THE SHARK KILLED HIM BUT NOT LIKE YOU THINK

It was was a clever trick, I'll give him that.  Re-routing those big pipes like that?  That was complicated work.  Under the guise of 'routine maintenance,' that crafty bastard...man.  It's impressive as it is insane, really.  He managed to scam those sewer workers into hooking up those big ol' fifteen foot diameter pipes into the back of the big saltwater tank, and then to run those pipes the length of a goddamn football field down the street.  And then he convinces the aquarium trustees that this is not just a routine service, but a necessary one.  The balls on him!  It helps that the trustees were either dumb or senile, but I digress.  And then this guy, this guy arranges to have the Governor's victory parade rescheduled AND rerouted to take him right past the end of the outlet pipe at precisely 10:45 in the A.M.  Don't know how he pulled that one off either.  Must have phoned in a phony threat.  Yeah, that makes sense.  So there's the Governor happy as a pig in shit; sitting on the back of that famous pickup truck that he never actually drives...he's inching along down the street and BAM!  A pissed-off shark gets launched right out of the access pipe, straight from the aquarium and into the Governors face.  Just like that: dead.

IT'S NOT A PLEASANT ARRANGEMENT

Yeah, so we form the crotch.  And no, it's not a pleasant arrangement.  We're mech soldiers in a gestalt unit based off of one of Jupiter's moons.  We're out here patrolling space for any invaders, rogue comets or other natural interstellar disasters.  It's not a bad gig, except for the fact that I drive a taint.  My unit is made up of three separate ships.  We can fly out as separate crafts, we can also tool around as individual battlesuits when combat protocols are being observed.  That part of the job is pretty sweet.  But that usually only happens for about three or four minutes before the tool who drives the Heartship calls for us to form Galaxor.  Then myself, Ken, and Hitomi have to form the pelvic area.  It sucks.  It sucks!  It truly does.  As Galaxor's pelvis we're the foundation, the solid base from which Galaxor swings his mighty Six Star Sword to vanquish enemies and quell disasters.  That's how the song goes.  That's how the song literally goes, they always pump that hideous piece of J-pop through the intercoms during the linking process.  I hate it.  Twenty five ships come together to form the most advanced gestalt 'mech in the fleet, and we're lucky enough to form a gigantic blue and white neutered crotch.  It's great, especially when the other limbs talk smack at us in the cafeteria.  They blame us for everything.  "Those Andromedan Racers wouldn't have tagged us if the crotch hadn't been so slow on the stabilizers!"  "Maybe if the crotch had been faster at venting the overflow of hydraulic gases we could have stopped that asteroid!"  "You'd think they'd be better at venting gas, considering how they're such gigantic assholes!"  Jerks.  especially the fucking forearm pilots.  Hitomi cries herself to sleep every night.  Ken drinks.  I'm just angry, all the time.  I suppose we could just suck it up and be proud that we play such a vital role in the defense of the system, but really?  I'm sick of being the asshole.  Literally.

LADIES DRINK FREE

She's bitter about something.  This woman in the short pink dress that is both far too short, and far too pink.  How old could she be?  Forty?  A sad, hard thirty?  That seems more the ballpark, based on the deep lines around her eyes as she stares flatly at other, happier couples in the bar.  She's muttering something bitter and sharp under her breath as her eyes stare a hole in the dirty pint glass in her hand.  Look closer.  You see that maybe once, she was lovely.  Yes, lovely.  There was beauty there, once.  Not so long ago, before whatever happened to leave her so bitter and jaded, that pale skin so withered and drawn.  You're wondering if she walked down that same sad and lonesome road that you've been on for so long.  So very long.  So walk to her.  Hope against hope.  Be the white knight, pluck this bruised flower from...nope.  No, never mind.  Did you see that?  She just flung a fistful of dirty cocktail napkins wet with tears and cheap mascara at the bartender.  Oh, and now she called him a fucking faggot.  And now she just spit something dark on the bar in front of her.  Gross.  It looks like another night on that sad and lonesome road, my friend.  But look at it this way.  Some nights, it's better to walk alone.

Medical-Grade Pornography

You need to think this sort of thing through.  Who're using this porn?  Are they enjoying it on a personal level, or are they just saying "hell, this'll do" and then half-heartedly rubbing one out to it?  You have no idea?  And this reproductive clinic, I'm sure you're very well regarded in the city.  The best of the lot, right?  Right.  But I, I can help you become the best of the best of the best.  Allow me to explain.  Well let me tell you sister, it's a good thing that you came to me.  I'm a professional pornographer.


Where do you get your porn?  You don't remember?  I'm not surprised.  I looked in your collection rooms, and I didn't see a single magazine from after 1992.  And in the world of porn, that's pretty darned old.  Did one of the doctors buy it, or did you just give the janitor twenty bucks and ask him to hit the top shelf at the 7-11?  That explains this old issue of Maxim.


