Electric Storytime

BLACK FRIDAY BLUES: A FUZZY-WUZZY CLUB ADVENTURE!

2010-11-24T19:00:00.017-05:00

By Thorsten Mungren

It was just before dawn on the day after Thanksgiving. Farthington Bear, Priscilla Piglet and the rest of the Fuzzy-Wuzzy Club were waiting outside Wal-Mart with hundreds of other excited shoppers.

"Oh boy oh boy!" exclaimed Farthington Bear, rubbing his tiny paws together to keep them warm. "I can't wait to get a big ol’ plasma television for our tree house. Then it will be the very best tree house in all of Rainbowville! All the other animals will want to be our friends! Hooray for Black Friday!"

"Thank goodness we made so much money at our bake sale!" added Priscilla Piglet. "My yummy hot chocolate and rhubarb tarts were the stars of the show!"

"I sure could use some of that hot c-c-chocolate right about now," sputtered Timmy Turtle. "M-m-my reptilian b-b-blood is feeling icy cold!"

Suddenly, the crowd erupted in cheers and squeals of delight as a blue-vested man unlocked the doors. "Yikes!" cried Timmy, who was kicked upside-down and sent skittering across the floor by innumerable pairs of stampeding feet.

"I'll see you in the electronics department!" he called out to his friends as he disappeared into the tumult.

The rest of the Fuzzy-Wuzzy Club waited politely until all the other frenzied shoppers had charged past them. Then they made their way to where the televisions were, careful to avoid several bloody brawls.

“When we have our television, I’m going to watch cartoons all day!” cried Oliver Otter, his black whiskers twitching in anticipation.

“And I will watch the Recipe Channel, so next year’s bake sale will be even better!” said Priscilla Piglet, her oinks barely audible above all the screaming and crying and sounds of shattering glass.

“Don’t worry,” said Farthington Bear, dodging a scrum of senior citizens battling over an exquisitely discounted blender. “We’ll have time to watch everything, especially all those documentaries about black bears! And brown bears, too!”

But when they arrived at the electronics department, they were sad to discover that all the televisions were gone!

“Oh fiddlesticks!” sobbed Farthington Bear. “Now we shall have nothing to do all winter!” Mr. Possum suggested that they spend the morning playing charades or drawing in their coloring books, but even he had to admit that watching television would have been much, much better.

As the dejected little animals began walking back to the entrance, they saw that aisle after aisle had been stripped bare. Shelves had been smashed to pieces; some were on fire. And all of the most popular toys were gone. All of the unpopular ones, too.

Soon they came across several women tugging ferociously at the store's very last Miley Cyrus animatronic unicorn. One of the women stopped and stared at Farthington Bear and his friends.

“Look,” she cried, pointing with a trembling finger, “more walkin’, talkin’ stuffed animals!”

And so the woman and her big horrible family and a mob of other empty-handed shoppers began chasing the members of the Fuzzy-Wuzzy Club around and around the store! Eventually, everyone managed to get away -- everyone, that is, but poor Farthington Bear, who was so very slow because he had eaten too much Thanksgiving dinner.

"Oh dear oh dear," said the little bear as he was snatched by the lapels of his handsome tartan vest and stuffed into a shopping bag. “I hope you at least have plenty of cake and ice cream at your house," he called out to his abductors. "And a nice big television!”

(This is the fourth installment in Thorsten Mungren's Fuzzy-Wuzzy Club Adventure Series for Young Readers. His last thrilling tale was The Pawshank Redemption.)

PIG-HEARTED WOMAN!

2010-11-17T18:57:00.026-05:00

By Corliss Potsdam

Edna was a wild woman. A tornado of tight jeans and hot-magenta fingernails who could be found most any night aprowl the streets of downtown Barleyburg, huffing spray paint and guzzling bourbon like her intestines were on fire.

Then there was Orville, a humble pig farmer. He'd been sweet on Edna since elementary school, and though she would occasionally smile at him or compliment his choice of overalls, his deeper affections went tragically unrequited. As they loped into adolescence, Orville found solace in the 4-H Club, while restless Edna sought the companionship of truckers and wildcatters and too many itinerant rodeo clowns to count.

The years went by, and her lifestyle only grew zestier. Snuffling family-size cans of bug repellent and dancing until dawn became standard practice, as did public nudity and modest acts of arson and crop defilement. Meanwhile, Orville quietly excelled in the art of animal husbandry, and he came to be known as one of the most competent pig farmers in the county. But all the pig-farming accolades in the world couldn’t fill the emptiness in his soul every time Edna stumbled by with a clattering gunnysack of paint thinner slung over her shoulder.

It seemed inevitable that all the hard living would catch up with her. And indeed, Doctor Tibbets showed up on Orville's front porch early one morning with news that Edna's heart had finally exploded after brawling with several members of the Women's Auxiliary. Now the only way to save his beloved, said Tibbets, was with a new heart. A pig heart.

Well, the transplant was a roaring success, and when Edna woke the following day, she felt more alive than she had in years! And there was Orville the pig farmer at her bedside, his rough hands clasped gently around her own, explaining breathlessly how the heart from his very best sow had come to be inside her. For a moment, Edna was too overcome with emotion to speak. Then she pulled him closer, kissed him deeply, and whispered in his ear those few simple words he had longed to hear all his life.

Edna moved in with Orville that week. Her porcine heart was beating steady and strong, and their new life together was blissful, at first. But it wasn't long before Edna returned to her old ways. Empty liquor bottles and aerosol cans soon littered the farm. High school football players shuttled in and out of the guest bedroom with alarming regularity. Most distressing to Orville was the fact that his girlfriend no longer seemed willing to rise at dawn to slop the hogs.

Then there came a particularly frenzied Sunday afternoon of drinking and glue sniffing, which finally compelled Edna to break into the slaughterhouse and climb atop the de-snouting machine, where she began to dance her maladroit version of the Oklahoma Shimmy. Suddenly, the contraption rumbled to life, and as Edna slipped and tumbled into its furious maw, a whir of blades neatly severed both her feet.

The next day, Edna woke in the hospital for the second time in as many weeks, her faithful Orville again by her side. And there was another familiar sight: her bottle of hot-magenta fingernail polish, which Orville was using to delicately paint her fine new pair of hooves.

(Corliss Potsdam is a rising star in agrarian-romance literature. His last story was the heartbreaking From Russia With Love.)

THE LITTLE ENGINE THAT COULD

2009-02-25T09:00:00.007-05:00

By Marc Noodly, PhD

There was once a jolly little steam engine. He worked very hard and was always eager to please, but he just wasn't strong enough to haul loads of zinc pellets or rubber gaskets or the other things that the bigger locomotives could haul.

Every morning, the little engine stood in the rail yard and watched his friends leave for the day with long lines of railroad cars rumbling behind them. And then the little fellow would fill his tiny boiler with coal and head into town, where he spent his days pulling a trolley full of screaming children around the petting zoo.

But all that changed one fateful winter day. The locomotives had been enjoying a leisurely breakfast when all of a sudden, the door to the yardmaster's office flew open.

"Listen up," the yardmaster barked, sweat dripping off his panic-stricken brow. "There's a terrible epidemic of hemorrhoids in Saskatchewan. I need one of you to haul an emergency shipment of ointment over the mountain, right now!"

The big locomotives looked at one another and shrugged their shoulders.

"I can't," said one of them, "because my wheels are being polished this afternoon."

"And I ran over a hobo yesterday," another grumbled, "so there's a lot of paperwork to fill out."

"We're all so very tired, and that mountain is so very tall," said a third locomotive, letting out a great yawn. "Don't they have ointment in Canada?"

Well, the yardmaster pounded his fist against the door and called the locomotives all sorts of names that made the little engine's ears turn bright red! Soon, the little fellow decided there was only one thing to do.

The big locomotives began to laugh and laugh. Why, the little engine had hitched himself to the tanker car full of hemorrhoid ointment, and he was trying to pull it all by himself! Even the yardmaster had to chuckle. But that didn't stop the little engine.

"I-think-I-can! I-think-I-can! I-think-I-can!" he said, his smokestack puffing furiously. And to everyone's surprise, he began to inch forward.

"I-think-I-can! I-think-I-can! I-think-I-can!" the little engine exclaimed as he rolled faster and faster down the tracks.

"I-think-I-can! I-think-I-can! I-think-I-can!" he gasped as he began to climb the mountain.

Hooray! cried all the other locomotives, realizing they had greatly underestimated the little engine. Hooray for our friend!

Soon the little engine reached the mountaintop! And then there was a terrific boom as his boiler exploded, and a great plume of wretched black smoke erupted into the sky. The other locomotives stopped cheering. The yardmaster shook his head sadly and walked back into his office. After gulping down a great big glass of whiskey, he called the Premier of Saskatchewan to deliver the bad news.

Up on the mountain, the little engine felt like he had the worst tummy ache in the world. And if that wasn't bad enough, it began to snow.

"Oh dear, oh dear," said the shivering little engine. "I'll never try to exceed my personal limitations again!"

(Renown child psychologist Marc Noodly is the author of more than 100 inspirational short stories for young people, including Donnie the Giant.)

FROM RUSSIA WITH LOVE

2008-11-30T08:00:00.019-05:00

By Corliss Potsdam

Orville and Clem were eating breakfast when Old Man Hoskins and his comely female companion strolled into the diner.

