Tag: dystopia

Martians vs. Robots

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Martians? Robots?
You wouldn’t think they’d be at war, but they are, and the world is at stake.
The robots want to exterminate all human life.
The Martians just want to enslave them all.
You might think “At least we’d be alive and we’d have jobs” but you’d be generally miserable about it and have no freedom.
Kinda like things are now.
But then, they’re Martians. Foreigners. Invaders.
Sure, the Martians have robots, but they left them at home.
You know, to keep the confusion to a minimum.
Martians? Robots?
We’d better hurry up with destroying ourselves on our own.

Mall Santa

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Yeah, I punched a mall Santa in the face.
Guy had it coming. He was drunk and falling all over himself.
Plus, it was July.
That drunk bastard should be up at the North Pole, making toys.
Instead, he’s making faces at the kids and puking on himself.
There’s enough of that in December, but I won’t want to have to see this crap in July.
Who do you think makes all the fireworks for the Fourth of July? he drools.
The Chinese, I say, and I punch him again.
Santa goes down, and I take his sack of fireworks.

Happy Birthday

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Happy Birthday, America. So, how old are you now?
We’ve baked you a cake. A country-sized cake.
I know, we didn’t have to, but we had all this food lying around in silos and warehouses and store shelves.
It would have just gone to waste. Or food aid to people that hate us anyway.
We’ll dig a gigantic hole and call it your mouth.
Go ahead. Make a wish. Blow out the candles.
Then, thousands of bulldozers will push the cake into your mouth.
Earthquakes will chew it up. Grind it into a sugary mush.
And swallow the cake down.

Armageddon

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Armageddon.
The final battle between Good and Evil.
And here I am, a rifle in one hand and a cell phone in the other, waiting to find out which side I’m on.
Evil likes how I’m a good shot, but Good thinks I’m officer material.
Doesn’t matter which calls. Whatever side I end up on, I’m going to fight.
Phone rings, and I answer it.
It’s one of those automated calling systems, asking if I’ve contributed to the local policeman’s fund.
I hang up and wait.
Looking around, lots of people with guns and phones, waiting.
Maybe this is hell.

It Takes A Thief

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It takes a thief to catch a thief.
That’s what the mayor said to the police chief when the crime rate threatened his re-election chances.
So, the police chief went to other towns, recruiting thieves.
He figured he should grab some rapists and murderers, too.
When the crime rate soared, the mayor lost the election and a new mayor took office.
The problem was, this guy was corrupt as hell.
The police chief wondered. It takes a mayor to catch a mayor?
He never got the chance, though. It took 10 hours for the coroner to find all the bullets.

Financial Advisor

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I got a financial advisor.
He tells me to buy, so I buy.
He tells me to sell, so I sell.
Works out pretty nice.
Then, he tells me to meet him at the diner at midnight.
So, I meet him.
He slides a gun across the table.
He tells me to kill the priest who molested him as a child.
I say no.
He slides a stack of bills across the table.
“I’m here to make you money,” he says. “Go on. Take it.”
I slide it back.
“Invest it for me,” I say, and I take the gun.

Chorus

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Ever hear of the Falling Chorus of Ghastly Cliffs?
No? It’s a fascinating story.
Imagine a gigantic gleaning amphitheater set on the edge of a cliff.
As the city residents become old and weak, they join the line down Main Street to the chorus at the cliff.
When they reach the amphitheater, they sing for all they’re worth.
Some go for a few seconds. Others, for hours.
When they’re exhausted, helpers pick them off the ground and toss them over the edge.
Another takes their place. The choir goes on forever.
It’s beautiful, except for the screams and messy splatters.

Strewn at his feet

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It is a rule of the royal palace that everywhere our liege walks, rose petals must be strewn at his feet.
Sadly, the roses were killed by unexpected frost, and it will be months before new blooms can grow.
Our master lays in bed, tied up and angry.
“All I want to do is walk to the bathroom,” he growls.
“No,” I say. “We have no roses to strew at your feet. We must carry you.”
He sighs. He knows that he is no more important than the office, and with the office comes rules.
We tighten the ropes.

Twilight Years

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I’m not old, they tell me.
I’m in my Twilight Years.
They’re not lying, I tell them. They’re just full of shit.
I look like I’m in my eighties, but I’m really in my eight hundreds.
Been that way since I was… well, eighty.
I don’t know how and I don’t know why. I just know that I haven’t died yet and I don’t appear to be in any rush to.
Know that song Forever Young? Well, I’m Forever Old.
I get sick a lot. I feel tired, weak.
But it beats the hell out of the alternative, I guess.

Weatherman

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We’re a small town, barely a thousand people.
Everybody knows everybody else, or at least knows about them.
George is the town’s weatherman. Had a job at a big television station before he got sick of city life and retired here.
Well, maybe not retired. More like cracked up after blowing a bunch of forecasts, getting fired… drinking a lot.
Whatever. He’s a lousy weatherman, but the best we got.
When the tornado siren went off, he just laughed.
“No tornados today,” he said.
Those were his last words. During the cleanup, we found his body smashed against a tree.