Listen, this is important.  Men today have access to every kind of perversion available on the internet.  A copy of Playboy from 1989 and an old Sears catalog isn't going to cut it.  And when you're pulling your samples - ha ha, little joke - I assume you want the biggest, best samples possible right?  Well, if you want to get the biggest and best samples, then you need to improve what you keep locked in the spank bank.  


I mean, sure.  "Hell, this'll do" is an attitude that will work for most men.  Hell, when I was a young man I managed to rub one out to a brassiere ad in the back of Parade magazine.  But if you want to really satisfy your customers, you need to examine who your audience is and cater to the individual.


See, your Playboy or a Penthouse is okay but only barely.  You really want to go with a High Society or Swank.  Classy titles like these will make the guy feel like a big shot.  And a lot of men have specific likes, which is why magazines like Juggs and Buttman even exist.  You're going to want at least one of those, too.  But this is just the basics, here.


And this is just if you want to stick with the 7-11 budget.  If you were willing to triple that money, I could do a full analysis of your clientele and obtain materials specific to their individual kinks.


I could get you some really specific titles.  I mean, take a look at this one.  No, go ahead.  We can consider this one on the house.  That is a magazine devoted to 'barely legal' amputee Asian girls with big butts.  I know what you're saying, it's all over your face.  Who likes this sort of filth?  Well, you'd be surprised.  Lots of guys go for this fetish.  Like me.  Especially me.


And if your clinic can afford it, you will probably want to go digital.  No, not Blu-Ray.  A mini-DVD player is surprisingly affordable nowadays, and DVD's are as well.  It's one of the benefits of being a dying medium, I could get you hundreds of gently used pornographic DVDs for a fraction of the price you'd pay online or in stores.  I won't even bring up tablet-based pornography.  That's a level of science that I don't think anybody in the States is ready for.  The Japanese now, they're on top of it.


Listen ma'am, I hope I'm not coming on too strong.  Maybe you're right, I could have called ahead and asked for an appointment.  But I was just thinking that you and your fine clinic here would be able to benefit from an injection - ha, joke again!- an injection of medical-grade pornography.  


Please, take my card.

DIABETES ON THE MOVE

On the left: White.  White and fat, thinning wisps of blonde hair on top of an egg-shaped head, mud-dull brown eyes, a button nose, and a mouth slack from the effort of chewing.  Chest pains.  On the right: Black.  Also fat, close-cropped black hair going gray, mocha skin moist with sweat, deep brown eyes just a touch too close together, a long hook nose that had been broken once or twice in the recent past, and a mouth clamped shut.  A mouth chewing in grim satisfaction.  Chewing slowly, in victory.  On the left, a defeated man.  A man, slumped forward in sadness against the edge of a table strewn with bent aluminum pie plates in various states of disarray.  On the right, a man triumphant!  A champion in the making, sitting up tall and straight as he doggedly smacks his lips against the remnants of a blueberry pie, fighting back the ever-growing urge to vomit.  The table: a mass of excess and filth and wasted food, fruit filling and broken crusts sodden with the saliva of fully grown men possessing no self-respect whatsoever.  This was no mere competitive eating contest.  No, this had been a war.  The belts had come off thirty-five minutes ago, and this was a thirty minute challenge.

MAN ON EDGE

The beginning of another seizure ramps up and you clamp your teeth together with a snick.  The shakes start to vibrate down your arms and into your hands, but you were stirring up the shaving cream anyways.  It's easy to just fold that physical reaction into the vigorous stirring you were already engaged in.  Lucky break, that.  But you feel the beads of sweat start building up in your hairline, that mustache, the small of your back.  You shrug  tense shoulders under your apron straps, and you can feel how your clothes are already clinging to your back.  Yeah, you're nervous. And why not?  You're a barber.  You're a goddamned barber, and you have the shakes something bad.  How much longer did you think you could get away with this?  Just one more time?  How stupid is that?  These are the fleeting thoughts that you push back, push down deep as you lash the razor against the strap.  This fine gentleman came in for a close shave, and that is what you're gonna give him right?  That's what you tell yourself.  Hold up the blade for a second.  There, see it shimmy?  Nervous yet?  You take a deep, soulful breath and bend down to dress the mans neck in the thick shaving cream.  Careful!  Got some on his shirt.

THE REESE'S EQUATION

Rebecca?  You asleep?  Do you want to try something?  Okay.  Just another hour.  This has been a costly month, more costly than I would have thought.  But then again, there are literally thousands of combinations that I could go through here.  Worcestershire and caramel.  Chicken soup and tomato soup.  Fuck.  That was disgusting.  How did he do it, Rebecca?  How the hell did that old son of a bitch pull it off?  We all take it for granted, for generations we've just assumed that it was so goddamn natural.  Chocolate and peanut butter.  Yeah, that's a complicated recipe huh?  A no-brainer.  That old son of a bitch.  Celery and mustard.  Smoked ham and melted gummy bears.  Dammit!  That old son of a bitch must be rolling in his grave right now.  Rolling with laughter.  But  you know what?  Screw you old man Reese.  Just as long as somebody gives me the chance, just a chance and I'm gonna break this code.  It's hard right now, but once I figure out the math here I'll have my own flavor combination.  And then I'll build an empire of my own, you old dead son of a bitch!  Just watch!  Okay, Rebecca?  Honey?  Rebecca?  Will you try this?  What is it?  It's root beer and smoked salmon.  Come on!  Give me a chance!