Clem said to Orville, "You remember when it was Hoskins got himself that new lady friend?"

"I remember clear as day," Orville replied. "Mornin' after that Commie spaceship Spoot-nik burned up in the sky, here comes Hoskins waltzin' through town with this big shiny gal on his arm. Whew! What a looker!"

"How you suppose an ol' prune-faced alfalfa farmer the likes of Hoskins snares a dame like that?" Clem said, taking a sip of coffee. "Why, that girl's got two of the finest pairs of gams I ever laid eyes on!

"But she ain't exactly the friendly type," he murmured, rolling up his sleeve to reveal a bright red chemical burn.

"I know what you mean, friend," Orville said, pointing to the puncture wounds dotting his forehead. "Lady can't take a compliment to save her life."

"Sure is crazy 'bout Hoskins, though," Clem said, staring wistfully at the two lovers. "Just look at her ― beepin' all them sweet nuthins' in his ear!"

(Corliss Potsdam's other tales from the heartland include Paradigm Shift and the soul-stirring Livestock, No More.)

THE UNICORN DOCTOR

2008-11-20T13:00:00.006-05:00

By Tully Standish McBride

The double doors to the emergency room flew open, and there appeared a magnificent unicorn, a stethoscope bouncing against its snowy chest, its flowing mane glowing like silken alabaster in the burst of ethereal light accompanying its grand entrée.

The nurses stepped aside as the unicorn pranced to the operating table, where a young man lay clutching his bleeding and horribly misshapen head. The gorgeous creature gently nuzzled the patient’s cheek. Its warm equine breath smelled of sweet alfalfa and enchanted forests, and soon the man stopped moaning and writhing.

Then the unicorn plunged its mighty ivory horn deep into the man’s chest cavity, and when the creature raised its head, a throbbing pancreas was impaled on the tip of its gore-smeared shaft.

The nurses clapped and wiped tears from their eyes, and the unicorn whinnied and neighed and stamped its hooves excitedly. Then, after nibbling on a gift of carrots and sugar cubes, it galloped away beneath a sparkly rainbow, to a magical land where malpractice suits don't exist.

(Writer, composer and choreographer Tully Standish McBride's last story was The Widow Rassmussen Rides Again.)

CALL OF THE WILD

2008-11-13T23:56:00.026-05:00

By Pam Orlovsky

You are home alone, listless on your futon, watching a television program about celebrity appendectomies. Then, suddenly, you hear the call of the wild.

It is a like a primal echo from time immemorial, rousting you as if Mother Nature herself is shaking your soul awake. You forget about the triple-sausage pizza slowly rotating in the microwave. You fling open your front door and race into the night, heeding this mysterious, ineffable supplication.

You are led down the street, past shopping centers and chain restaurants and the rest of the backdrop to your workaday existence. Soon you are at the edge of town. The call of the wild grows deafening now as you approach a gas station near the highway. You walk to the back of the building and there, in the glow of the moon, you find a Yeti, a very soiled and odoriferous Yeti, slumped against a dumpster with an empty jug of mango schnapps clutched to his hirsute chest.

You recognize him as the same vomit-covered Yeti you saw stumbling around outside the plasma donation center last week. What's more, you realize the call of the wild you've been hearing has been the Yeti’s throaty plea for more liquor and fruit-flavored cigarillos, and also some smoked oysters.

You tell the Yeti you have no money. The howling stops abruptly, and the creature tries to rise from his nest of pine straw and hamburger wrappers so he can claw you to shreds and feast on your insides. But that quickly proves too difficult a task.

“Fuck it,” says the Yeti, and falls asleep instead. And you look at this slumbering, defeated beast and wonder if you are gazing into a mirror ― or if you are just looking at a very inebriated Yeti.

(This is cryptozoologist Pam Orlovsky's second work of fiction about Yetis.)

FLIGHT OF THE SNOWBIRD

2008-02-08T08:00:00.004-05:00

By Hildegard McEwan

Autumn had arrived. The leaves on the trees were turning crimson and gold, and the skies had begun to fill with long, slender chevrons of Canada geese, honking and flapping their way south for the winter. It was also the time of year when the Engelbergers headed for warmer climes, bypassing the frigid Midwest winter in favor of Floridian sunshine and orange trees and reasonably priced seafood buffets.

Stanley was readying the Winnebago for the big trip when he saw his Gertrude promenading across the lawn, suitcase in hand. Oddly enough, she was wearing a leather helmet and aviator goggles, and Stanley was equally surprised to see a pair of enormous white wings affixed to her back. It was then he began to wonder if their travel plans might unfold differently this year.

Gertrude confirmed his suspicions, announcing that she would be wintering in Arizona with Albert Fleishman, the handsome widower podiatrist with whom she had apparently developed a deep and meaningful relationship following bunion surgery last spring. And they would be flying, she told Stanley, staring with no small amount of disdain at the gently rusting Engelberger motor home. The feathers of Gertrude's new appendages ruffled in the breeze as she scanned the skies for her paramour, and Stanley caught a minty whiff he recognized as his denture adhesive, which seemed to be what was holding the wings together.

"You're going to fly to Arizona with those flimsy things?" Stanley chuckled. "Good luck, Earhart!"

But no sooner had the words left his mouth when Fleishman swooped down, his own feathery wings flapping magnificently as he slowed to a hover above the Engelbergers. Gertrude offered him her hand, and the two laughing septuagenarians rose high into the air, pirouetting around each other with a grace that belied their years. Higher and higher they flew into the brilliant morning sky, riding the updrafts like a pair of mighty eagles, soaring above flocks of migrating birds and through contrails of passing airplanes until, finally, they were no more than two specks silhouetted against the sun.

Stanley lit a cigarette and watched them go, and then he shuffled back inside the Winnebago to finish polishing the dashboard. Soon he noticed droplets of melted denture adhesive pitter-pattering on the windshield, and a dull sadness filled the old man's heart. That is, until he turned on his windshield wipers and watched with growing satisfaction as the new triple-strength polymer blades swept the glass sparkly clean.

(Authoress Hildegard McEwan does not remember writing this story.)

A YETI REMINISCES

2008-01-27T17:05:00.003-05:00

By Thorsten Mungren

The large window by the cigarette machine afforded patrons of Rusty's Bar & Grill a commanding view of the snow-capped Rocky Mountains.

"You call those mountains?" the Yeti asked of no one in particular. "Those little pieces of shit?"

The Yeti had been drinking since late morning. He had started with bottles of Bud Light and various wine coolers, and by the afternoon had progressed to whiskey, Malibu and whatever else caught his momentary fancy. And now the Yeti was now thoroughly drunk. His fur, once white as Himalayan snow, was dusted with cigarette ash and tangled into dirty, crusted knots that stank of beer and onion rings.

"Where I'm from, we know what a mountain is," the Yeti muttered, motioning for another drink with his smelly, bandaged paw. "Ain't no real mountains here, that's for damn sure."

Everyone felt sad for the Yeti. He was so far from home. He had no friends, no job prospects, nothing to do at all but sit at the bar and daydream about the mountains of Nepal he so dearly loved.

The Yeti drained his glass of bourbon and stumbled toward the bathroom, pausing at the pool table to tear the head off an unsuspecting lumberjack. And after that, folks couldn't help but feel a little less sad for the Yeti.

THE OLD MANIAC AND THE SEA

2008-01-26T15:40:00.002-05:00

By Greg Grogan

Everyone in the village of San Rafael knew old Santino the fisherman. They knew that every morning just before dawn, Santino would gather his oars and fishing poles and walk down to the beach, where his little skiff sat in the sand. Though its blue paint was peeling and its gunwales were cracked and splintered, it was a good and sturdy craft. It had served Santino well for many years.

Santino was the son of a fisherman, and the grandson of a fisherman. He had fished these waters longer than anyone could remember. And he had always begun the day by drinking a quart of dishwashing liquid and making farting noises with his armpits. Then he would push his skiff into the water and row out toward the open ocean.

Santino's boat was always full when he returned at the end of the day – full of driftwood, plastic bottles and pieces of Styrofoam. Santino was fond of saying that he knew the ocean like an old friend, and that was why he was such a fine fisherman. The fact that he spent most of the day naked and smeared with his own dung also helped, he would say, but not as much as one might think.

When Santino unloaded his catch on the beach, he would take great care to arrange everything into a neat pile. Then he would scream obscenities at the pile, or try to light it on fire. When someone would wander over to see what Santino had caught, he would fall to the ground and beat his fists into the soft white sand, which was his way of saying hello. It was also, he would explain later, his way of punishing the sand crabs for gossiping about the length of his manhood.

One day at sea, Santino hooked a bicycle tire – the biggest, most beautiful tire he had ever seen. He fought with this tire for three days and three nights. And then a curious manatee slipped the tire off his hook and disappeared beneath the waves. Exhausted and heartbroken, Santino slowly rowed back to shore. That night, he sat alone in the cantina, staring into his drink.

“El neumático,” he sighed, over and over. “Donde está el neumático?”

“Look, there are tires everywhere on this island,” said Salvadore, the kindly bartender. “It is full of tires! Come, let us go out tomorrow and find the loveliest tire, just for you!”

