Dear Loyal Fans,
Mustard Man would like to thank all of you who have written him in the past three months.
This has all been one huge misunderstanding. What I thought was a sampler pack for a condiment manufacturer’s convention in Istanbul turned out to be 10 kilos of high-grade heroin.
This was not my heroin. Mustard Man is strictly a coke and pot kind of guy. Needles are disgusting, messy things.
I’m sure that this will all work itself out. My lawyer assures me.
Once again, I thank you for your support.
Mustard Man (aka “Prisoner 0175236”)
Jessica was the greatest of Bigeasyologists, scholars of the Sunken City of New Orleans. She’d researched the films, books, holocordings, music, and cooking her whole life.
Now, the final force-barrier against the Gulf of Mexico was in place. The osmotic pumps were revealing what was before only accessible to divers, drones, and avatar-subs.
Sure, the French Quarter would take weeks to dry out, but Jessica didn’t want to wait. She wanted to be the first.
She’d earned it.
The hover-cameras followed as she landed on Bourbon Street, took off her helmet, and then her top.
“Bon temps roules!” she shouted.
“The Mighty Servant 5 leaves Hong Kong tonight,” said Blinky. “Manifest is a beauty.”
“Yarrrrrr!” said Winky, giggling.
Elves make excellent hackers, thought Santa.
Later that night, the sleigh raced over the Pacific and spotted the massive vessel.
It looks like an oil tanker with Legos on top, thought Saint Nick.
They landed quickly.
“Hit the Mattel containers, ye scurvy elves!” yelled Santa to his crew. “Watch out for Dobermans!”
“Aye aye!” yelled the elves.
This was so much more fun than making toys.
Santa drew his toy cutlass and chortled, his belly shaking like a bowl full of grog.
“Stop!” Abraham shouted. “I command you to stop!”
Abe clung to the back legs of the angry elephant, wondering how the hell he got into this mess.
Why do I keep doing these things? he thought. Why won’t I just let him run away?
He let go, passed out, and by some miracle wasn’t trampled.
Later, the ringmaster waved some smelling salts under the president’s nose.
Lincoln awoke. Johnson shrugged and went back home.
“I was drunk again, wasn’t I?” said Abe.
“As a goddamned skunk,” said the ringmaster.
“Forget about the elephants,” said Lincoln. “No more circuses for me.”
“It’s a cookbook!” was the last thing Dr. Chambers heard before the spaceship door closed.
The Kanamint had said they were here to serve man.
Quite literally, as dinner.
Chambers sighed, slumped against the wall of the crowded cell, and slept.
He woke up, alone.
The door opened, and a Kanamint wheeled in a cart.
“Your dinner,” thoughtcasted the Kanamint.
At first, Chambers wasn’t hungry, but the smell was… captivating.
He took the lid off of the tray, tasted a sauce-covered cube, and moaned with delight.
“I must have this recipe,” he said. “Delicious!”
Eventually, they made him a chef.
Walking carefully up the stairway, Abraham tried hard not to trip on any kittens.
Somewhere down the hallway, the cats were fighting again.
He almost made it to the top. Then, all of the sudden, a herd of kittens came down the hallway to the stairs.
The President reeled and grasped for the railing.
After falling four steps, he clung tightly.
“Oh Lord!” moaned Lincoln. “No more kittens!”
Mary Todd poked her head out of the sewing room. “But you said-”
“I think we’ve got more than plenty now!” shouted Abe. “Enough!”
They were coming back.
Abe braced himself.
The trembling from Parkinson’s dissipated, itself a victim of the destruction HIV was doing throughout his body.
The machines kept him going. Until…
They found the account numbers.
He was gone.
And then he was back.
Yasser looked around.
No Paradise. No seventy-two virgins. No throne of Allah.
“What is this madness?” he wanted to say.
It came out as: “Chitter!”
Yasser scampered out of his knot-hole, down his tree, and he looked in the pond.
He looked around, and saw a squirrel in a tiny wheelchair.
He blamed the Jews, and declared a jihad. For…
I am not a loser. Dressing up for a movie premiere is fun, dammit.
I spent hours working on the makeup. It’s a pale cream-white body makeup. Leaves one hell of a rash later.
It’s worth it.
Ordered a set of special yellow-iris contacts. They scratch my corneas.
Got my hair cut short, gelled it flat. It will all fall out afterwards.
Lost seventy pounds to fit into the uniform, too. Those illegal diet pills may have caused massive hemorrhaging in my brain, but other than the facial tic I’m fine.
I’m so ready for The Revenge of the Sith.
What’s with the singing box?
Well, remember the old story about Orpheus going to Hell to free his girlfriend?
He looks back – WHAM! Eurydice is back in Hell. A gang of women tear Orpheus apart, and his head falls into the stream, still singing.
Some chick puts the head in a box, sells it to a joint on the island, and it becomes the first jukebox.
Here it is. Just fifty bucks.
Problem is, it sings in Greek. It sounds so painful and sad, but beautiful. Too bad I don’t know Greek.
Oh well. Still sounds beautiful.
“You sunk my naked chick!” yelled Bobby.
Joey laughed. “All I need is your Magritte pipe, and you’re so toast!”
Mandy and Greg smiled. They didn’t like war toys, so they figured that substituting the ships for works of art would help somehow.
Twenty years later, they were in the courtroom as their sons were convicted of trying to steal Michelangelo’s David.
“I told you that the damn alarm was in B7!” growled Joey.
“I thought you said E4!” Bobby yelled back. “Asshole!”
They were sentenced to twenty years apiece
Bobby’s in cell F7. Joey’s in cell F8.