JEREMY WENT TO WAR

Jeremy sat on the merry-go-round, chucking little stones into the sand around it.  He knew if he looked up he'd still see them, fleeing across the soccer field.  He heard Ryan whining as he ran, "It still HURTS!"  Jeremy smiled at that, staring blankly down at the sand as he pressed a wad of paper towels onto one of his many scrapes.  His arm was scuffed up and bloodied, as was his nose.  There was a sticky cut under his hair on the very top of his head, but Jeremy was more worried about the obvious stuff that might get noticed by his dad.  He reached up under his t-shirt and pulled out the thick magazines he'd had taped around his ribs.  He saw a guy do that on one of the grown-up TV shows his dad watched, on pay cable with the swearing.  His armor had helped him, but not as much as the rolls of nickels he had hidden in his little fists.  Jeremy slowly looked up to see them limping away in the distance.  Ryan, Austin, Noah, Other Ryan- it had been a crazy fight.  Jeremy had been scared the whole time, four kids against one was a bad match-up.  But he was even more scared to lose.  So he fought like a crazy nut.  Running and jumping, throwing loaded punches fast and furious before rolling away under the swings, flinging the swings right into Noah's stupid face, jumping off the slides with both both feet right on Other Ryan's stupid fat face- and in the end, he actually won.  He won.  They had the numbers, but Jeremy?  He had the heart.  That's what his dad was gonna say when he got home.  Jeremy just knew it.

YOUR WINNING WAYS

"Sir, would you like to split?"  I looked at her like she grew a second head and a third tit.  On the felt in front of me was the ten of spades and the queen of clubs.  I'm gonna break up a natural twenty?  Not this time.  Not on your life, lady.  This table had been bleeding me dry for hours, but for the last half hour I was the one sucking the blood.  A little win here, dealer busts a couple three times, then blackjack.  Blackjack.  Blackjack!  I stared her in the eye until she looked away, and then waved my hand at the table.  Telling her No thanks, I'll stick without dignifying her whatthefuckness with a response.  I had a pile of red and blue and black chips piled in front of me.  I wasn't about to count it.  I hadn't touched it once in this last magic half hour.  That pile of chips was my talisman.  I was afraid if I touched it then the universe would snap back to the real world where I was a loser who lost it all, instead of the hero who conquered Vegas.  I sat back with another complimentary scotch and sipped it, staring hard at the dealer as she went around the rest of the table.  Flip yourself a loser, lady.  Any goddamn combination, I don't care.  Three, ten, king.  Nine, six, seven.  Ten, two, jack.  Make it happen.  And then when she flipped her cards, all I could do was smile.

LAZY AFTERNOONS

She came every day after school to visit.  Straight from the bus stop and straight past home, not even bothering to sling her backpack through her front door.  She'd creep through the bushes and the overgrown lawn, and in through the plans she'd pried up over the door to the abandoned house.  Then after gingerly climbing the old steps into that dank and forgotten basement she would throw herself onto the musty old couch and read to it.  Whatever book she happened to bring home from school that day.  History on Mondays, Math on Tuesdays, science on Wednesdays and Fridays, and then a collection of short stories on Thursdays.  She thought it liked Thursdays the best from the way that it grinned at her, but the teeth on the thing were always bared in a vicious grin so she was never sure.  The thing would whip it's pointed tail in agitated circles as she read, and paced endlessly within the circle of salt that had been drawn there.  She had no idea how long it had been waiting there, alone in the basement.  She didn't much care, either.  Day after day she read to the angry red thing and day after day it would whisper things to her.  Threats and promises, lies and things she didn't want to know were true.  But she waited, and would read to it every afternoon before scooting back home to her family.  Letting it wait, letting it want.  Eventually it would tel her the things that she really wanted to know.

THE JOY OF COOKING

I don't hear anything outside of the sizzle of my frying pan.  There's the butter and some onions browning nicely.  I hear the onions popping in the melted butter, I don't hear anything else from outside of my apartment window.  That's not a woman screaming, pleading for her life.  That's a small handful of thinly sliced onion caramelizing in two tablespoons of unsalted, organic butter.  I think I hear another woman's voice outside my window, but that's not it.  That's the sound of a very sharp knife slicing through the thin skin of a green pepper.  Slicing very quickly, actually,  Faster and faster.  One might call it the sound of chopping a vegetable, not the sound of desperate bargaining and tears outside of the wall that surrounds my home.  And now the peppers and the onions sizzle together, and I beat three eggs in a bowl with a fork, whisking and whisking and most definitely not hearing the other voice and insults and a single, hateful curse.  I'm listening to my vegetables cook in their mixed juices and browned butter and I'm listening very closely  to my sautee, and then I hear a gunshot.