Santino smiled and shook his head. “No,” he replied, “there is only one tire for me.” The sad old fisherman took out his flask and poured himself another tall glass of cat piss. Then, quietly, he urged Salvadore to tell him the best way to kill a manatee.

(This bittersweet tale was inspired by author Greg Grogan’s love of the ocean -- and old men. Grogan last graced these pages with his dazzling story, World’s Horniest Grandpa!)

HALL & OATES AT WORLD'S END

2008-01-25T12:00:00.002-05:00

By Howie McLemore

John Oates sat warily on the hood of a wrecked taxicab. Gray ash swirled in the icy wind, powdering his moustache with acrid grit. All around him, a frozen sea of rusting automobiles.

Nearby buildings, those not completely collapsed, were broken into a spectral skyline of jagged spires that rose from heaps of crumbled concrete and slag. Along the scorched and buckled asphalt there lay a scattering of corpses, too charred and mutilated to contemplate eating.

With what was left of his greasy index finger, Oates coaxed the last morsels of corned-beef hash from an old, dented can he had shot a man for earlier that day. He was thinking about how it had been a good week, all things considered, when suddenly he saw something stirring in the rubble. Oates grabbed his crossbow. Then he smiled. It was Daryl Hall!

Hall staggered through the ash-covered detritus and collapsed beside Oates. He was wearing an adult diaper and a large, filthy pelt. One of his eyes was missing, and his left ear was blistered and oozing. But otherwise, Oates told him, he looked well. Oates reached into his tattered plastic bag and fished out a rotten sparrow carcass, which his old friend immediately snatched up and shoved into his mouth.

While Hall devoured his lunch, Oates began to hum a few notes from an old tune. Hall cocked his head and listened, his horribly abscessed foot instinctively tapping in time. When he had swallowed the last of the sparrow, he started humming, too. Neither man could remember the words to the song, but just hearing the familiar melody issuing forth from each other's cracked and peeling lips was enough. Any comfort, however small, was welcome in those dark times.

Before long, Oates bent over and vomited a thick, orange knot of hair and bile. And then Hall’s left ear fell off. The two men looked at each other for a moment, and then they burst out laughing, their raspy, blood-flecked cackles echoing off the ruins. Oates cleared his throat, and the song resumed.

They were two hopeless souls, adrift in a doomed world of post-apocalyptic misery. But they were together again, and that was all that mattered.

(Author Howie McLemore is fond of chives.)

THE JOLLY RANCHER

2008-01-24T21:30:00.001-05:00

By Billy Q. Pickett

Murphy and Smith were driving to the Cattle Expo when they saw Pete Johnson leaning against his fence. As the old pickup truck rumbled by, Johnson flashed them one of his famous smiles.

Murphy leaned out the window and spat a thick glob of tobacco juice into the wind.

"That sumbitch Johnson's a real jolly rancher," he said. "Why the hell's he always so dang jolly? Is it 'cause his fancy-pants uncle left him all that money from his fruit-flavored-candy business?"

"Could be," Smith said. "But I reckon it's the fact he's been porkin' your wife somethin' fierce."

The two men stared at the highway as it stretched out to the horizon. The Cattle Expo would not come soon enough.

(Billy Q. Pickett is known among cowboy literati for his terse but vivid depictions of hardscrabble life in the West.)

PAUL CHAD MASTERS: TIME-TRAVELING MOTIVATIONAL GURU

2008-01-23T22:44:00.001-05:00

By Paul Chad Masters

The hatch of the time machine opened, and motivational guru Paul Chad Masters stepped out into the brilliant sunshine of ancient Egypt.

Nearby, thousands of laborers were building a pyramid. Masters noticed that one group wasn't working as quickly as the others, no matter how menacingly the foreman cracked his whip. The author of more than 40 self-help books strolled over and gently took the whip from the foreman’s hands. Then he switched on his universal translator.

"Before you try to build a pyramid," Masters said, "you have to build something far more important: your self-confidence!" Everyone dropped what they were doing and stared at him, mouths agape. How had this stranger unlocked the wisdom of the ancients? they wondered.

"You're building this pyramid for the pharaoh, am I right?" The laborers nodded. "Well, when it comes to building self-confidence, you have to be your own pharaoh! Write that down.

“Now let’s really get serious about drafting your own personal blueprints for life success!” Masters continued, pacing back and forth along the dusty ground. “You and your coworkers are out here every day moving these enormous blocks of granite, but you never seem to move them fast enough. Why is that?” The laborers shrugged and stared down at their leather tunics.

“Maybe,” Masters said, “you’re spending too much time thinking about how you can move these blocks, and not enough time thinking about how these blocks” ― he paused, and pointed to his heart ― “can move you."

"By the fists of Anubis, I never thought of it like that!" one laborer exclaimed.

"Take what you've learned today and get ready for some amazing results!" Masters said, waving goodbye to the cheering men and hopping into his time machine. As the hatch closed and the machine began spinning furiously, Masters settled into his shiatsu massage chair and prepared for his next speaking engagement. Three thousand years in the future, there was a listless group of Easter Islanders staring dejectedly at their half-finished stone megalith. "It's hopeless," they were saying. "We never seem to finish what we start!"

Very soon, Paul Chad Masters would have something to say about that.

(Paul Chad Masters is the author of more than 40 self-help books on a variety of topics. The following excerpt is from his latest bestseller, "Think Like a Pharaoh: Proven Strategies for Life Success!")

A HOBO LASER

2008-01-23T21:35:00.001-05:00

By Dick Nelson

The International Festival of Science had drawn some of the world's most brilliant scientists and their new technological marvels. Hans Immerschlosser, for example, had designed a pocket-sized particle accelerator. A team from Korea was unveiling a car that ran on milk.

Then there were the hobos and their laser.

It was not immediately recognizable as a device that amplified light by a stimulated emission of radiation. It looked more like pieces of garbage that had been tied together with string and old electrical cords and then dumped into a shopping cart. The scientists, despite all their accumulated knowledge, could not figure out how this alleged laser was supposed to work.

Balls of aluminum foil, empty liquor bottles and several well-gnawed chicken drumsticks had been arranged inside an eviscerated television set, which was connected by several frayed wires to an old clock radio. Fluorescent light bulbs, a toilet plunger and several tattered volumes of Reader's Digest Condensed Books were among the other items that seemed to play a part.

Two members of the hobo design team, Pickles and Scabby Jones, announced that there would be a demonstration. The scientists gathered around as Pickles attached two wires to a badly corroded car battery. He turned a knob on the television and blew into a harmonica that had been mounted to the remnants of an oscillating fan. Nothing happened. The scientists chuckled and shook their heads. "Why don't you just sing us a song about freight trains," one of them shouted, "or maybe cook us a big pot of stew!"

The hobos had heard it all before. Ignoring the taunts, they unfolded their cardboard blueprints and got to work. Greasy Gus and Tin Can Willie came over to help, and soon they decided on a course of action. As the scientists looked on with obvious disdain, Pickles placed a dirty tube sock over one of the light bulbs and readjusted some of the television knobs. Then he turned to his audience and gave a thumbs-up before once again blowing a few notes on the harmonica. A burst of blinding white light erupted from the shopping cart, shooting across the convention hall and incinerating several dozen of the world's greatest minds.

"Success!" the hobos cried. Then Pickles and Tin Can started dancing the Tramp Two-Step, and Scabby Jones unscrewed the evening's first bottle of celebratory Thunderbird.

(Author Dick "Dirty Beard" Nelson himself rode the rails for many years until he was partially decapitated by a runaway boxcar. He now flops and writes near Cincinnati and still dreams of Big Rock Candy Mountain.)

OH, BUT FOR A KERNEL OF COURAGE!

2008-01-22T23:30:00.002-05:00

By Tammy Salazar

On the final day of the Hazelville Grain Symposium, Tommy dazzled the Future Farmers of America with his keynote address on the unparalleled virtues of corn. He moved passionately and methodically from tortilla chips to whiskey to grits, and then on to the wonders of ethanol and corncob pipes, until even the most ardent wheat and barley supporters were on the verge of tears.

“There is nothing,” Tommy roared, pounding his fist on the dais, “nothing at all that corn cannot do!”

Scarcely had the words left his mouth when a band of crazed Norsemen rowed ashore and began pillaging the stores along Main Street. Then the robots arrived, and after they had slain the Norsemen with their pincers and whirling blades, they started vaporizing the townsfolk. Then a meteorite smashed into the Redenbacher Senior Center.

Yet those endless fields of Silver Queen sweet corn did nothing. Absolutely fucking nothing. Just stood there, green leaves fluttering impotently in the cool morning breeze.

(This is the final entry in Salazar's celebrated "Corn Trilogy," which includes the Indiana homemaker's other "a-maize-ing" tales: A Lesson at Breakfast and Tender is the Corn.)

DIRTY BONES

2008-01-22T00:00:00.001-05:00

By Diego Steed

According to the official police report, the museum’s Hall of Human Ancestry had been vandalized during the night by an unknown number of intruders, most likely a group of inebriated teenagers or radical creationists. The curator, however, suspected that something far more sinister had taken place.

He ducked under the crime-scene tape and walked inside. Mounds of shattered Plexiglas crunched underfoot as he made his way through the detritus of wrecked exhibits. Soon he stumbled upon several partial Australopithecus skeletons that lay curiously entangled with one another on the floor. Nearby, a fully articulated Homo erectus had been positioned on all fours, with a Neanderthal skeleton crouching lustily behind it.

