Tag: mystery

The Milk of The Storm

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Why do people rush to buy milk before a snowstorm?
This, we do not know. The invaders stole and destroyed many historical tapestries, and the oral tradition is lost.
Still, when the weather gets cold and the radio says it will blizzard, we rush to buy milk.
Even the lactose intolerant. The urge is deep in our blood. It is second-nature, like sneezing or smiling at babies.
When the snowdrifts rise against windows, we sit in the dark, starting at the milk.
It just sits there… until we pour in cereal…
Like firecrackers! Gunshots!
FIESTA TIME!
Viva la breakfast resolution!

The Clock Struck

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Commissioner Gordon handed Batman the note.
“At half-past twelve, the clock stuck three,” said The Caped Crusader.
“What does that mean?” growled Chief O’Hara.
“I don’t know,” said Batman. “But it’s almost twelve-thirty now.”
Across the street, an explosion rocked the First City Bank Tower.
All three ran to the window, just as the building’s massive clock broke from its moorings and crashed through the office.
Batman. O’Hara. Gordon.
Dead.
Later that evening, Riddler and Joker divvied up the loot.
“I told you it would work,” said the Clown Prince Of Crime. ”Hey, let’s go kill Superman.”
They both laughed.

The Cheese

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Sister Hexx warns me that the cheese can be dangerous.
Lord, was she ever so right.
I opened the refrigerator door and reached for the cheese.
I had a cheese knife.
The cheese had a gun.
You know, my doctor had said that cheese was bad for me, but who listens to their doctor?
He said the same with red meat.
I look out the window, a slab of red meat behind the wheel of a Buick, circling the block.
The dent in the hood, the cracked windshield.
I was lucky, yes, but one day my luck will run out.

These Donuts

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I see a trail of mini-donuts leading into the woods.
They wind through the trees until they trail into a cave.
At first, I thought it was a trap set by a bear to lure people to their doom.
Then, I saw a caveman come out of the cave, picking up and devouring the donuts.
I follow the trail of donuts out of the woods, and it ends in Spain.
What the Spanish want with him, I’m not sure.
Thoroughly confused, I head to the donuts shop, where I am captured with a butterfly net and dragged into the back.

The Stained Shirt

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After eating a plate of chicken wings, I’ve got barbecue sauce on my shirt.
No, not the shirt I’m wearing. That one’s clean. I have a big napkin tucked into my shirt covering my tie.
The stains are on a shirt in plastic that I just picked up from the cleaners.
How I got barbecue sauce on that shirt and not the one I’m wearing, I don’t know.
The shirt was clean when I picked it up. I never took it out of the plastic.
I take off my clean shirt, put on the stained one, and all is well.

Banana Pancakes

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I asked for banana pancakes, but what I got was a plate with pancakes wrapped around unpeeled bananas.
The AutoChef still needs some work.
Sure, it gets simple things like oatmeal, coffee and tea right. Dispensing pre-mixed isn’t a challenge at all. Just inject with the right amount of hot water, shake well, and pour.
But anything beyond basics results in something like this plate of pancake-wrapped bananas or a bowl of toxic mush.
Another thing we’ve got right is the AutoChef’s fragile ego. Insult the food, and it chases you with a cleaver.
No. Really. It’s nice toxic mush.

Forgetful

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Despite his many failures in all fields of Science, Dr. Odd maintains his keen sense of irony.
His greatest triumph in botany was the splicing and resequencing the DNA of forget-me-not flowers to cause them to naturally produce a compound similar to GHB.
One whiff of the flowers would prevent two to four hours of memory from sticking to the brain.
Dr. Odd forgot to wear a filter mask during his research, so even with extensive notes, it took years to complete.
And when he finished these sinister frankenflowers, he couldn’t remember that he invented them in the first place.

The Eye

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For as long as I’ve known him, Jose’s worn a black eyepatch over his right eye.
I’ve never asked him how he lost his eye, and he’s never volunteered that information.
He just looks at me with his one eye and grins.
After fifty years, I’m looking down at him in his coffin, both eyes closed and no eyepatch.
I asked the funeral home director about the eyepatch. Did they put an artificial eye in the socket before closing it?
Nope. Eye was just as fine as the other one.
I guess he liked it, and it just looked good.

Singing Teeth

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When I brush my teeth, they sing.
At first, I thought it was some kind of microchip in the toothbrush, like those expensive greeting cards.
But when I used another toothbrush, they sang just the same.
I asked my dentist about this, and he made sure that the valve on his laughing gas was sealed tightly.
Nobody believes me when I say that my teeth sing. They think I’m crazy.
But I’m not.
What’s worse is that when I forget to brush my teeth, they cry with blood.
“Now do you believe me?” I scream.
They think I’m crazier now.

Metaphysical Therapy

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Mother was a Freudian psychiatrist.
Every time she tried to analyze me, she’d say “Tell me about your mother.”
And I’d say “Um, mom? That’s you, stupid!”
She’d nod. And then I’d be sent to bed without dinner.
Later, after I busted my knee and had surgery, I ended up with a metaphysical therapist.
Instead of building strength in my knee with exercise, we debated the nature of all existence and if it was still my knee or something entirely new.
Not only did I end up totally confused, the damn thing still hurts like a son of a bitch.