RETREAT

His air force reduced to burning cinders falling from the air, the great Admiral rose slowly from his command chair.  Twenty years.  For twenty years, Admiral Arson had been the most feared man in all the world.  Each and every city along the coast lived its days and nights in terror that the Admiral and his 'planes might come to visit, to plunder, to destroy.  But then this year, that young upstart from the plains states.  'Dashing' David Dillon, the 'Air Marshal.' Dillon and his ragtag group of mismatched aviators brought him to this place, laid him low and made the Admiral of a hundred twisted piles of junk falling from the air and a thousand more dead men.  "Admiral, Admiral!  What shall we do?  Whatever shall we do?"  Admiral Arson turned his head to the man who had spoken, a lowly communications officer in his smoked glass goggles.  The great villain opened his mouth, paused, and shut his mouth tight with a snap.  Admiral Arson opened his mouth again, then turned in a swirl of his greatcoat and was off and running for the escape pods.  Later, it would be said that he had run away screaming.  Others whispered that he had been weeping, like a scared child.  But all that mattered was that he had run.

PUT YOUR MONEY ON THE DOGS

There is a peculiar sound coming from all around me now.  A sort of snarling in the dark.  I can hear 'em now, coming up the stairs.  I guess they don't see any point in tryin' to be stealthy anymore.  They can smell my blood, pooled at the bottom of the stairs and splashed on each and every one of them splintery old steps.  I'm just sitting' here lookin' at the one thing I got left for my very own: this massive gunshot wound in my sid, here.  Yup, just me and a massive gunshot wound in my side; slumped against the side of this helicopter landing pad that is alarmingly missing a helicopter.  I'm gettin' tired here, so I was just wondering.  anybody want to place a bet?  What'll get me first, the massive gunshot wound in my gut or them dogs?  Oops, trick question.  I can hear the panting now.  This might be unpleasant.

YOU WANTED TO KNOW WHAT I WAS THINKING

If I can pull this off, it's gonna be great.  There's no way that Miranda will keep brushing me off if I can seal the deal and snatch that attache and man, that waitress is ugly.  She's got a face like a foot.  Okay, there's the guy.  Big, hairy, pasty guy needs some sun, man.  Two guards...no, three.  That short redheaded guy who came in right after them is their man too, but nobody is nearly as beautiful as Miranda.  I know we work in a department filled with pretty people, but that's gotta be their back-up man, no reason to be wearing a tan raincoat unless you're a spy from some shitty country in the former Soviet bloc.  What's up comrade, I know your game.  and I got my own too, hiding inside this copy of USA Today.  Okay, they sat down, backs against the wall but that's not a big deal.  Wait.  Wait.  Keep an eye out for that South Korean fella.  He's the mark, if I can get to him first, I can hey this is good coffee.  Cool how they had sweetened condensed milk right there for is that him?  Wait.  Is that?  That's him.  Okay, up and slow, bring the coffee it's really good stuff oh shit, the Slavs had an advance man as well as the back-up it was that fat guy by the men's room SHIT that glass nearly took my eye out.  Get my Beretta out of that newspaper who reads newspapers anymore anyways redhead is down and the fat guy is dead and oh fuck, the South Korean is down too and they took the attache.  And I spilled my goddamn coffee.

MEMORABILIA

He had never said exactly why he'd kept them, and she'd never asked.  All she knew was that the little warped lumps of metal were not appropriate for the living room.  "God, do we really need to make Christmas dinner even more awkward?"  She'd meant it as a joke.  And neither of them laughed.  Because they did make for a rather uncomfortable Christmas dinner.  "Say Mr. Lewis, what're these little pieces of metal up on the mantle?"  "Well Ryan, those are the slugs that nearly killed me four years ago."  No, enough of that.  Eventually she wore him down, and he moved them to the windowsill in the back stairwell.  Now rather than everybody seeing them lined up next to the baby pictures, only she had that privilege.  So every time she'd go down to the basement to switch out the laundry or get something from the big freezer, her eyes went straight to the three bullets that had nearly made a widow of her.  And then every time she came up from that basement, she'd hunt down her husband and give him a little kiss or a quick squeeze.  It was some years later when he was gone and she was on her way to join him that it struck her.  Those years of little kisses and quick squeezes were exactly why he had kept those bullets.