Whoever did this knew exactly what they were doing, the curator said to himself, noting the soft jazz still playing over the intercom. Then he glanced toward the staircase and saw the museum's prized Paranthropus robustus specimen handcuffed to the railing; the skull of a Homo habilis was nestled in its pelvic girdle, along with a can of whipped cream and a pair of thong panties.

Now it all made sense. The curator had heard stories about the dark and lurid side of paleontology from his European colleagues, but ― call him naive ― he never thought someone would dare film a skeleton porno in his museum.

(Author Diego Steed lives and works in Chatsworth, California.)

WAR IS HELL: ANOTHER ADVENTURE OF THE FUZZY-WUZZY CLUB

2008-01-21T00:55:00.003-05:00

By Thorsten Mungren

As the battle raged into its second, blood-soaked day, Farthington Bear and the other members of the Fuzzy-Wuzzy Club sat around a small wooden table in the deserted command bunker, drinking tea and eating cookies.

"My, these are delicious!" said Farthington's friend, Mr. Possum, helping himself to a pawful of macaroons.

"They sure are!" Farthington replied, steadying the tray as another mortar round exploded nearby. "I baked them myself ― with a little help from Priscilla Piglet, of course!" Priscilla giggled merrily, but she could barely be heard above the thunderous discharge of a Browning .50 caliber machine gun.

"You know," said Farthington, "we baked so many cookies. What a shame it will be if no one else joins our party!"

Suddenly, a soldier burst through the door. His fatigues were dusty and torn, his face caked with blood.

"Who's in charge?" the soldier screamed. "We need to call in air strikes now!" It was then he noticed that the radio was inoperable, for someone had spilled strawberry jam all over the controls.

"Hooray!" cried Kitty Cat. "Now we have a new friend to have fun with!"

"Have some cookies," said Mr. Possum, offering the wild-eyed soldier one of his macaroons.

"And some mulberry tea," said Priscilla, hurrying over with a steaming pot.

"I don't want any fucking tea and cookies!" the soldier growled. He grabbed Farthington Bear by his little tartan vest and shook him back and forth.

"Where is General Stinson?" he yelled. "Where the hell is General Stinson?"

"Gosh, I d-d-don't know," the dizzy bear sputtered. "Maybe he's t-t-taking a nap."

"After all these cookies, I could also use a nap," said Kitty Cat, patting her stomach.

"Me too!" squeaked Milly Mouse, curling up in an empty ammunition box.

Exasperated, the soldier let go of Farthington Bear and slumped to the floor. So this is how it ends, he thought. Now the walls started to shake as enemy tanks rumbled toward the bunker. In the distance, he could hear scattered gunfire and cries of agony. As the animals continued to chat merrily with one another, the soldier grimly contemplated his pistol and its single remaining bullet.

Then he felt something tickling his ear. He turned and saw it was none other than Oliver Otter and his faceful of bushy whiskers. The otter looked terribly worried.

"You know," said Oliver, placing his paw on the soldier's knee, "if you don't like cookies, we have some yummy cake as well!"

(Author Thorsten Mungren's masterful "A Yeti Reminisces" was most recently translated into Klingon.)

BALLAD OF THE REGURGITATING TROUBADOUR

2008-01-20T11:00:00.001-05:00

By Greg Grogan

Esmeralda was at home knitting a fish blanket when the front door flew open, practically off its hinges, and in rushed her best friend, Maria.

"Come quickly!" Maria cried breathlessly, her green eyes wide and wild. "The Regurgitating Troubadour of San Lorenz is in the village square at this very moment! Let us hurry!"

Esmeralda's heart began to race. She leapt to her feet, and the two young women raced out the door. It was not long before they heard the enchanting notes of the troubadour's lute echoing softly through the narrow village streets. And then they heard coughing and vomiting, and their pace quickened.

But hope soon gave way to sadness, for when Maria and Esmeralda finally arrived in the square, the Regurgitating Troubadour was gone. Left in his wake was a clutch of fair village maidens, all dreamy smiles and tear-streaked cheeks. As Maria and Esmeralda looked on, one of the women wrapped her arms around her chest and sighed. "So sweetly does he throw up," she cooed, her hair still dripping, "like the most heavenly of songbirds!"

Shielding their eyes against the setting sun, Maria and Esmeralda spied the troubadour in the distance, astride his trusty steed. Alas, he was now no more than a dark and handsome speck, trotting into the dusty hills that rose beyond the river and the fig orchards. His performance had been as brief as it was magnificent, and he would not return to the village for a very long time.

The two disconsolate women sat down on the edge of a stone fountain in the middle of the square ― near Alfonso the village drunk, who abruptly vomited all over himself. Esmeralda wiped away a tear as she embraced the soiled old man. "Thank you," she told him, "But somehow, it just isn't the same."

(Author Greg Grogan's other exciting stories include The Old Maniac and the Sea.)

TASTY DISH

2008-01-20T10:30:00.002-05:00

By Bonnie Stansfield

Whether served in a thick black tarp or wrapped up in garbage bags, dinner was always something special at the Dunsler household. Mother and chef extraordinaire Janet Dunsler made sure of that!

But husband Rich didn’t know quite what to make of her latest creation. At first glance it appeared to be a slain prostitute – nothing terribly outlandish about that – but when he poked his fork at the milky white flesh, a look of confusion crossed his face.

“What is this?” he asked. Janet and daughter Karen exchanged nervous glances.

“It’s tofu, mostly” Janet said. “Karen’s decided to become a vegetarian, and I thought this would be a great way for us to show our support.”

Rich grimaced. He was a meat-and-potatoes-hold-the-potatoes guy if there ever was one, but he had to give his wife credit: It certainly looked like the real thing. The ersatz corpse was dressed in a miniskirt and torn, sequined halter top. It had a coiffure of angel-hair pasta and long, curved fingernails made from thin slices of red bell pepper. A convincing slash of tomato gravy ran across its throat.

“These ears,” he said, tearing off a lobe and running his fingers over its cartilage-like texture, “how did you–"

“Braised tempeh,” Janet said proudly. “And check out the eyes: They’re radish rosettes!”

“They look a little bloodshot,” Rich deadpanned, stabbing them vigorously with the carving knife. “She must have had a very long and terrifying night!”

The Dunslers all had a good laugh, and then Rich set about slicing up the tofu whore – just like it was the real thing.

(Many years ago, on the advice of a local psychopath, Bonnie Stansfield killed and devoured her social studies teacher in order to acquire the woman's life force. Little did she know that the seemingly innocuous event would come to inform her long and illustrious writing career.)

TAKE YER DUMP, JOHNNY REB!

2008-01-20T10:00:00.003-05:00

By Richard Fescue

It was a warm spring morning in the gently rolling hills of central Tennessee, and a large crowd had gathered to watch the annual reenactment of the Battle of Blood Mountain, one of the most horrific conflicts of the Civil War.

At precisely nine o'clock, the Union reenactors proudly hoisted aloft the Stars and Stripes and charged down a grassy bluff toward the Confederate line with cries of Huzzah! and Remember Ol' Mildew! In the wink of an eye, the battlefield roared to life with cannonade and withering musket fire, tooting bugles and impassioned Rebel Yells.

Soon the famed Confederate reenactor Rutherford Pickling, a private in the 134th Alabama Volunteer Infantry, lay down his musket and clutched at his stomach with Shakespearean intensity. The crowd watched with growing anticipation as Pickling emerged from behind his earthen fortification and staggered toward a small copse of magnolias a short distance away. This was what everyone had been waiting for ― the performance that had become the pièce de résistance of the reenactment.

“There he goes,” a father told his son excitedly. "Now you're about to see history come alive!"

Imaginary projectiles whizzed through the air, shredding flesh and pulverizing bone. Cries of anguish from Yankee and Rebel alike mingled with the multitudinous explosions. But Pickling, now practically doubled over and groaning as if mortally wounded, seemed oblivious. He dropped his canteen and threw off his burlap jacket. Then he yanked down his woolen trousers and squatted beside an old, stout tree. There was a rubber bladder surreptitiously taped to his thigh, and Pickling uncorked it with a flick of his thumb, releasing a homebrew of dark, fetid sludge that splattered on the ground beneath him. And thus commenced Pickling's reenactment of horrific Civil War diarrhea.

The crowd fell silent. In his sweat-drenched face, twisted in gastrointestinal agony, the crowd saw ― no, they could almost feel ― how a diet of hardtack, rancid salt pork and pond water could lay low even the proudest fighting man. Pickling crouched beneath the tree for only a minute, but in the heat of reenacted battle, it seemed like hours. And when he could befoul the soil no more, he wiped himself with a shiny magnolia leaf and pulled up his musty grey trousers. Now the crowd erupted with wild applause and cheers of Attaboy, Johnny Reb!

Pickling doffed his cap in gratitude. Then he buckled his belt, took a deep breath and headed back toward the swirling smoke, the thundering salvos, the carnage.

(Author Richard “Ricky” Fescue, distinguished professor of southern literature at Cyprus City Community College, last thrilled readers with Bunky Takes Flight, his dark epic of spiritual rebirth and all-terrain vehicles.)

