Tag: dystopia

Christmas Trolls

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The day after Christmas, Santa’s elves partied and celebrated another year’s work finished.
On the other side of the North Pole, Santa’s trolls were dealing with returns, damaged toys, injury claims, technical support, and instruction booklets in the wrong language.
“Fucking elves!” growled the Head Troll. “Those twerps get the credit for shipping crap, but we’re the ones having to clean up after them.”
“Let’s strike,” said a few of the trolls, and they grumbled agreement.
At first sign of revolt, Santa stomped into the Troll Barn with a bullwhip and a bullhorn.
“Back to work, you sonsabitches!” he shouted.

Toadboy

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My mother did a lot of drugs in her wilder days.
She claimed she took a break for the seven months I was inside her, but I know she’s lying.
My genes are full of errors, minuscule errors in the spirals of DNA in my billions of cells.
Doctors say I should be dead by now. But I’m still kicking, and the nurses keep checking on me around-the-clock.
Every now and then, one sneaks a lick of my skin.
Their eyes roll back, and they shudder with pleasure.
That’s nice, but I wish they’d remember to switch the goddamned bedpan.

The Cute

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Warden Wilson’s motto was “We put the ‘cute’ in electrocution.”
His first order of business was to replace the old wooden electric chair with a comfortable electric couch.
Fresh flowers and rustic decorations adorned Death Row to give it a “homey” feel. Lots of framed needlepoint, and the bars were replaced with delicate wrought iron.
When the guards’ union balked at the duck and the bunny suits, Wilson flew into a berserk rage.
“Fine!” he shouted. “Forget about the flowers and hugs… you can keep your stupid batons and guns!”
Wilson’s bludgeoned and shot body was found the next day.

My Captain

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When it got dark, The Captain and I climbed out of the bunker for a smoke.
My pack was empty. The Captain had just one.
I watched as The Captain lit up.
“We’ll get more soon,” he said, taking a deep drag. “I’ll smoke half, you’ll smoke half, okay?”
The tip glowed red in the night.
Then, more red.
Laser dots.
He dropped before I could shout.
I sat still, watching The Captain’s body in the tiny glow of the cigarette tip.
No more shots. The snipers just saw him, not me.
I haven’t smoked since.
Now pass the needle.

Radiating Love

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I love Jeannie to death, but sometimes she drives me nuts.
The sensors say that it’s still not safe to go outside of the shelter, but she’s accusing me of having an affair?
“We might just be the last two people on earth!” I shout. “Who am I cheating with?”
“I know you put on that radiation suit and go carousing at night,” she sneers.
I shake my head and wonder if it’s really worth trying to save the species when it’ll be stuck with her crazy and retarded genes.
Whatever. If supplies run low, I can always eat her.

Sticky Situation

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I can’t decide which is worse – having to scrape all this gum from under these desks all day or mopping up the shit and piss from a dead kid.
Yeah, it’s a real headscratcher.
You see, bubblegum is easy to poison. Just use a powder that looks like the sugar they dust this crap with.
The wrappers untwist without tearing. A little heat seals them back up.
Then you leave it out in a candy dish, the kid takes it… and WHAM problem solved.
Usually, they swallow it.
I hate it when it falls out and sticks to the floor.

Edison’s Orphans

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The most dangerous place on the planet is not Iraq or Gaza or some war-torn hellhole, but the sidewalk around the Patent Office.
It used to be easy to get from the street to the front door, but these days every scatterbrained crackpot in the country has been drawn like a magnet to this place.
Edison once said that genius is one percent inspiration and ninety-nine percent perspiration, but these folks ain’t geniuses, so that other one percent is probably booze.
Try to resist the temptation to use up your Bumblaster (patent pending) batteries, hold your nose, and follow me.

Double A Meets Four F

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Planetary Defense Command doesn’t want you to save the last bullet for yourself.
We’re supposed to fire it at the enemy and charge with fixed bayonets, but nobody’s had bayonets for centuries.
As for bullets, I look at my rifle. One last bar on the battery indicator.
Then it flashes… flashes… flashes…
I should have brought a spare.
Not enough for a last shot, but enough for a spark.
The rifle battery hooks on the oxygen tank perfectly.
They designed it to do this. When we’re out of batteries, we’re nothing but bombs to PDC.
I hunker down and wait.

Horseman 3000

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The company spent half a billion dollars developing the cure. Heck, we spent millions coming up with the brand name:
Revivalyfe.
Pretty, isn’t it? And a lovely shade of sky blue.
All we need is a disease for it.
Relax – manufacturing diseases is child’s play, thanks to the old Horseman 3000. Just tap in the symptoms, decide on a vector, sync up Revivalyfe’s cure profile, and turn the key.
Five hours later, you’ve got your disease.
What? The DEATH button is still sticking?
I’ll call Maintenance… just hold on…
Strange. No answer.
Okay, just hit CANCEL for now…
Cancel! CAN-

Route 666

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Saint John Chrysostom once said that the road to Hell is paved with the skulls of priests.
Know what? It is. And those things’ll tear your tires up in less than a mile.
That’s why my truck has runflats.
I make this trip every few weeks for someone or another that wants me to grab a relative before they pass through the gates.
Few people know where the off-ramp is for Route 666, but if you’ve got the jack then I’ve got the beer.
Sure your daughter’s worth all this?
Okay, then – buckle up. It’s going to be rough.