DAY IN DAY OUT

"That's just typical liberal bullshit."  Hmm, no that won't do.  "Stop being such a..."  What is the word I need, what is the word.  "u need 2 stop being such a faggot and get yer head out of ur ass."  Yes, yes.  Perfect!  The complete disregard for spelling and grammar coupled with a challenge to his manhood, that's the stuff.  That is the very stuff that will surely earn his ire!  I take my craft quite seriously, I do.  For you see, I am what some people might call a 'professional troll.'  Well, one as learned as I would prefer to be called an agent provocateur but I understand that 'troll' is the preferred vernacular.  But yes, I take great pride in finding the best possible way to needle people over the internet.  What can I say?  It pleases me greatly.  Anonymity coupled with intelligence with a dash of wit...yes, I know my business.  I revel in it!  Every angry word I elicit from an opponent, worthy or unworthy...yes, it's like fine wine.  Your rage is like fine wine to me.  I savor your rage, from a hundred different sources.  Now, back to work.  "Barack HUSSEIN Obama is running this country unto the ground in every way possible."  Yes, yes.  Putting stress on the President's middle name like that is always unpleasant, both intellectually and aesthetically.  And using 'unto' instead of 'into' ought to get his goat as well.  Oh, I'm on a roll today!  

SHOPPING LIST

Get some eggs, flour, butter, salt, vanilla extract, baking soda, baking powder, white sugar, brown sugar, newspaper, read the paper, what's in the paper, she's getting married, she's getting married, get some tissues, drink the vanilla, get a nip of whiskey, drink a beer, drink all six beers, more beers, get a pizza, get some chicken, throw out groceries, fuck the groceries, who needs groceries, get more beer, another whiskey, another whiskey, a glass of water, a beer and another whiskey, yell at bartender, curse at bartender, yell at bouncer, curse at bouncer, wipe blood from mouth, use the tissues, curse at bouncer, curse at bouncer, pick self up off pavement, wipe blood from nose, go to car, revolver, load one bullet, crying, and crying, and crying and crying and crying, load more bullets, get out of car, curse at bartender, curse at bartender, curse at EVERYBODY, fire gun.  Chocolate chips.

FOR A NON-INVASIVE STUDY

Good money, he said. Easy money, he told me. Greg was always full of shit half the time, and this was...well, he was half right.  Three hundred bucks a day, and a place to sleep?  That part was fine.  Just fine.  Other studies I did, I'd get fifty bucks and a couple slices of crappy pizza.  This one, we got a warm bed and three hot meals and three hundred bucks cash every night we're in here.  A fine deal, just fine.  I don't know what the shots were for.  Or why so many of them.  I mean, they tried to explain it to me but all I heard was a cash register ringing.  Three hundred bucks a day and I've been here a week?  That's silly money.  What else did I need to know?  I've got a terrible cold from staying in here, though.  It's like being in the hospital, you check in and there's so many germs and things in the air you can't keep from getting sick.  But it's fine.  Just fine.  They got nurses and doctors all over the place in here, and they gave me a video game machine to keep my mind off of the rash, and the scales that are forming along my shoulders.  It itches something terrible, you know.  I haven't seen Greg in a couple days.  He must have checked out of here, last time I saw him he was coughing something fierce and complaining awful loud about the scaly patches along his face.  But me, I'm happy as a pig in you know what.  They tell me they're going to up the injections tonight, I heard them say I was pregrading at a higher rate than most.  Or maybe they said I was degrading.  I don't remember.  But aside from the coughing and the itching, I'm feeling fine.  Just fine.

ONE HUNDRED SIX

"It's a competitive eating contest, not a popularity contest."  That's what you tell the cameras at the end and it is a lie.  It's a lie because once you get home you're going to spend an hour on your fanpage defending your actions, and attacking your attackers.  You can barely believe you have a fanpage, but that's another story.  "Do the rules say I'm not allowed to interfere with my competitors?"  The rules do not, no.  It is of course implied, but you're damn sure gonna dive through that loophole.  Win, win, win, right?  "So if the rules didn't explicitly bar me from interference, how did I break any rules?  All I did was eat the most meatballs within the time limit, just like I said I would.  And I did it by any means necessary, just like anybody else would."  Yeah, you did.  One hundred and six.  Good for you, a badge of honor for fat fucks everywhere.  "No, I do respect my competitors."  No, you hate them.  You have no respect for them, or this little contest of theirs.  That's why you slipped them the hot sauce, that's why you flipped that other guys plate.  You hate these fat fucks, you want to take their fat fuck dreams and crush them.   And it's about punishing yourself, because you think that you're fat scum as well.  But you can't say that to the cameras, of course.  "I am very proud of what I have accomplished today."  And that was the biggest lie yet.