FOR WHOM THE DUCK QUACKS

2008-01-19T16:55:00.001-05:00

By Maurice Updike

“You know what?” Jim Fletcher said. “I ain’t never heard your duck quack. Why is that so?”

Billy Troutman stared at Fletcher like he’d asked why more people don’t drink motor oil. “Just never you mind why that duck hasn’t quacked,” he said. “But I tell you what, if you ever do hear that duck quack – and I’m not saying the duck will ever quack, but it most certainly could – then you best run.”

“And why would I run?” Fletcher said. “It’s just a damn duck. A defective, no-quackin' duck.”

“Oh, that duck can quack,” Troutman said, “It can quack like you wouldn’t believe a duck could quack. I just pray that it don’t care to anytime soon, 'less you want to trade in them work boots for a pair a runnin' shoes and a cast-iron overcoat.”

Fletcher laughed and lit a cigarette. “Look here, friend," he said, "if that duck quacks, I ain’t goin' nowhere, and that’s a fact."

“Well,” Troutman replied, “I expect the duck'll have a thing or two to say about that.”

It wasn't long before the two men saw the duck in question waddling up from the pond. Troutman immediately dropped his cup of coffee and began backing up toward the house. The duck looked at Fletcher and then at Troutman, and then it fixed its gaze firmly back on Fletcher.

And then the duck began to quack.

The cows in a nearby pasture began stampeding. Troutman’s hogs tried to bury themselves in the mud. Troutman himself hurled open the cellar door, grabbed his screaming family and leapt inside. But Fletcher, true to his word, did not move – could not move, as if hypnotized by the duck's piercing brown eyes and glossy green head feathers and, above all, its rhythmic, scalp-tingling quacks.

The air grew deliriously hot, and the world seemed bathed in fiery orange light. And as the quacking reached its terrifying crescendo, it occurred to Fletcher that perhaps his curiosity had finally gotten the better of him.

And then his face melted off.

(Author Maurice Updike has twice won the Raymond Carver Prize in its lesser-known Aquatic Fowl category.)

THE WIDOW RASMUSSEN RIDES AGAIN

2008-01-19T16:44:00.004-05:00

By Tully Standish McBride

No one had really wanted to kick Evelyn Rasmussen out of the building. She was a kind old woman who enjoyed baking pies and knitting scarves; she was no troublemaker. But the terms of her lease were quite clear: no whales.

Evelyn had described her recent vacation on the coast as little more than "looking high and low for that perfect bowl of clam chowder." Someone might have thought to ask why she had brought along a copy of Peabody's Guide to Capturing and Transporting North Atlantic Cetaceans, but that seemed trivial at the time.

Soon after she returned home, though, it became increasingly apparent that she had brought some whales with her. They could be heard clicking and grunting late into the night, along with the drone of Evelyn’s accordion. When they were hungry or excited, which seemed to be all the time, they slapped their flukes and flippers against the floor like giant, petulant children. Truckloads of plankton and krill began arriving several times a day.

Evelyn would never fess up completely. "Oh, there's a porpoise who drops by once in a while," she would say with a twinkle in her eye. "But that's about it." Judging by the fantastic amount of excrement that quickly clogged the garbage chute, however, it was more likely that Evelyn was cohabitating with several full-grown minke whales, though no one could say for sure; the mass of dark, shiny flesh visible through her living room window indicated only that several very large marine mammals of an indeterminate species were spending their days lazing on her sectional sofa.

One day, Evelyn was finally called before the tenants association and presented with the overwhelming circumstantial evidence. "Fine," she snarled, "I'll get rid of them all right." And then she marched out of the meeting room, leaving it suffused in a heavy odor of brine.

The next morning, the building's residents awoke to a strange silence. The door to Evelyn’s apartment had been flung open, nearly off its hinges, and the doorjamb was cracked and splintered, like something huge and unwieldy had been hurriedly crammed through it. There was no sign of Evelyn or her charges, just a hallway of sopping wet carpet.

At that moment, several miles away, a tugboat captain nearly swallowed his corncob pipe in disbelief. He had seen a pod of whales before, but never this far up the river, and never in the company of a wild-eyed senior citizen.

But there was Evelyn Rasmussen astride the largest of the whales, dressed only in a shower cap and her threadbare, floral-print nightgown. One hand was gripped tightly around the edge of the whale’s blowhole, and the other held aloft a freshly polished silver trident that gleamed in the early morning sun.

"Onward!" cried the fiesty senior, looking like the daughter of Neptune herself. The whales lingered for a moment, as if to give Evelyn one last chance to bid farewell. Then they turned and swam for the open ocean, their skin gleaming in the early morning sun.

(Writer, composer and choreographer Tully Standish McBride has long been a fan of nautical themes. The following story was written during the production of “Pole Position!” – his ice-skating extravaganza based on Robert Falcon Scott’s doomed Antarctic expedition.)

CODY AND LINDSEY: WORLD’S WORST TEEN MYSTERY-SOLVING DUO

2008-01-19T07:09:00.002-05:00

By Carla Cuthbert

It was near the end of class when algebra teacher Daniel Huff’s stomach began to churn. Funny, he thought, he hadn’t eaten anything out of the ordinary. But as he gulped down the last of his coffee, he noticed an unusual taste. Then he spied his bottle of liver medication in the trash can. Huff picked it up and gave it a shake.

The bottle was empty.

“Who's been messing with my medicine?” Huff asked the class. He saw that the Patterson twins, Cody and Lindsey, were snickering.

“Oh, we wouldn’t know anything about that,” Cody said.

“I’m sure you wouldn’t,” Huff shot back, wiping the sweat from his forehead. “For a pair of mystery-solving teens, you and your sister never seem to know much of anything.” Suddenly, a massive cramp seized his bowels, and the two-time teacher of the month fell back into his chair, understanding now that he had been the victim of a malicious prank.

“Good Lord,” Huff croaked, reading the label on the bottle. “Ingesting too many of these pills causes searing, explosive diarrhea!”

“Yes, our investigation did reveal that much,” Lindsey said, biting her lip. “But we simply can’t figure out why someone would crush all those pills into a fine powder and pour it into your coffee while you were talking to the principal. The clues just don’t add up.”

“That’s right,” Cody chimed in, “they don’t add up. Of course, seeing as you gave us failing grades on our last exam, it’s obvious that we can’t add up the clues, even if we wanted to.”

“We’re terrible with mysteries that involve math or pills,” Lindsey said.

Huff informed his students that class would be ending early that day. Then he leapt from his chair and disappeared down the hall. And it wasn't long before Cody and Lindsey were working fruitlessly to solve the next big mystery at Fairview High School: Who took photos of Daniel Huff racing to his car in a pair of freshly soiled trousers?

(Author Carla Cuthbert produced a staggering number of coming-of-age books for young women under the pen name, Sissy Saskatchewan. This is her first mystery, and the first story in which she fails to use the phrases "totally awesome" and "nuclear nightmare.")

LOVE IS NEVER A GAMBLE

2008-01-18T11:40:00.001-05:00

By Anonymous

Ed Johnson was as happy as any man who had just enjoyed a steak dinner for only four dollars and 99 cents, plus tax. Patting his swollen stomach, he paid the bill and shuffled down to the gaming floor, where his wife Helen was busy working the slots.

It seemed like only yesterday they had first vacationed at Chief Big Wampum's Casino and Resort. Ed fondly remembered piling Helen and the kids into the old Buick station wagon for the long drive from the city. Every summer, they would rent the same little cabin on Lake Teepee and play miniature golf until the moon rose high over the shimmering water. He sighed. The kids were grown up, and the Buick died years ago. But Helen was still with him, beautiful as ever.

Ed found her straddling a stool between two machines, where, for the last 12 hours, she had been plunking in nickels and pushing buttons, pausing only to reload every few minutes with a fresh Virginia Slims. When one of the machines began spewing coins, Ed sidled up to her.

"My gal's got the golden touch tonight," he said, gently squeezing her shoulder. Helen felt his rough, familiar hands and looked up, smiling. "Eddie," she said, "my legs are asleep and I gotta take a dump. Wanna help me up?"

"Of course, my sweetheart," Ed replied lovingly. "Of course."

SNUGGLIN' WITH THE DEVIL

2008-01-16T08:00:00.001-05:00

By Anonymous

Late one moonless night, Bob Johnson went down to the crossroads to sell his soul to the Devil. "Show yo'self now, Devil," he did holler into the darkness. "I aim to sell you my everlastin' soul!"

The Devil soon appeared out of the gloom. "And what, pray tell, do you want for your soul, Johnson?" he whispered, rubbing his red, scaly hands in glee.

“I aim to be the best real-estate agent in all a Mississippi!" Johnson replied. Well, the Devil he didn't say a word for some time. But by and by, his tail began a twitchin'. He looked Johnson up and down. "You serious?" the Devil finally growled. And Johnson told the Devil that he was.

The Devil said an everlastin' soul was a mighty high price to pay to be the best real-estate agent in all a Mississippi. And then he said, "Look here, Johnson, I got plenty a souls down in Hades. What I ain't got is companionship. Real companionship. An that makes me plenty sad.

"So I got me an idea," the Devil continued. "I'll make you the best real-estate agent around if you and me" ― and now the Devil he was a lookin' down at the ground bashful-like, scratchin' at the dirt with one a his cloven hooves ― "if you and me can snuggle for a little while. Jest 'til I sweep these 'ol blues away."

