Les vs. The Lesbians


Les Nessman put the disk in his DVD player and hit Play.
He stabbed the button a few more times.
Still nothing.
He shrugged and wandered off to lunch.
Johnny Fever stepped over Les’ tape-wall, opened the tray, and turned it right side up.
Two hours hardcore of Jennifer and Bailey, all for Les.
He popped out the DVD, ripped a copy of Snow White, and put it in the tray.
Les came back from lunch and tried again.
It worked.
Later that day, Les was slapped twice for saying he thought Dopey’s kiss was the cutest of all.

If you give up that right


He has the right to remain silent.
I wish he’d use it.
I swear, I’ve never heard a guy shriek so much. The whole trip back to the station, he’s done nothing but scream at the top of his lungs.
Just when I think he’s ready to stop, he just gets even louder.
Okay, so procedure says he’s supposed to go in the back seat and not on the hood, but I’ve got a birthday cake in the seat.
And the trunk’s full of presents.
No way he’s sitting up here with me.
Two more blocks.
Hold on, pal.

The Road To Hickburg


Sue and Johnny eloped to Hickburg, thinking they’d have the local Justice of the Peace marry them.
It’s what every pair of young star-crossed lovers did in Fayette. It’s what each of their parents did in their time. Their grandparents, too, if you could believe anything those old farts ever said.
Driving down the road to Hickburg, the trees got thicker and thicker.
They never did get to the town, as if the forest had just swallowed it up.
So, they went to Vegas. Lived happily ever after, too.
Years later, the forest ate Fayette.
And it’s headed this way.

Blood Money


Woke up, no paper on my side table so I can catch up with things. Tivo’s been wiped. Went online to check my accounts, and they’re a mess. Everything’s overdrawn.
Damn servants always end up trying to stab you in the back. It’s only a matter of time, always happens.
I waste an hour with the hotlines my banks and brokers have for low-profile “after hours” customers like me. Everything’s taken care of, they should have the guy at my doorstep before midnight, as usual.
Drinking a traitor’s blood is the sweetest revenge.
Time to post on Hotjobs again: “Servant.”



Across the bright blue sky, a single cloud in the shape of the number nine lazily floated by.
“What’s that?” asked Sue.
Bob smiled. “God’s counting down to the end of the world.”
“Are you sure?” said Sue.
“Positive,” said Bob.
“Well… um… what should we do?”
“Nothing,” said Bob. “So, have you eaten yet?”
“The end of the world is coming, and you’re thinking about food?”
“Well, we could screw,” said Bob. “But I’m hungry.”
Sue ran screaming into the street.
“Dingbat didn’t ask about the ten,” Bob chuckled. “I remember my grandfather telling me about it…”

Among The Bronx


The cab drops me off at Yankee Stadium.
Bob flew up earlier to get the tickets. He’s also covering for everything else.
I look around, and that’s when I see his flaming corpse hanging from the lamp post, still wearing his Sox cap.
Before the mob can lynch me, I take off my jersey and cap, waving them around while shouting and grunting.
Someone from the crowd grabs them, tosses them on the bonfire, and says “Ammost goddim, bruddah!”
I spend the evening hunting with the tribe before slipping into an Irish pub for a way back to Boston… civilization!

The Running of The Scissors


Maria yanked the shears from Paco’s hand, slicing his finger.
“These are your father’s shears,” said Maria. “You are still much too young. When you are old enough, you will run with them.”
Paco sucked his finger and scowled. “Luiz is running again this year,” he whined.
“So, what of it?” snapped Maria. “Luiz can lose his other eye.” She handed him a pair of round-edged scissors. “Be content with these.”
By the time Paco’s father said he was old enough to run, Pamplona had replaced the scissors with bulls.
Not that it mattered to the blind, seven-fingered Paco.

Worth Many More


After eighteen years in the hands of the Arabs, Colonel Rabin was finally coming home.
His plane landed just as the buses full of cheering and jeering prisoners were sent off to the border. Their vicious chants echoed in the distance.
“Vermin,” muttered one of the honor guard.
Rabin’s wife waited as the plane rolled to a stop.
The cargo doors opened, and her husband’s casket was unloaded.
“Why is one dead man worth dozens of live terrorists?” asked the honor guard.
“He’s worth far more than that,” said his commander. “And that is to the shame of the enemy.”



Listen carefully for a moment, because both of our lives depend on this.
Ignore the paved service path. It’s a trap.
If you follow the trail through the deep woods for a mile, you will find a clearing where the mystical forcelines converge.
Several triptychs have been stacked to surround the precise convergence point, which is marked by a sigil-covered obsidian pillar.
That’s where you need to be to summon help. Unlike the rest of the godforsaken wood, you’ll get four bars of digital signal there.
Please hurry, because my leg’s bleeding through the bandage and I’m going into shock.



In Texas, executions take place at sundown.
The lawyers weren’t done, but Rufus Washington was. He’d been through three Last Meals already in Huntsville thanks to the Supreme Court, but he didn’t think he’d have a fourth.
Back in Austin, the governor was fed up with the press asking him if he’d grant clemency.
“If God wants this murderer to stay alive, let Him stop the turning of the Earth,” said the governor to the cameras.
Unlike the governor, God was not available for comment. The sun sank from the sky, painted the horizon crimson, and Rufus went to Hell.