What An Old Man Sees

The old man stared blankly at the wall, all propped up in his hospital bed.  Hanging there was a painting of a calm New England autumn, a small gazebo on a small pond framed in orange and red leaves.  The old man liked staring at his painting.  It helped the days go by.  But today his view of his painting was marred by some woman who kept pacing back and forth in front of him.  A lawyer, he thought.  She was speaking to him, shouting to the point where he almost heard her despite his deafness.  He thought he could read the word 'testament,' but gave it little mind and he craned his withered neck to look around her and back to his painting.  Then the woman stopped directly in front of him, and tried to catch his eye.  She was a pretty one, he could see that.  He thought that if he was twenty years younger, he might have tried to give that face a little kiss.  But the pretty face twisted up with anger and she jabbed a finger at the old man again and again and he thought he didn't like that as much.  The old man decided that if he was twenty years younger he would given that face the back of his hand instead.  Her shouting trailed off and she suddenly broke down in tears, which was all right with the old man.  Hunched over and with her shoulders heaving like that, he could see most of his painting again.  Basically, all of it.

THE ARMOR

They look crusty and stiff to you, yeah.  I guess that's how they'd feel on some skin that saw showers more'n once a month.  And I don't get enough money to be takin' these over to any laundromat.  But they're my armor, without these coveralls I think I'd have died a long time ago.  Yes, a long, long time ago.  See, these things were eighty bucks three years back.  And I'm still wearin' them today.  They keep me goin' through the winter so long as I get one of them free blankets when the shelter van comes around.  And they keep me safe in the summer.  That one time I got jumped by a tweaker with a busted bottle, he came a-swingin' at me but the coveralls; that glass just grazed right off 'em.  Jus' right off.  Yeah, they're stained somethin' fierce.  But I'm not dinin' with the President anytime soon, so a couple stains don' matter much to me.  And yeah, they've been tore up a little bit.  But I can sew, and I have a little bit of heavy-duty thread put aside for just such an occasion.  I could say I'm pretty handy with a needle.  I shouldn't say that, because bein' handy with the needle is why these coveralls is all I got.

ALONE IN THE SNOW

The last candle went out and spilled darkness all about the room, and that was just fine with Bob.  He felt the deep cold all around him and knew that probably much sooner than later, he was going to freeze to death.  Right there in his own living room, wearing almost every article of clothing he owned and breathing in the ashes of all of his worldly possessions.  Weakly breathing, at that.  He lay there, sprawled on the floor before the dead fireplace staring at a ceiling that he couldn't see for the darkness.  Without the candles, and with weeks and weeks of snowfall pressed up against the windows he might as well have been a blind man at midnight.  Bob realized that the intense cold he'd been feeling for these many weeks now was fading, and knew that eventually he wouldn't be feeling anything at all.  With a supreme effort, Bob rolled his head to the side and stared into the darkness at the wall, and where he had painted his last will and testament of sorts.  It was too dark to see the words he had painted, but he whispered them aloud as he died, "take it."

THE ANSWER NOBODY WANTED

The fat one wasn't breathing, she was sure of it.  No, the fat one definitely wasn't breathing.  She'd been limping back along the path of mayhem for twenty minutes, and this was the first one that seemed to be actually, well, dead.  It was simply the icing on the cake, the cherry on top of the multiple felonies that she would undoubtedly be charged with if she didn't get out of this school and get out of town quick.  Hell, get out of the country.  She dragged herself down the hallway, still strewn with broken glass and injured children.  Clutching her broken arm to her bloodied side, her horrified eyes scanned the carnage.  Everywhere she turned, a sixth grader lay sprawled, beaten insensible.  Crying, whining, whimpering softly in pain as she crunched through small drifts of broken glass, stumbled over bloody textbooks, she skidded on torn construction paper and stopped, gasping for breath.  She remembered a party in college where somebody had asked "how many twelve-year old's do you think you could beat up?"  She never wanted to answer that one, she always thought it was a barbaric, horrible notion.  And then this morning, she was just innocently walking to her office when all of a sudden she was set upon by three separate sixth-grade classes.  Some kind of model U.N. thing in the auditorium.  Suddenly the fat kid gasped and flopped over onto his side and she sighed in relief.  Bad enough she was facing ninety-two cases of felony assault on a minor- multiple assaults on multiple minors.  Jesus wept.  But thankfully, she didn't seem to have killed any of them.  And she was the school nurse.

BURSTING WITH FLAVOR

The building shivered suddenly, letting out a long and lingering groan that resonated across the street.  People on the sidewalks looked up uneasily, suddenly frozen in place and  uncomfortably aware of things that they rarely considered in their day to day life.  Things like gravity.  And velocity.  Great, gaping cracks began to scar the foundation of the building.  A pane of glass two hundred feet up shattered in its frame, and that broke the pregnant pause, pedestrians scattered with a scream, cabbies peeled out with screeching black rubber tracks in their wake.  The building continued to shake, more and more windows exploding in tinkling clouds over the street.  And then the cheese came.  Great, steamy gouts of mozzarella pouring from the shattered windows.  More and more windows broke and began to spew load after load of melting cheese all over the street.  The cheese began to spew from the cracks in the foundation, trapping pedestrians in nets of stretchy cheese and scalding them horribly at the same time.  And then the building started to jerk, upwards and outwards and then it loomed another ten stories high above the boulevard; towering unsteadily above the street on a mountain of oozing mozzarella.  There was a pregnant pause then, the only sounds the sizzle of hot cheese on the sidewalk, tinkling glass tumbling to the ground, and the screams.  And then, the building toppled forward.