Johnson said that would be fine, and so him and that rascally Devil walked across the frontage road to the Comfort Inn, and the Devil got them a nice room with a king-size bed, and he did send Johnson out to the vendin' machines for a few Coca-Colas and a bag a tater chips. And then those two lay down together in that king-size bed and watched them some television. And by and by, the Devil did put his arm over Johnson's chest and squeeze that real-estate agent good and tight ― yet with remarkable tenderness.

Well, Johnson's nose filled with the terrible smell a brimstone and the stink a rotten Devil breath as he snuggled there with ol' Lucifer, snuggled with him 'til the cocks began a crowin'. But Johnson he was smilin' the whole time, 'cause oh my, did he have himself a big 'ol surprise in store for all them uppity assholes down at the RE/MAX office!

(This story first appeared in "The Deviled Egg Made Me Do It," an anthology of Southern folklore compiled by the late Dr. Louis Lamar Hodge.)

HERE COME THE CLAMS

2008-01-15T10:20:00.001-05:00

By Meredith Fitzsimmons

The wedding had been picture-perfect. That is, until the clams showed up.

Todd and Kristi held hands beneath an arbor interwoven with pink roses. Around them sat a small group of friends and family, their bare feet resting in the cool, powder-white sand. Getting married on the beach had been Kristi’s idea, and everyone agreed it was a wonderful place for the active, fun-loving couple to join each other in matrimony.

The sun shone brightly in the clear blue sky, and waves broke gently along the shore. Nearby, smiling islanders in pastel tuxedos prepared for the reception by pouring fruity drinks into coconut shells and setting fire to a pig. Todd’s mother reached for a Kleenex — she couldn’t believe her little boy was finally getting married! — and that’s when she saw the clams.

There were several dozen of them at the water’s edge. These clams were unusually large and seemed to project a vague sense of menace, which was unusual for Caribbean clams. Todd’s mother quietly nudged her husband and nodded toward the ocean, but he wasn’t impressed.

“Clams,” he whispered. “Just a bunch of stupid, friggin' clams.” And then they turned their backs to the shore, unaware that the clams were now moving out of the surf and up onto the beach in a pair of single-file columns.

It was when Kristi began to recite her vows that she saw the advancing party of mollusks. They were moving much faster than she thought clams could move, swinging themselves from side to side with a malevolent swagger that put the bride ill at ease. The minister was worried, too. He picked up a Bible and clutched it tightly to his chest.

The clams took the string quartet by surprise. The musicians scattered, and there was a cacophony of screeching strings and splintering wood as the clams demolished a cello and two violins. Now the guests began fidgeting in their seats. Some of the approaching clams began opening and closing their shells, making a sound not unlike Canada geese being strangled. Over the din, Todd urged the minister to continue with the ceremony, but he chose instead to cower behind a nearby sand dune.

The clams cleared a path through the startled guests, rousting them with their horrible squawking and implied threats of violence. Kristi began to sob, but this didn't seem to matter to the clams, who bullied their way right up to where the bride and groom stood. Then the largest of the clams slowly opened its shell. On top of its soft, glistening body there was a set of four Crate & Barrel pewter coasters.

“For you,” the bivalve said in its thick, wet voice. “On this very special day.” Kristi was stunned by the unexpectedly kind gesture. “Why thank you!” she said, bending down to softly stroke the clam's shell.

And then she reached for the coasters, and the clam shell snapped shut, severing Kristi’s hand at the wrist. She shrieked and flailed her bloody, handless arm in the air, splattering her would-be-husband as well as her resplendent Julianne Tiswick gown. Screams of horror erupted from the guests. Todd grew woozy and crumpled to the ground.

Amid the chaos, the clams opened and closed their shells, over and over, their terrible honks filling the air. And as Todd faded into unconsciousness, he remembered that he had heard this sound before, during a film in his freshman marine biology class. Yes, it was unmistakable: the cruel laughter of heartless shellfish.

(Author Meredith Fitzsimmons continues to challenge readers to explore the timeless themes of matrimony and shellfish.)

THE CRABS SHE GAVE HIM

2008-01-14T23:00:00.001-05:00

By Renaldo Tartaré

After a night of roaring passion he had slept late into the morning, and when he finally awoke, he discovered she had already gone down to the docks. But she had left him something.

Crabs. She had given him crabs.

What a lovely gift he thought as he peered into his kitchen sink, filled to the brim with fat dungeness crabs that she no doubt had caught herself only the day before.

He would cook these crustaceans, he said to himself, and when her trawler returned to port that evening, they would enjoy a sumptuous and romantic feast together.

But then he heard on the radio that it was all-you-can-eat crab leg night at Red Lobster, and he slumped in his chair, a shattered man.

"The strumpet!" he cried, brokenhearted. "The wretched, seafaring slut!"

(Author Renaldo Tartaré is a third-generation turd sculptor.)

SPYCRAFT!

2008-01-11T12:00:00.001-05:00

By Hildegard McEwan

Chrissy opens her eyes groggily to find herself in a dank, windowless room, its cinder-block walls illuminated by a dusty lightbulb that hangs from the ceiling by a withered cord. Her head is throbbing, and there is a strange, bitter taste in her mouth.

The last thing she remembers is pouring herself a glass of iced tea after stocking the shelves of Chrissy's Country Craft Emporium with a new shipment of wooden angel door-knockers. And now, inexplicably, here she is: sitting on an icy metal chair, staring at at an old table replete with deep gashes and scorch marks. She tries to get up, and realizes she has been bound to the chair by a length of thick rope.

She is not alone. A severe-looking man emerges from the shadows and sits down across the table from her. His silver hair is shorn into a tight and glistening crew-cut; formidable muscles bulge beneath rolled-up sleeves. He lights a cigarette and leans back in his chair. Several minutes pass in silence. He takes a last drag and flicks the butt into a dark corner of the room, and then he asks her to confess.

“Confess to what?” Chrissy murmurs.

The man smiles, but it is not a kind smile. “Are you comfortable, Chrissy?” he asks her. “I hope so. I really do. Because you're going to be here a very, very long time, unless you tell us exactly what we want to know.”

The man slings a leather attaché onto the table and withdraws a thick stack of photographs, which he fans out like a deck of playing cards. “Look familiar?” her interrogator sneers.

She peers at the pictures, and her pulse quickens: Christmas-tree ornaments made out of pine cones, rainbow wind chimes, rag dolls dressed in tiny pairs of overalls. They do look familiar. Terribly familiar.

“How much do you really know about your new boyfriend, Kevin?” the man asks her. "Ever wonder why Kevin began visiting your store? Ever find it strange that a grown man would be so interested in candle holders shaped like ducklings?

"What does Kevin have to do with this?" she says.

"His real name," the man replies, "is Sergei Demitrovich. And he's not a chiropractor from Knoxville. He works for the government of Balonkistan. He's a spy, Chrissy. A spy."

"A spy?" she gasps.

"Yes, a spy," the man replies. "Sent to America to infiltrate our crafting community. And now, our reconnaissance satellites have confirmed that Balonkistan’s clandestine arts-and-crafts program is light-years ahead of where we thought it was. Thanks to you.”

Chrissy's lower lip begins to tremble. Tears slide down her cheeks. She feels the cold, macramé needle of betrayal stabbing at the strawberry-shaped pincushion that is her heart.

"We started talking about scrapbooking," she sniffles, "and, well, things just took off from there."

The man puts his hand on Chrissy's shoulder. “Listen to me,” he says, his voice much softer now. "There may still be time. Your country needs your help, Chrissy. You need to tell me everything you told Sergei. Everything."

"But what good will it do now?" she cries.

The man takes a deep breath. "There is an underground bunker, deep in the mountains of Balonkistan," he explains. "Inside that bunker, our sources tell us, a team of Balonkistani scientists are making a pillow ― a great, big needlepoint pillow. We have reason to believe that on this pillow there are several adorable little bears, each clutching brightly colored balloons.

"And do you know what the bears are saying?" he whispers. "They're saying, 'Have a beary nice day.'"

"Oh my," Chrissy can't help but squeal. "That sounds so cute!"

"Cuter than we ever thought possible," the man says. "That's why we need to stop the Balonkistanis before it's too late. I don’t need to tell you, Chrissy, what it means for America if those bears and their balloons ever see the light of day!"

(Authoress Hildegard McEwan is a proud member of the Daughters of the Spanish American War.)

NATIVITY NIGHTMARE: A CODY AND LINDSEY CHRISTMAS MYSTERY!

2007-12-21T08:30:00.002-05:00

By Carla Cuthbert

Cody and Lindsey, the world's worst teen mystery-solving duo, were shopping for Christmas presents one afternoon when they got an urgent call from Reverend Sneed.

"Meet me at the church as fast as you can," the Reverend implored. "We've got a real mystery on our hands!"

"You bet!" cried Cody and Lindsey, dropping their bags of gifts as they raced for the mall exit.

Minutes later, the pair arrived at the church, where they were warmly embraced by the Reverend.

"Cody and Lindsey," he said at last, "someone has destroyed our nativity scene!"

Lindsey took out her detective notebook and began to survey the scene, while Cody dusted for fingerprints.

