Tag: dystopia

Weeding Out Directors

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I tug the rope, and the beam holds.
“Good,” I mumble, and I look back at Joel Schumacher. “You brought this on yourself, Hollywood.”
He’s tied up tight, lashed to the metal folding chair, rocking slightly on top of the table.
“Go ahead,” I say. “Crack your head open.”
The chair stops rocking. Joel’s eyes get wide.
They get wider when I tie the noose around his neck and kick the table away.
I wait for a few minutes, cut him down, and toss him in the basement with Oliver Stone’s corpse.
I told them Christopher Nolan or nothing, dammit.

Hood Ornament

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Luis laughed as he tossed a rock over the railing down on to the busy freeway below.
“Missed,” said Jesus. “My turn.”
Jesus pulled a chunk of concrete from the crumbling curb and banged it against the road to break off the rough spots.
“This is for the win,” said Jesus.
Neither Luis nor Jesus heard the engine of the car that rammed them into the railing. Jesus died instantly while Luis coughed blood on the hood.
Luis looked through the cracked windscreen at the driver’s face.
“Game over, asshole,” is what he thought the driver said.
And then, nothing.

How to make someone hopping mad

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Dr. Benway held his face in his bloody hands and moaned. Another surgery was over.
The patient was in recovery, still unconscious.
Sadly, that wouldn’t last. And then…
“This is going to be expensive,” said the hospital administrator. “Very expensive.”
“You know, I used to get angry when patients marked their healthy arm with DO NOT AMPUTATE in magic marker,” said Benway. “Where was the magic marker on this one?”
“On his left arm,” said the administrator. “But you cut off his left leg.”
“So I should have cut off his right leg?” asked Benway.
“Go home,” said the administrator.

The Economic Dimension

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Unregulated currency flow can be a dangerous thing.
First, they started with banks. They seemed innocent enough.
Then came ATMs, advertised as “Where you need them” but actually positioned along lines of economic-force that Mayan astrologers calculated centuries ago.
Finally, cathedrals to The Almighty Dollar appeared at convergence points.
That’s when they began to pull.
Tensioned lines of economic-force buckled the fabric of reality. Time-space twisted worldwide.
In some places, it tore.
It’s been centuries since Wall Street exploded with vicious Keynesian Multipliers. Since then, man has slowly returned to barter and trade.
Simple supply and demand. Back to basics.

In Chicago, they played rough

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You’ve probably seen the movies where Chicago gangsters all had Thompson machineguns in violin cases.
That couldn’t be further from the truth.
The real story is that gangsters went around with violins in Thompson machinegun cases. So when there was a dispute between rival gangs, each side would rosin up their bows and have a hootenanny.
Benny. Youngman.
Perhaps you’re heard of them?
At his peak, Capone went around with a whole orchestra. He’d bought out the Chicago Symphony’s string section before Elliot Ness shut his operation down.
Trying to improperly deduct replacement strings from his taxes did him in.

It’s what’s for dinner

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Studies have shown that playing classical music causes a plant to grow faster and stronger than if a plant is raised in an environment with rock and roll music, noise, or complete silence.
It turns out that the same goes for babies. Classical music makes them grow quickly and in good health.
And if you pump the music in directly through headphones, you block out the crying noises of other babies, which turns out to be somewhat infectious and irritating.
Nice, juicy babies.
Removing the hair and bones cleanly and rapidly through automation is something we’re still working on, however.

Hold the dead brunette, please.

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Every day at noon, I head down to Harry’s Hotdog Cart for a footlong with mustard, sauerkraut, and relish.
“The usual, Sam?” asked Harry.
“Work your magic, Harry,” I said.
Harry smiled and waved his tongs.
“Abracadabra!”
The man’s a hotdog wizard, I tell you.
Just as Harry handed me his latest masterpiece, a scream came from above. And then WHAM!!!! a red blur smashed into the cart, scattering bottles and buns everywhere.
I picked myself up and looked at a woman sprawled across the cart.
Red dress. Dark hair.
Very dead.
“No cutting in line, bitch!” I yelled.
Women.

Paco’s Last Chance

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Paco was a lousy groundskeeper.
Every flower he planted wilted, every tree he planted died, and the sidewalks were crooked and cracked.
Paco thought about using Astroturf for the grass at Park Tower, but the building owners said no.
“This is your last chance, Paco,” said the owners. “Make the grass grow, or you’re getting deported.”
Paco watched the grass slowly turn brown.
He panicked. In desperation, he spread fertilizer over the lawn, turned the sprinklers on full blast, and prayed for a miracle.
What he got was a five-hour nap, the miraculous Park Tower Lake, and a pink slip.

Bureaucratic Conception

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Five small bodies in the morgue. Their mother strapped to a bed in the jail.
Yesterday, she’d drowned them in the tub.
And Bannerman had snapped.
“SHERIFF BEATS BATHTUB KILLER,” screamed the paper.
Crap.
Bannerman looked through the paperwork. The intake form was a mess, so he rolled another in the typewriter and copied things over.
He got to “PREGNANT: YES/NO” and stopped.
He recalled her berserk rants as they dragged her in. He swore he’d heard “I AM CARRYING SATAN’S SPAWN!”
Screw it. It’s Friday.
He checked YES, and then dialed that asshole reporter.
“Enjoy this exclusive,” he grunted.

Relive

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He wasn’t really her father. He was just some bum she’d picked up off the street.
She did this every year – picking up a bum, washing him up, putting him in her father’s old clothes, filling him with liquor, and then letting him sleep it off.
Hopefully, the bum would attack her. Just like all the others.
She’d scream “Happy Father’s Day!” through the pain.
Exhausted, she would try to forgive him for it all. She needed this.
At sunset, she’d cut his throat and bury him in the back yard. Just like all the others.
And her father.