Tag: mystery

Something in the air

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That smell you’re smelling is the Sweet Smell of Success.
Today, a cold front is lowering the Success Dew Point, so it’s precipitating success out of the air. Normally, it’s less than two or three parts per billion, much less than what a human nose can sense.
Of course, at that concentration, it still drives the dogs wild, almost mad with ambition.
You can train a dug-sniffing dog or a bomb-sniffing dog. There’s even cancer-sniffing dogs in the works. But nobody trains success-sniffing dogs.
Yet.
So, please, sit still, Mr. Trump. Rover’s a friendly boy.
Just no sudden moves, okay?

Jumping Gigawatts

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It was a dark and stormy night. Lightning was striking everywhere but Dr. Frankenstein’s lightning rods.
Transylvania Edison kept refusing to run industrial-grade capacity to his castle, so it was lightning or nuclear.
Sure, Dr. Frankenstein was mad, but he wasn’t crazy. Lightning it was.
And without lightning tonight, his creature couldn’t come to life.
He called the rod manufacturer’s tech support line when the phones went dead.
That’s right. Lightning had struck the telephone pole.
Not even a dial tone.
He shrugged, hooked up the creature to the phone line, and that’s when lightning hit the rods.
Go figure.

Toast

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Oscar’s toaster made any bread stuck into it vanish.
“So, where does it go?” asked Karen.
“I have no idea,” said Oscar. “But I’ve had to switch to cold cereal.”
“Does this happen with bagel halves, too?” asked Karen. “Or just toast?”
“I don’t eat bagels” said Oscar. “Just toast.”
Karen bought some bagels, sliced one in half, and stuck it in the toaster.
She waited for a minute, and the bagel halves popped out.
“I guess it’s just bread,” said Karen.
Oscar shrugged and went out to buy a new toaster.
He smashed the old one with a hammer.

Countdown

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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.”
“Nothing?????”
“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…”

The Surprise Inside

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When I was little, I knew exactly what was in each Cracker Jack box before I opened it.
I could hold the box in my hands and just know what was in there.
Cool, huh?
Bullshit.
As time went by, the prizes got cheaper and less impressive. I used to sense tin whistles and compasses. Now I sense stickers and “collector cards” that aren’t worth collecting.
Cheap, flimsy crap. Everything is cheap, flimsy crap these days. And it just keeps getting crappier.
But you know what the worst part of this “gift” is?
I’m diabetic. Never could eat the shit.

The monk

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Ever seen the monk?
He looks like a burlap-wrapped lump with darkness in the openings of his dirty robe.
However, if you offer paper to the monk, he’ll twist and shudder for a few moments before placing an intricate origami sculpture on the sidewalk.
These aren’t just swans and horses and crabs. No, these are amazing things he folds into existence, like merry-go-rounds and jugglers – they actually move.
Unfold them, and they’re just sheets of paper. No magic at all.
Once, I reached in his robe. It stung, and my hand came away bloody.
Just like a paper cut.

The Lost Lakes

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Evil Ned rubbed his hands together and cackled as the massive pumps churned into the night.
“Are you sure this is going to work, Ned?” asked his sidekick Ralph.
“Minnesota will pay dearly to get their ten thousand lakes back!” said Ned.
Ralph stood by the last of the lakes and watched the water level slowly sink. The shore shrank away, and he walked along the muddy lakebottom.
“I feel bad for the fish,” said Ralph. “They’ll die.”
“A sacrifice I’m willing to make,” said Ned. “Oh, and grab a few of those fish. We’ll grill them for dinner tonight.”

I’ve got the world on my wrist, swinging on a rainbow

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It’s simple, Doc. If I don’t wind my watch, the world stops.
My mother told me that. And since I was five, I’ve kept this watch wound up.
I’ve gone through so many wristbands, but the watch itself just keeps on ticking.
Never overwound, mind you. That makes time go by too fast. It’s hard enough keeping up as it is.
Once, some guy stole my watch on the subway, but I got it back before the world stopped.
I planned on giving it to my daughter, but Sarah took her. No forwarding address.
So, now will you clone me?

And the last to leave the scene of the crime

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I have no memory of Venice.
I’ve been told that I’ve been there. Twice. But aside from this pair of scars on my temple and two receipts from Lethe Incorporated, I really can’t tell you anything about it.
However, every time I see the Rialto or St. Marks in a movie or in an article I’m looking up, I get that odd sense of familiarity. As familiar as my own breathing.
And I want to go back. For the first time. Again.
Confusing, right?
You know, there’s that hotel in Vegas that looks like Venice.
I should go there instead.

Bobby Digs Wendy

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He finished carving “BOBBY AND WENDY FOREVER” on the tree, then folded his knife.
Perfect.
Bobby had all of her albums. Every concert bootleg too, thanks to other obsessives and Napster.
Obsessives, not stalkers. Stalking is bad. Very bad.
He had other trinkets from her life. A curl of her hair from a hotel shower drain in a locket. Photographs that the corner drugstore duplicated and collected for him. And dresses that the cleaners said they’d lost.
All he needed was her. He had to prove his love.
He patted the gravestone, picked up a shovel, and began to dig.