"Well, Reverend Sneed," Lindsey said with a frown, "I'm not sure what the problem is here. Headless Joseph and one-armed Mary seem to be fine."

"Fine?" The Reverend gasped. "They're not supposed to look like that!"

"And the Wise Man who's been scorched to a crisp," Lindsey continued. "He's still here."

The Reverend looked at her incredulously. "There were three Wise Men," he said. "And none of them were supposed to be burned."

"Maybe he got too close to the Burning Bush," Cody suggested. "Then his friends abandoned him, because he was horribly disfigured, and he stunk. That would have been the wise thing to do, if you ask me."

"And speaking of things that stink," Lindsey added, "where are the donkeys and sheep? All I see are some rotting squirrel carcasses someone has apparently scooped off the highway and left in your manger."

"Reverend Sneed, can't the church afford a few nice wooden sheep?" she asked. "Has someone been embezzling money from the Christmas fund so he can have some good times at the dog track?"

"Heavens no!" the Reverend exclaimed. "Cody and Lindsey, I don't know where you come up with these wild ideas. Maybe the Sheriff was right. Maybe you two aren't such a good mystery-solving duo after all!"

"Well then," Cody said, "how did we just figure out that Baby Jesus is sitting in the top of that big old elm tree beside City Hall?

"In the elm tree?" the Reverend cried.

"Yes, the Baby Jesus has risen, just like the Bible says," Lindsey told him. "Don't you know your Scripture?"

"No, no," you've got it all wrong," said the thoroughly exasperated Reverend, but Cody and Lindsey weren't listening.

"Now we're off to spread the good news!" they exclaimed. Cody took Lindsey by the arm, and the two teens went skipping merrily down the sidewalk.

"Baby Jesus has risen!" they shouted. "Baby Jesus has risen! The End Times are nigh!"

(Be sure to read Cemetery Plot, another exciting adventure starring the World's Worst Teen Mystery-Solving Duo!)

THE PREENACTORS

2007-12-04T12:30:00.002-05:00

By Richard Fescue

When the Civil War reenactors arrived shortly after dawn, they were surprised to find the park's grassy meadow already occupied by other costumed individuals.

The strangers wore shimmering metallic unitards and bulbous helmets the color of candy apples, each crowned by a pair of quivering antennae. They were congregated around several picnic tables, drinking coffee and talking excitedly with one another, and only gradually did they become aware of the two dozen Union and Confederate soldiers staring at them from across the gravel parking lot. There was some whispering and a few worried glances, and then one of the strangers cautiously approached the reenactors and introduced himself.

“My name," he announced in a high-pitched whine, "is sub-commander Meklon. I and my fellow Xylenoids have traveled many light years from our home planet to participate in the preenactment of the Battle of Sector Zeta, which will take place at these precise coordinates in the year 2750, according to your Earth calendar.”

From a distance, the other Xylenoids nodded their heads ― heads painted purple and festooned with gold glitter.

"But today is the anniversary of the Battle of Possum Ridge," replied a man in a handsome blue Union frock coat. "And by God, we're here to reenact it."

Meklon frowned and readjusted his glasses, his antennae now bobbing with nervous energy. "Our most sincere apologies, noble humanoid,” he chirped. “Our orders from the Supreme Galactic Council are quite clear! You must find another location for your theatrical production."

This did not sit well at all with the reenactors, who began to curse Meklon and make light of his costume. Someone grabbed a beer bottle from a nearby trash can and threw it at the other Xylenoids, who began contemplating a strategic withdrawal. And then, much to their relief, the rest of the preenactors emerged from the restrooms.

"Impudent Earth slugs!" one of the insectoid creatures cried as he zipped up his fly. “You dare interfere with our plans? I am the mighty Zorgon Glorth, leader of the Voltarians!

"And by the moons of Pflaxos," Glorth exclaimed, beating his claw-laden arms against the thick rubber exoskeleton of his thorax, "I shall feast upon your craniums if you do not leave this place immediately!”

One of the reenactors took a piece of paper from his rucksack. "We have a permit," he said, handing it to the towering Voltarian. Glorth snatched the document from the man's hands and tore it to shreds with his mighty claws.

"Bah!" he snorted, to the delight of the other preenactors. "The parks and recreation department will not save you from enslavement in the dilithium mines of Quebulon Six!” For good measure, Glorth knocked the man's slouch hat to the ground and stomped it flat, eliciting lusty cheers from Voltarian and Xylenoid alike.

No one knew who fired the first shot, but it was the sharp and unmistakable report of an Enfield musket that suddenly echoed across the meadow. A great Rebel Yell arose from the ranks of the 65th Virginia Volunteers, and the men began to charge across the parking lot toward the preenactors, bugles tooting, canteens clanking wildly against ammunition belts. Soon they were joined by the rest of the Confederates, and as they rushed by the Union reenactors, their erstwhile enemies fell in behind them, pistols and sabers in hand.

Meklon and Glorth were knocked to the ground, where they were beaten by a handful of vengeful Confederates, led by the man whose hat had been ruined. Meanwhile, the rest of the preenactors hastily prepared for combat. The snarling Voltarians un-holstered their particle-inverter cannons and molecular-destabilizer rifles, while the Xylenoids ― those that had not locked themselves inside a nearby minivan ― wheeled their plasma catapult into position. And as the first wave of reenactors drew near, guns roaring, swords flashing in the early-morning sun, both sides knew that history was about to be rewritten.

(Richard Fescue is a professor at Cyprus City Community College and a frequent contributor to Electric Storytime.)

THE MATTRESS PEOPLE

2007-10-04T15:00:00.001-04:00

By Orville Perkins

The Mattress People are shy and quiet folk. You can sit on them, bounce up and down on them, and you won't hear so much as a peep. Stretch out, spread your arms wide and wriggle your shoulders vigorously against their feathery contours, and only then, perhaps, will you detect a slight exhalation of nervous excitement.

Of course, the mattress salesman will tell you this is the product of refractive dual-coil technology, the same system developed by the military to transport Faberge Eggs over rough terrain. You will be impressed by this explanation. Impressed and unsuspecting.

The next day, the mattress store will deliver one of the Mattress People to your home, and you will dress it in crisp new sheets and a multitude of extraneous pillows. That night, sleep will come more swiftly than you ever thought possible. And as you sink into that deep, delicious slumber, the last thing you will remember is being gently embraced by a pair of soft white appendages, and realizing that you now have a new and completely unexpected friend.

(Author Orville Perkins treasures a good night's sleep. This shriveled little prune of a man recently thrilled Carl Sandburg enthusiasts with his short story The Fog.)

THE GRAVY TRAIN

2007-09-24T20:16:00.001-04:00

By Dick Nelson

The townsfolk stood in the gathering darkness, empty buckets and pails in hand. A light drizzle danced around them in the cool autumn wind, and they warmed themselves with thoughts of gravy, thick with giblets and piping-hot.

A whistle shrilled in the distance, and soon a beam of yellow light blazed through the twilight, illuminating the tiny weathered train depot. The townsfolk hurried to the edge of the platform, and now they could see the mighty locomotive rounding the bend. Their mouths began to water as it chugged down the tracks toward them, black and gleaming like liquid obsidian. And as the train drew near, the townsfolk were surprised to see hobos ― gravy-covered hobos ― dancing wildly on the roofs of the railway carriages like ghastly apparitions.

The rain fell harder now, and the shivering townsfolk watched in silence as the train sped past the station. And when the sounds of wine-soaked revelry and the fragrance of rich, homestyle gravy had faded into the night, they began the long walk home, empty buckets and pails clanging together softly on the dark and mournful road.

(Dick Nelson is a frequent contributor to The Bindle Stick Quarterly and Vagabondage magazine.)

THE PAWSHANK REDEMPTION: ANOTHER FUZZY-WUZZY CLUB ADVENTURE!

2007-09-08T10:00:00.002-04:00

By Thorsten Mungren

What in the world was Farthington Bear doing in Animal Court? My oh my, what a terrible pickle he had gotten himself into!

Turns out, selling honey without a license is a very serious crime in Rainbowville. Judge Beaver didn't even care that the cuddly little bear was only selling the honey to buy a jaunty new outfit for the Big Picnic!

"Farthington Bear, I hereby sentence you to one year in the state penitentiary," said the judge, smacking that great big tail of his against the floor.

"Oh no!" oinked Priscilla Piglet.

"How horrible!" moaned Timmy Turtle.

A miscarriage of justice! the other members of the Fuzzy-Wuzzy Club groaned and growled.

But it was no use. The police put Farthington Bear in shackles drove him straight to prison, where he was stripped naked and deloused! Then some big, scary prison guards took away his tartan vest and little bowler hat and gave him a yellow jumpsuit and a pair of crummy old sneakers.

"I don't even wear shoes!" he cried. But the guards just laughed and shoved him into his cell.

At first, Farthington Bear was very sad. None of the other inmates sat with him at mealtime, and nobody would talk to him in the exercise yard, much less play him in a game of jacks.

But little by little, Farthington Bear began to make new friends! He no longer had his favorite pipe, but the other prisoners sometimes gave him cigarettes in exchange for singing jolly songs or spotting them at the weight bench. He also whittled his pals some handsome new shivs out of birch twigs that his friend Polly Pigeon left on his window sill every morning. And after the other convicts got a taste of the pruno he had been brewing beneath his bunk, why, Farthington Bear was practically the most popular bear in the whole state penal system!

