Tag: sick

To Beam Up

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For twenty years. McTavish ran the transporter.
Officers beamed down. Officers beamed up.
Long ago, it took a medical degree to run the board. Now it just took a fool and a finger.
The radio crackled to life: ” to beam up! Emergency”
McTavish pushed a button. “How many was that?”
“Now! Now! Emergency!” shouted the radio.
Then, nothing.
McTavish checked the transporter log. Five had beamed down, so he set the board for 5 and pushed the button.
The transporter tracked the signal, counted four, divided by five, and exploded into a storm of blood, bone, gore, and metal.

The Odd Daughter

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Doctor Odd looked at the destruction in the yard, sighed, and kneeled down to talk to his daughter.
“Pumpkin,” he said. “Remember when Daddy taught you about grafting?”
Pumpkin nodded her head.
“Well, there’s a good kind of grafting and a bad kind. Good grafting is when you combine plant varieties to make bug-resistant species or crops that survive droughts.”
Pumpkin smiled.
“Bad grafting is what you did with your friend Bobby, the lawnmower, and your dog.”
Pumpkin frowned.
“Daddy will clean up this mess. Now go wash up for dinner.”
Pumpkin ran inside and squealed happily for tater tots.

Abandoned Baby

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There was a knock at the door, and the dogs in the back yard barked like bad.
“Shut up,” said Arthur. “It’s not dinnertime yet.”
The dogs barked louder.
Arthur walked to the front door, and opened it. When he looked down, he saw a baby in a basket.
No note.
“You don’t have a name?” said Arthur. “Let me think of a name for you…”
Arthur picked up the basket, went to the back yard, and tossed the baby to the hungry dogs.
“Your name is dinner,” said Arthur.
Arthur put the basket in the bathroom to store magazines.

Not The Same

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The suicide bomber only managed to kill one person when he blew himself up at the sidewalk café: the security guard who kept him from killing more.
The bomber exploded in the guard’s embrace, both dying at the same time.
Both shared something else in common: the same exact type of cell phone. Down to the ringtone.
The guard’s widow got the phone of the bomber, and the bomber’s widow got the phone of the guard.
Neither noticed the difference or ever charged the batteries on the bloody devices. They just sat on memorial shelves, occasionally taken down for dusting.

Below Average

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Unlike our neighbors’ kids, all of the children in Lake Whybehere are below average. They’re all good children, but just a little behind the curve. A few seconds late off the starting blocks in the game of life.
Their conversations are enthusiastic, but babble. Their play is confused and often ends in medical treatment.
Most suffer from lethargy, but a few demonstrate occasional spunkiness. Like running in circles with scissors faster than usual.
Maybe there’s something in the water. The power plant dumps an awful lot of crap into Lake Whybehere.
Perhaps we’ll dump it in Wobegone from now on.

Where there’s smoke, there’s Walter

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The old saying goes “Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.”
Around here, it goes “Where there’s smoke, there’s Walter.”
Walter smokes. Walter smokes a lot.
I can’t remember any time when I’ve seen Walter not smoking.
Once, I saw Walter asleep at a bar, and his hand reached into his mouth, pulled out his exhausted cigarette, stubbed it out in the ashtray, pulled another from his pack, lit it, and stuck it in his mouth.
Which is why I opened up the coffin and stuck a cigarette in his mouth.
How was I to know someone had dowsed him in gasoline?

Radio Free Hell

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Silvia’s parents thought she was retarded, but her inattentiveness was due to constant buzzing in her ears.
Despite the doctors’ many treatments, it grew worse over time.
Many years later, Silvia learned about meditation, slowing herself down to manage pain.
The buzzing slowed to a ringing, and then… a stream of voices.
‘Why did you kill me, Arthur?”
“It’s not fair.”
“The pain!”
“I’ll see you in Hell.”
Radio Free Hell. In her skull.
Then, she heard them…
“We wasted our lives worrying for her.”
Her parents. In Hell.
She drove knitting needles into her ears and embraced the silence.

The Dangerous Salad

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I ordered a Chef’s Salad, but the chef didn’t want to part with his salad. He does that sometimes, the crazy bastard.
So I ended up with a Dangerous Salad instead.
Nothing was dangerous about the ingredients themselves, mind you. From the iceberg lettuce to the herb-encrusted wheat bread croutons, you’d assume that it would be benign.
You’d assume wrongly. Because a salad’s ingredients might all be ordinary, it’s the arrangement of those ingredients that can have fatal consequences.
Well, that and the salad dressing. I mean, who ever heard of Arnsenic Vinaigrette?
I specifically ordered fat-free Arnsenic Vinaigrette, dammit.

The Easter Egg Hunt

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We spent all of yesterday painting eggs. The kids love the bright colors and the sparkles. Their wide-open eyes dazzle in delight.
After they went to bed, I hid the eggs throughout the house. That’s right. When they wake up, we’re going to have ourselves an old-fashioned Easter egg hunt.
But sometimes, they whine about this kind of thing. Kids can be lazy these days, you know. Damn X-Box Generation.
So if they give up, I’ll just tell them that we didn’t paint chicken eggs. We painted rattlesnake and alligator eggs. And if they don’t find them all, they’ll hatch.

The Wacky Adventures Of Abraham Lincoln 55

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General Grant slid the card across the table to his Commander In Chief and winked.

Abe looked at it:

“HOUSE OF PAIN”

“They’re good,” said Grant. “They’ve got S&M clubs here in Washington, New York, Boston, and Atlanta. Made Sherman think twice about burning the city down.”

Abe slid it back to Grant.

“As I would not be a slave,” said Abraham Lincoln. “So I would not be a master.”

“Fine,” Grant said. “Your loss. I’ll take Stanton this weekend.”
Abe left the room, went upstairs, and put on his diaper.

“I want my bottle!” he shouted.

Mary Todd sighed.