The 100 Word Stories Podcast

The rioters and looters swept across the mall, looting everything they could.
Televisions, computers… all kinds of electronic equipment.
What they couldn’t loot, they burned.
The stores reported the inventories to the manufacturers, and they looked up the serial numbers of each device.
When the devices were plugged in, each reported their locations and illegal users back to the manufacturers.
The ones who were employees of the stores were fired and sent to the police.
The rest were sent a warning letter from the manufacturers:
“Return what you have stolen.”
The smart ones did that. Those who didn’t, they burned.

To the people who misconfigure and screw up the laundry center’s payment controls, broken tap panels and slots and readers, I wish you unwell.
So unwell, you end up sick and dying in a hospital bed.
I’d rig your bed control to blink a light and make a motor sound, but not actually adjust.
I’d rig your nurse call button to make a beep, but not actually call the nurse.
I’d rig your morphine dispensing button to make a beep, but not actually dispense pain medication.
I’d rig your telephone to give a dial tone, but not actually call anyone.

The company I work for used to be a startup cowboy coder place.
But over time, it has descended into a progressive woke leftist place.
Every straight white male has a target on his back.
And all it takes is one wrong word, and you’re gone.
I worked with these identical twins, I can’t tell them apart.
Both talented coders.
But they had anger issues.
One, more than the other.
So, he said one wrong word, followed it up with others, and was gone.
Which means I know which one I’m working with now.
Until he gets fired. Or quits.

Angelo, he was a good soldier.
He worked for the captain, he did what he was asked to do.
Kill, steal, whatever.
The captain took orders from the underboss, and the underboss talked to the boss.
When the boss had phone trouble, he called the phone company.
And the FBI told the phone company “We got this.”
And an agent wired in a bug to the line.
When the boss had a problem, Angelo got the orders.
FBI agents they’d finally gotten the boss.
That’s when Angelo knocked on their door.
“You’re the problem,” he said, tossing in the bomb.

I don’t think the Chinese went far enough when they engineered and released COVID-19.
I’m hoping that they find a way to perfect it, and target COVID-20 at stupid, greedy, and annoying people.
Pundits on the television commentaries, the columnists at the newspapers… all falling down dead.
The guy that makes a left turn from the right lane suddenly slumping on to his steering wheel and coasting to a stop.
Telemarketers, people who let their barking dogs out at 3AM and don’t pick up after them.
And especially people who ask me “Does it have to be 100 words long?”

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.

Word got out that Cindy died.
The notice said that she was surrounded by family.
Some people envision a hospital bed, where everyone’s standing around and telling her that they love her.
A beautiful scene, no.
While I envision a cage in the basement, where all her family members have spears to poke through the bars.
“OUT, DEMON!” they all shout. “Let our Cindy go!”
And stab Cindy repeatedly until she succumbs to her wounds.
Anastasia, the Russian Princess, she died surrounded by her loving family, too.
As they were all poisoned and shot to death in the palace basement.

Morganna Roberts was known as The Kissing Bandit.
The huge-breasted ex-stripper would run on to the field to kiss the players.
Or coaches. Or mascots, like the San Diego Chicken.
She’d sometimes get injured. Or the security guards took her away.
And she was charged with trespassing or some other charge that would eventually get dropped.
Or she’d pay the fine out the money she made from public appearances and her line of cosmetics and souvenirs.
She made millions.
And then, there’s Justin Verlander.
One game in two years, then injured. Sixty-five million dollars.
Tell me, who’s the bigger slut?

I recently quit my job.
But I quit my job on the first of the month, so I’ve got insurance until month’s end.
My prescriptions are running out, so I ordered refills last night, and this morning, the drugstore said they were ready.
And they were ready.
No insurance issues.
No doctor’s authorization issues.
No problems with supply at the drugstore.
No line full of people yelling about insurance, doctors, and supply.
I walked in, I said my name, and paid with my Apple Watch.
It’s the first time that everything went right.
I should quit my job more often.