The Home Game Sucks

Julia's fingers clenched on the steering wheel, teeth grinding against one another as her nemesis crossed the street.  She hadn't seen Marcy since the end of the game show, since that fake hug the producers made them share as the end credits ran.  Time slowed, crystalized, stopped for just a moment.  Her eyes narrowed, her mind racing as she ran down three separate courses of action in her mind.  One, drive right at her and put the scare of a lifetime in that bitch Marcy.  Two, drive right at her and fling the driver's side door open; give that bitch a taste of door number one.  And then option three, well option three was a no-brainer and a felony.  Even enraged, Julia knew that she couldn't run her over.  She just couldn't.  But then the show, the final round of that goddamned game show replayed behind her eyes and Julia heard herself hissing to nobody "You bitch, you cheat, that should have been mine, that was my prize you fucking bitch,  I ought to kill you you fucking sneak cheat," and then her foot had the pedal to the floor and she saw the light was red and she thought to herself I'll just tell them it was green, and she was disappointed that she didn't get to see the look in Marcy's eyes before she ran her down.

THE BEST RUMSPRINGA EVER

Oh boy, oh boy!  I cannot wait.  I’m going to be turning sixteen in less than twenty-four hours, and then me and Martin and Ichabod are going on the best Rumspringa ever!

For those of you who do not know our ways, Rumspringa is the traditional time for young Amish to get out there and experience the world.  And I for one, can’t wait to get out there and sow some wild oats!  I can’t wait!

We’re taking a page from Martin’s cousin Abram, but not the whole book, mind.  Abram is one of the rare ones who embarked on his Rumspringa and then chose to not rejoin the community.  Normally Abram is completely shunned by the community, but myself and my friends reasoned that in order to have the best possible time we should take the advice of one who had gone before us.  And who better than Abram the heretic?

First of all, we’re going to get something called ‘Zima.’  I know it’s liquor and is forbidden...but not for Rumspringa!  Abram said it was the most exotic and delicious flavor that he has ever tasted.  I have never tasted anything in the flavor of ‘citrus’ before, so I am most excited!

Second of all, we will acquire clothing like the English wear.  There is a store of thrift in the township nearby, and I saw a number of things in the window that I feel will be most exciting to wear!  There are pants there that come in every color of the rainbow!  I know by the names that they are from some far-off, exotic land.  What better thing to wear for my Rumspringa?  Perhaps I will try and pretend that I am an exotic prince from the land of...”Zubaz.”

Third, we have plans to go to the state fair this summer.  Usually we would go with our kinsfolk to deliver our butter and preserves, but we were never allowed to stay and participate in the frivolities.  I hear they deep fry butter at these sort of events, and I intend to try it.  

And I will dance!  Never before would I even consider it, but there will be live, modern music at the fair and we all made a promise to ourselves: just this once, we shall dance.  We risk condemning our mortal souls to the Devil, but this is our time to experiment.  Our time!  I do not know what the music of ‘Ratt’ will sound like, but I am ready to dance to it.

I am hoping that my new finery will impress the girls of the township as well.  Miriam and Ruth both will be of age at the same time as myself and Martin and Ichabod, and I hope that the five of us will have a chance to experience the world together.  And I hope that they also go to the store of thrift as we will.  They had a number of what are called ‘scrunchies.’ And I would dearly love to see what Ruth’s hair will look like out of her wimple.  

It will surely be a struggle for us, I am sure.  I know that there are a great many temptations out there.  The bright lights and clothes, the music.  I fear the rhythms of ‘Ratt’ will tempt me greatly.  

But we are all willing to test the limits of our faith.  And after all, for all of the temptations in that modern world...if they are made by man, then at their roots are they not a piece of the Lord God?  I mean no heresy, I am simply questioning.  That is what this time is meant to be for, is it not?  Well, our faith is strong and I know that in the end I will choose to return to our beloved community.  What else could I do?  I could never imagine a life outside of the farmsteads.  

I don’t know how Abram does it, honestly.  But we’re off to see him in the morn, when he will help us acquire our Zima and also something he calls ‘crystal meth.’  I don’t know what ‘meth’ means, but I do surely find the icicles along the barn gutters to be lovely so I’m sure that this ‘crystal meth’ is yet another example of the Good Lord’s bounty.

