The Gentleman

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“A razor to fight with and a razor to shave with.”
That’s the difference between a gentleman and a rake.
I watch the guest shave, not a single nick or cut.
Perfection.
“This is a tool, not a weapon – it is not for shedding blood,” he says, cleaning the razor in the sink. “Towel?”
I hand him the hot towel and he soothes his face.
He will spend an hour preparing himself.
If he loses this fight, the mortician will have nothing to do.
No wax. No putty. No cosmetics.
“Perfection,” will be all he says, before closing the lid.

We Are Home

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One by one, the White Man’s banks collapsed.
We picked them up, dusted them off, and put them in our pockets.
For centuries, they owned most of the land. But now, once again, it was ours.
The rest came easily. Years of gambling and cigarette sales revenue, invested wisely.
Some held out, but we’ve waited centuries for this opportunity.
We belong to this land. They do not.
To Canada.
To Mexico.
To Europe.
To wherever their fathers were born, we will send them back.
Yes, it will take years to heal.
We’ve waited centuries. We are patient.
We are home.

Hurricane Damage

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The hurricane is coming soon, so I bought some plywood and nails.
I boarded my windows and cut down loose tree branches.
My neighbor had left without boarding up his place, so I used my leftover wood to do that for him.
I also cut down the loose branches from his tree.
When the storm was over, I went outside and saw there had been no damage whatsoever to his place and mine.
The next day, he took one look at the place and punched me in the nose.
“How am I gonna collect on the insurance now?” he yelled.

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?

Act Of God

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The governor gave the mandatory evacuation orders, but some stupid folks stayed.
Sure enough, in the middle of the storm, we got their calls, screaming to be rescued.
We wrote down the address and hung up on them. Then, we yelled at the guys who were supposed to cut the phone lines.
After the storm passed, we hopped in the jeeps and headed to the address.
They were all dead, except one guy with a broken leg.
“Thank God you’re here!” he cried.
I hit him on the head with a brick.
No questions that way. An Act Of God.

When Angels Fuck

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They look so beautiful, but you have to wonder: how do angels fuck?
If one’s on top, the other’s on bottom.
Somebody’s gonna get their wings crushed.
If one’s behind the other, they are getting wings flapping in their face.
Yeah, I’ve read through Dante’s Paradisio, and he says nothing about fucking angels.
Once, I asked an angel how they fuck, but all I got was a drink thrown in my face.
Sure, “This must be Heaven because I see an angel” is one hell of a pickup line, but nobody’s ever told me how to follow through on it.

Carnival Man

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Shiva, God of Destruction, plays pinball all day long.
Thor, lightning-bringer, pushed a cart down Seventh Avenue.
Qetzocoatl, serpent in the corn, holds a ladder for a sales associate, peeking up her skirt.
All the old gods are like this, wasting away their days in trivial pursuits or mundane labor.
As religions die, the gods live on, shining your shoes. Filling your wine glass, begging for spare change.
Dagon is a home hospice worker, caring for his last believer.
One too many pills, and he is finally free.
There’s a carnival he’s always wanted to join.
He packs a bag, turns out the lights, and walks out the door, whistling.

Satchmo

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Satchmo! Satchmo!
Dressed to the nines!
The nines, I say!
You? You nowhere near them nines, boy!
Threes. Fours. Maybe fives if you shine up them shoes.
Me, I be the sevens. Gonna take me all day, but I wanna be the eights one day.
But the nines?
Hell no. Satchmo the nines and I ain’t Satchmo.
Once, I done seen Satchmo, and he was the tens.
No shit! Tens.
Blowin his horn, catchin the light.
Tens.
I asked Satchmo, but he just laughed.
When you dressed to the nines, everything is nines.
Blow that horn! Blow that horn, Satchmo!

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.