Tag: sick

Captain Sword

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There’s no way we can make it to port anytime soon, and there’s no empty islands for days.
“The body’s getting ripe,” says Pappy. “Your command, Captain.”
It took me a minute to realize Pappy was talking to me.
I’m not the First Mate anymore. That ended when Captain Sword broke his neck slipping on the poopdeck.
“Send him to Davey Jones’ Locker,” I said.
So we buried Old Sword at sea, wrapping him in sailcloth and tossing him overboard.
A few seconds later, the white bundle popped back up to the surface.
“You forgot the weights, stupid,” said Pappy.

Dead Players

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My fantasy football team consists entirely of players who are dead.
I’m not sure how I ended up with these stiffs, but once the draft was over, I looked at my roster and it read like the obituary pages.
Damn.
I tried to trade for new picks, but nobody wanted dead players.
“They don’t throw interceptions,” I said. “They don’t fumble or miss tackles.”
My sales pitch didn’t work.
I close my eyes and imagine the team bus… well, it’s more of a hearse than a team bus.
Six weeks in, I’m winning.
And worried.
Will they start killing players?

Turned

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Willy turned after the sun went down.
We staked him the moment he opened his eyes.
They were brown. After he turned, they became bright blue.
See for yourself.
It’s not easy to stake friends. I guess that’s why he was so easy to stake.
He was a pathetic whiny bitch.
Nobody on the team liked him.
Hell, I don’t remember why we let him join.
I guess he just tagged along while we were busy
Dixon says he might have given Willy a dud dose of the serum so he’d turn.
Good. More serum for the rest of us.

Monsters

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It’s a proven fact that just the right combination of dirty clothes, candy wrappers, and comic books will breed monsters.
But only under special conditions, such as labs in Eastern Europe, or… underneath children’s beds.
What kind of monsters?
Big, nasty ones.
Once that eat bad children.
Not all at once, of course.
Some like to snack while reading comic books.
I know I did.
Hey, Kid! Is that Action Man Issue One?
Wow. I haven’t seen that in ages!
If you’re quiet, I’ll make it quick.
If you’re not, I’ll do to you what I did to the babysitter.

Just A Taste

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Leslie is always asking for a taste of what I’m eating or drinking.
With one massive bite or gulp, she hands back an empty plate or glass.
“Delicious,” he moans. “Thank you.”
If she asks you for something, give it to her.
Don’t just stick it in her face for her to bite or sip while you’re still holding on to it.
You could lose a finger.. a hand… even an arm if she’s hungry.
Her last boyfriend learned that lesson the hard way.
He had a strawberry in his mouth, offered it with a kiss, and lost his head.

Sinterklaas

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We put bandages on the wounds, but you can clearly read “Sinterklaas” in bloody red slashes through the gauze.
The wounds were deep, but not severe enough to kill him.
His breathing was ragged, moans of pain.
“Did you see who did this to you?” I asked the man.
His eyes remained dull and fixed as he coughed through his confession: “I did it to myself.”
He pulled a knife from his boot, dropping the bloody blade on the floor.
“Why?” I asked him.
“I’m bad,” said the man, “and he’s out of coal.”
Be good, little children.
Or else.

Passing The Rose

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In a land without tears, the tearmaster goes from home to home, selling his sadness.
“What good is joy without its opposite?” he tells everyone. “If you cannot feel the deep lows, what will you feel of the highs? Nothing!”
The people stood and stared, confused.
“You cannot feel good without at some point feeling bad!” he shouted.
A child picked up a rock and threw it at the tearmaster, who yelped at the pain.
His hand came away from his forehead bloody.
More townspeople threw rocks. The blood flowed down the tearmaster’s face.
“Are those tears?” asked a child.

Tuck Her In

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Once upon a time, there was a little girl named Sally.
Every night, the robot would tuck in Sally, kiss her on the forehead, and say goodnight.
The robot then would sit in a atomic-powered recharging chair for the night.
This went on every night for 500 years.
Every so often, the robot would ask Sally if she brushed her teeth or said her prayers, but it wasn’t advanced enough to take verbal commands. It just asked those things as part of a routine.
When Sally’s corpse decayed beyond recognition, the robot looked for a new house in the ruins.

197 Days

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On the one hundred and ninety-seventh day of Christmas, we dumped the egg nog in the river and sent out a lynching party to kill Santa.
“We’re sick and tired of Christmas!” we shouted over the carols blaring from department store speakers.
“One hundred ninety-seven seals clapping!” went the chorus, and began to gleefully count back down to the damn bird in the tree.
I thought I saw Santa on the streetcorner, but it was a bell-ringer for the Salvation Army.
We pulled down his pants and shoved the bell up his ass.
His screams were music to our ears.

Masturbation

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If you’ve read Fark, you’ve heard the adage: Every time you masturbate, God kills a kitten.
So, every time a cat masturbates, does God kill a baby?
I know the answer. And the answer is YES.
Malnutrition, ad genetics, crib death – the government and WHO make excuses, but you’ll never get the truth out of their reports.
It’s masturbating cats killing all the babies! Damn them!
Very few people know. Bob Barker is one of them.
Why do you think he kept saying to spay and neuter your pets?
It was for the children. It was always for the children.