AND ENOUGH OF THIS

It had been a long morning for Marc.  Wake up, no shower.  Breakfast of a red onion and garlic omelet, with raw yellow onions on top.  And then off to the gym for his workout, dressed in an old fashioned gray sweatsuit.  He skipped his regular routine in favor of something more cardio related.  As in all cardio related, a half hour on a bike, another half hour on the elliptical, and then lap after lap on the track, around and around until he was wet with sweat.  He could smell his onion-based breakfast sweating from his pores.  He did not go shower or change out of his workout clothes, he simply hopped into his convertible with the top up and the heat blasting.  Marc crept in through the side entrance and sneaked into his office unseen, locking the door behind him.  He used his bathroom, and did not wipe.  As he was washing his hands, he heard the knock at the door that he had been dreading.  Marc opened the door and there she was, his boss; Mrs. Snyder.  He saw her many wrinkles and the sagging flesh of her neck.  He saw the gleam in her eyes as they shot directly to his crotch, saw the lizardlike flicker of her tongue across thin lips.  "Given any thought to my...proposal, Mr. Brown?" It wasn't a question.  She traced a bony finger down his chest and he shivered at the touch, but he swallowed it before he could audibly gag.  He nodded instead.  "Come on then big boy," she whispered, leaning in towards his neck. "Mama wants a taste."  Marc closed his eyes as he felt another bead of the only defiance he could muster run down between his shoulder blades and head south.  "Hope you like it," he murmured.

Laps

The racers are grouped together thickly, the dust churned up from the track thick and staining the hot air brown. The wheels make a faint rustling sound as they spin; muffled by the thunder of many hooves.  There are the cracks of the whips, and then one singular one that deafens the rest and a chariot in the rear is upended, spins in the air, and crashes.  The voice of the crowd surges, they all rise up at once; and then sit again.  The race goes on.

FIRST TIME FOR EVERYTHING

Imagine the first cavemen to discover that yes, apples are both edible and delicious.  How could you possibly describe the very first time that you taste something new and fresh and delicious like that?  There are no words.  And for cavemen, there were literally no words.  You can't even compare it to the first time that a child has an apple, children eat all sort of sweetened things from birth.  Their relatively short lifetime is already filled with baby foods, the little jars of pureed apple and banana and pear prepares them for when you eventually gift them with that first bright and shiny apple.  But the first primitive man to chomp on an apple, that must have been a hell of a good day for him or her.  What else did they eat back then?  I'm imagining they had a lot of poorly charred meat.  Or perhaps just raw.  Tough and gamy, stringy, getting in between your caveman teeth and up in your gums.  And then you find one of these round, smooth and shiny red things.  What the heck is this?  It doesn't look like burnt meat.  Well, guess I'll try to bite it.  Right?  Shouldn't I bite it?  I'm biting it.  And then, happiness.  But then after that, the cavemen was looking around and thinking "maybe I should be biting more stuff," and I bet that's when the very first asshole was born.

WHAT ELSE CAN I PUT BACON ON

You know what, I think tonight I'm just going to walk out there, fry up two, maybe three pounds of bacon, drizzle some butter over it and just start flinging fistfuls of it into the audience.  Hell, I'll throw a handful of chocolate chips on the pile too, then I'll drizzle it with melted butter.  Does that sound like something you'd want to shove in your fat, greedy faces?  What's that?  Oh sure, I'll deep-fry some foie gras and slap that in the mix too.  "No such thing as too much of a good thing!" right, TV fans?  My god-damned producers came up with that hateful slogan.  I hate it.  I hate all of you.  I hate this.  I'm only, you know.  A classically trained chef.  I spent thirteen years traveling Europe, learning the craft from true culinary masters in France, Italy, Spain.  But what do you want?  What gets your motor revving?  Excess.  Excessive displays of culinary masturbation.  I screw up once, I end up candying some bacon and putting it on pancakes and all of a sudden I'm "America's hottest new food queen."  "Food queen," that's pathetic.  I wanted to be a chef, damn it all; and now all I do is find new ways to add bacon to things, or dip things in cheese.  Yes, it made me rich and I took the money, every greasy penny you pushed into my hands with your own obese paws.  And now I'm going to deep-fry a pile of bacon and dip it in dulce de leche or something, and I hope it gives you all diabetes and kills you.  

WHEN CATS RULE THE EARTH

The cat hopped down lightly from the side of the overturned police car and stretched. It was a seriously long and luxurious stretch, his back legs raises and his front fully extended; the claws of his front feet soundly sinking into the empty pair of pants on the sidewalk before him. He straightened up and looked around, licking his lips. It had been a busy square before, too busy for him to even dream of sneaking through, let alone prowling. He would come at night to scavenge the trash cans and even then only nervously, afraid of the crowds of mankind. Now basking in the warm sunlight, everywhere the cat looked the people were just piles of grey dust, spilled into empty clothes and left on the street, on the benches, in the cars. The cat nibbled at his foot briefly, but stopped abruptly; his ears flattened back against his head at the taste. He'd gotten their dust in his mouth now. He shook himself a little, and then the cat sauntered off in search of a blade of grass to clean the taste from his mouth.