’s been abandoned or given up by the person who gave birth to them.
People trying to ruin the language can be some seriously stupid motherfuckers sometimes.
And I mean motherfuckers. Not birthpersonfuckers.
Although, to be fair, I should just call them fuckers and be done with it.

Grandpoisoner

My grandfather ran a chain of drycleaning stores.
Buttons would fall off of the clothes, and we’d get boxes of shiny buttons of so many colors and shapes and sizes.
We’d also get maids who’d “retired” from the drycleaning stores.
All were old and sick, and none lasted longer than a month or two.
My grandfather eventually lost all the drycleaners.
He’d been sued into ruin because his workers were all dying from carbon tetrachloride poisoning.
And he was too, leaving my grandmother destitute and reputation ruined.
I remember sorting those buttons.
Now, I wonder if they were poisoned too.

Weekly Challenge #1017 -A melted chocolate bar

The next topic is PICK TWO
It burns!
Fare
Value-added
Horse glue
Evolution

NORVAL JOE

The Five Star Sister’s coven sat around a campfire in the sand. Waves crashed on the shore a dozen yards away as they toasted marshmallows and assembled smores.

After an hour of enjoying the tasty trifecta of graham cracker, marshmallow, and melted chocolate bar, one of the women said, “Do you hear that sound?”

“I can’t hear a thing, Marsha,” another replied.

“That’s just it.” Marsha said, stood and looked at the ocean.

Where waves had been crashing on the shore was only wet sand and seaweed. The ocean had withdrawn a hundred yards out to sea.

“Uh oh,” Marsha said.

TOM

The dwarf, the elf, the man, and the Wizard noted the swinging sign over
the ramshackle tavern. The elf asked: “Safe?!” The wizard replied: “Seem
so.” Upon entering the drinking establishment the man inquired about the
lore concerning the name outside the door. A world-weary barkeep said:
“We have an agreement with the arch-mage of the School of Magic
Confections to serve their student magus.” Just then a misspoke chant
rose from a table. The room was engulfed in Sugar Fire. All within were
completely covered in brown goo. Aye Melting Chocolate Bar. Licking a
finger the dwarf said: “sweet”

SERENDIPIDY

By the time I was done, his face resembled a melted chocolate bar.
That is, if you like your chocolate burned, bloody and full of broken bone fragments.
Coming to think of it, maybe a melted chocolate bar was a poor analogy. Think instead of that end scene in Raiders of the Lost Ark, when those Nazis had their faces blasted away when the ark was opened.
Either way, you get the general idea, right?
Did he have it coming? Probably not; he just happened to be in the wrong place, at the wrong time.
Right time for me though!

LIZZIE

With a melted chocolate bar, he said. The barista turned around. Melted? Yes, his teeth, he mumbled. I don’t want to be judgmental, she said, but perhaps chocolate isn’t a good option. He shrugged. With milk, please. She grabbed a chocolate bar from the counter and dropped it in the cup with hot milk. Anything else? No, he said. Are you OK? He smiled the saddest smile she had ever seen. Go sit down, now, I’ll come over and chat. I’ll even make a melted chocolate bar cup of milk for me! And this is why he’s still alive today.

LISA

The Joy of New Jeans.
I’ve been shopping. I got new jeans. White! I know… who even am I? Anyway, I’m feeling great. I think it’s changed the way I’m walking or my expression or something because it feels like everyone’s staring as I walk for the bus.
I’m sure I heard them whispering about me when I got off the bus too. I think I must be imagining it. I mean, it’s just a pair of jeans. Right?
When I get home I realise people have been talking: a melted chocolate bar has somehow spread it’s delight all over the back of the jeans.

RICHARD

— Melted —
I’ve never understood people who keep their chocolate in the fridge, and I can’t abide it.
For me, chocolate should be served at room temperature, better still, slightly above -soft and creamy- just on the point of melting.
And let’s not stop there. The ultimate indulgence for me is to pop a piece in my mouth, and let it slowly melt over my tongue.
Sometimes, I’ll stuff a bar in my pocket, just to bring it up to the perfect temperature for eating.
But, often I forget it’s there.
And end up with a melted chocolate bar.
Best thing ever!

PLANET Z

Some people credit Perry Spencer for inventing the microwave oven.
He was a Raytheon employee who noticed that microwaves from a radar set he was working on melted a candy bar he had in his pocket.
Later, he tested the effect on popcorn, and then on an egg.
Other engineers performed experiments and confirmed Perry’s findings.
They worked up a proposal and brought it to management.
Who rejected it.
“What fool wants to be cooking food in their pockets?”
It’s when they put the food in a bowl and inside a box with the microwaves that the management were convinced.

Pixies

A few decades ago, some dude took out an insurance policy on his two kids.
Then he spiked some Pixie Stix with cyanide.
He gave it to his kids and some neighbors.
In the end, only one kid actually ate the candy… his youngest.
Ever since then, paranoia about poisoned candy, razor blades in apples, and other evil fills the news.
Even though incidents of such tampering are few and far between.
The candy is quite safe these days.
As kids go around in black witches cloaks and grim reaper robes on unlit streets.
And get run over by cars.

Survived by

I used to wonder about obituaries that appear days or months after the person had died.
When my sick evil father died, I wondered what pack of lies and bullshit would appear in his obituary.
So, after a few weeks, I searched for it.
And didn’t find anything.
Well, I wasn’t about to write one.
And my brother wasn’t either.
His widow? A dementia-ridden crone only capable of digesting expensive food and shitting everywhere.
Whether prompt or delayed, they all still say “survived by” in them.
When the actual survivors of evil scumbags like him never write them at all.

99

My grandmother lived to ninety-nine.
Her husband, a drycleaner sued into bankruptcy by workers poisoned by carbon tetrachloride, left her broke.
She remarried. The stepfather of a real estate mogul.
But he died, leaving her broke again.
Her younger daughter took her in, stole all the heirlooms.
Then her eldest daughter, my mother, took her in.
I was told my grandmother died of old age.
But I was lied to.
She drained my parents’ assets dry, and my mother harassed and tormented her for it.
So she starved herself to death.
And her murderer keeps her ashes on the shelf.

No angel he was

They say he was getting his life back together. A new, fresh start.
You know, just like they said after the last eight times he’d been released from prison for drugs, stealing, and beating up women.
What makes this time any different?
This time, the cops didn’t put up with his bullshit.
He got high, like he always did.
He passed a bad twenty, and when the cops got called, he fought back.
Like he always did.
And they killed him.
Somewhere out there are all the women he’d have beaten.
Whoever they are, they all should thank the cops.

Such a bird she is

Achmed fell in love with the figure in the window.
All he could see was the burqua, the Islamic robe that covers women from head to toe and reveals absolutely nothing.
Her modesty was her beauty.
Every day, he would walk by the window, bow to the figure, and walk on.
She stood there, unmoving.
Sometimes, he thought he heard whispers.
And each time, his heart beat stronger.
Until one day, he worked up the courage to ask the shopkeeper.
The shopkeeper laughed, and lifted the burqua… revealing a birdcage beneath.
So, Achmed bought the bird and the burqua anyway.

Faves

I don’t get worked up over favorites on Flickr.
Some folks don’t have a Flickr account.
Others are in locations that won’t allow smut on the Intenet.
And then there’s the ungrateful fucks. Bless their heats.
Out of every show, maybe there’s one above-and-beyond photo, if at all.
One that captures the emotion and motion of the act.
The other 30 or 40 are serviceable.
And then there’s the hundred or so I trash because a good photographer is just one who deletes their shitty shots.
(I’ll never be a great one, because I keep posting those 30 or 40.)