"You've sure made a lot of new friends," Warden said one day to Farthington Bear. "It's a real shame I've got to put you in The Hole."

"The Hole?" cried Farthington Bear. "That doesn't sound very nice!"

"That's the point," Warden replied gleefully. Little did Farthington Bear know that Warden's wife had been mauled by a bear, and now his cold, bitter heart was consumed with thoughts of revenge against all bears, no matter how cuddly!

And so Warden had Farthington Bear thrown into The Hole for the last six months of his sentence. Six months sure is a long time! Farthington Bear thought gloomily as the thick metal door slammed shut. But then he looked around, and his spirits began to soar!

The Hole was dark and damp, and it was very small and very warm. "Why, this hole is simply wonderful!" Farthington Bear cried out joyfully. Then the little ursine inmate lay down on the floor and curled up into a furry ball ... and proceeded to hibernate for the rest of his sentence!

(Writer and itinerant ventriloquist Thorsten Mungren has enchanted children for years with his Fuzzy-Wuzzy Club Adventure Series.)

THE WHORES OF ANDROMEDA

2007-08-31T18:00:00.003-04:00

By Temperance Goodwrite

The rocket ship hurtled at the speed of light through the endless depths of outer space. And within its gleaming silver hull there slumbered a squadron of interplanetary astro-commandos, recumbent in their long, neat rows of suspended-animation pods, dreaming merrily of the Whores of Andromeda.

They had traversed the universe, dodging comets and black holes, battling merciless alien hordes in epic laser fights that lit the galactic skies like purple-hued supernovae. And when at last their mission was complete, and the flag of mankind fluttered proudly in the celestial breeze, the captain of the astro-commandos had steered a direct course for Andromeda. Because, as every seasoned spaceman knew, that was where you found the very best whores.

Whores covered with long, stinging tentacles. Whores with beaks and flipper-like appendages. Whores who resembled craggy boulders, or were composed entirely of foul-smelling vapor, or who looked like reptilian Abraham Lincolns, complete with stovepipe hats and phosphorescent erogenous zones. And many, many more.

Sure, there were plenty of other prostitutes in the universe. But there was something special about the Whores of Andromeda, some ineffable mystique that could the warm the heart of the loneliest rocketeer. Also, they were very reasonably priced.

The spacecraft slowed as it passed the first outlying solar systems of Andromeda. Now the cabin stirred to life with blinking lights and the soft whir of machinery. One by one, the astro-commandos emerged from their pods, yawning and stretching, rubbing the sleep from their eyes. For their first breakfast in weeks they ate Neptunian energy-wafers, washed down with mugs of space-coffee from Alpha Centauri. And then they made their way to the portal windows, where they gazed out at the twinkling heavens, licking their lips in slobbery anticipation.

(First published in 1955, Temperance Goodwrite's "The Whores of Andromeda" would prove to be the high-water mark for the Amish science-fiction authoress.)

PARADIGM SHIFT

2007-08-22T00:00:00.002-04:00

By Corliss Potsdam

"Ain't no one got a bigger dick than me," Clem declared, grabbing at his crotch through the dusty folds of his denim coveralls. "I just dare any y'all to step right up here and claim they got a bigger engine under the hood!"

The group of alfalfa farmers was silent. Clem took a swig of beer and smiled. "Hoo boy!" he shouted, still cradling his genitals triumphantly. "Ain't enough stamps in the post office to mail this here package, that's what I say!"

Again, no one dared challenge his assertion. "Yessir!" Clem now roared with unbridled passion. "It is proven, scientific fact that I got the most enormous dick around, and if anyone aims to say otherwise, then we got ourselves a mighty problem!"

It was Little Bobby who finally mustered the courage to speak up. "What about Old Man Hoskins?" he squeaked. "Folks say he got somethin' real special in them pants."

"That ain't no dick," Clem snorted. "That's just some old irrigation hose he done affixed to hisself."

"Good Lord, it sure looks like a dick," someone said. "A big ol' dick."

"Hangs out like a dang elephant trunk," another man added.

"He won first prize at the state fair with that dick!" Little Bobby cried out. "I heard it's eight feet if it's an inch!"

Soon all the other men were in agreement that, in fact, it was Old Man Hoskins who had the biggest dick around, and a crestfallen Clem was left to wonder where it had all gone wrong.

(Corliss Potsdam has written for Hoof World, Monthly Cud and numerous other periodicals.)

PERMAFART

2007-08-14T12:00:00.001-04:00

By Sir Richard Shelbourne Thistlebottom

The menfolk from the Inuit village warned Hobson not to dig near the bluff that overlooked the little windswept harbor where we lay at anchor. Our young botanist listened impatiently as they recited an ancient tale that told of the foul and petulant demon-spirit that slumbered beneath the ground there. But Hobson, indomitable man of science that he was, pushed his way through the worried throng and drove his spade deep into the tundra soil; it was soggy from the summer snowmelt and yielded without protest. The chieftain implored him to stop his digging, but Hobson was determined to continue the excavation until he hit the thick layer of permafrost.

Once again he sank the spade into the earth. Suddenly, a great hissing noise arose from the hole. I recall Hobson wrinkling his nose like a curious puppy before dropping his implements and galloping back to camp. The natives also scattered with panicked shouts, and soon on a nearby hillock a clutch of old village women appeared, gesticulating wildly and wailing a mournful dirge.

Those of us standing around the cooking fire witnessed a pack of seals hurriedly waddling toward the shore, their flippers smacking furiously and desperately against the stony beach. Our sled dogs howled and snarled as if suddenly rabid. Then terns by the dozens began falling from the sky as if shot in mid-flight, and at last it dawned on our small party of explorers that some great, primal danger was afoot in these northern climes.

In the distance we could see the chieftain yelling in our direction. Our linguist, MacCumber, strained to listen against the shrieking wind that now bore a preternaturally strong odor of flatulence, and soon he informed us that the chieftain was cursing the white man and his ignorant ways.

"Ignorant indeed!" the hotheaded MacCumber cried. "The nerve of that blubber-supping wretch!" But in my heart, I knew the chieftain was right. For all our marvels of science and engineering, for all our gilded volumes of history and philosophy and religion, how little we truly understood this vast and mysterious world! The stench of passed gas now enveloped us like a cloak of rotten omelets as we hastened to climb into the whaleboats and seek the relative safety of our schooner. Rowing through the frothy breakers, I glanced back toward the shoreline and there I saw the chieftain one last time ― his nose pinched shut by weathered fingers, a single tear rolling slowly down his noble cheek.

(Sir Richard Shelbourne Thistlebottom was arguably Britain's most ambidextrous arctic explorer. For more tales from Thistlebottom's recently discovered journals, we recommend "Wal-Mart of the Great White North.")

THAT ROBOT DONE CRAPPED ITS BRITCHES AGAIN

2007-07-17T08:00:00.003-04:00

By Temperance Goodwrite

Pa walked into the living room and plum near threw his lunchpail through the window. Turns out that no-good robot had taken a great big dump in its new corduroy trousers, and now the whole house stank something terrible. Worse yet, the mechanized menace had took to reading the afternoon paper in Pa's new La-Z-Boy.

"I told you not to feed the damn machine all them collards and ham hocks!" said Pa, swooning mightily from the odor. "Now it's done crapped its britches again!"

Darlene walked out of the kitchen, pinching her nose. "Well, it kept hollerin' how it was sick and tired of suppin' on oil and lubricatin' jellies," she told him. "Said it had a powerful hankerin' fer some greens.

"Now it's saying there better be plenty of biscuits and gravy fer breakfast, else it's gonna put a hole through Ma with that laser beam it's been braggin' about."

Pa was fit to be tied. This was not the Deluxe Chore-Dynamo, the robot he had ordered last month from the Sears Roebuck catalogue. All this robot seemed to do was drink Mountain Dew and talk sass all day long while luxuriating in its own filth. Two month's wages down the drain!

His face now bright red, Pa threw his hat to the ground and tried to roust the infernal contraption from the soiled recliner, but the robot nipped at him with its pincers until he had to give up and take a seat on a nearby stool.

"Oh Lord, how I've been hornswoggled!" he exclaimed, burying his head in his hands. And then from the La-Z-Boy there came a long, mechanical cackle that let Pa and everyone else know that this robot was here to stay.

(With her plain black frock coat and white linen bonnet, sci-fi authoress Temperance Goodwrite will cut quite a figure at this year's Dragon*Con. Goodwrite's other efforts include "The Whores of Andromeda" and "Intergalactic Shakedown!")

REMEMBERING AMELIA EARNHARDT

2007-07-13T12:00:00.002-04:00

By Lionel Merrimack

Here come the planes, roaring through the afternoon sky! Beryl Markham leads the pack in her familiar Vera Gull. They turn wide toward the ocean, and now the old veteran Charles Lindbergh maneuvers ahead of the young aviatrix in a dazzling display of aerial virtuosity, and soon the Spirit of St. Louis is flying comfortably ahead of the competition. The race seems all but over.

Suddenly, Amelia Earnhardt in her #3 Lockheed Electra bursts from a nearby cloud bank! Wasting no time, the plane rushes furiously into the pack, its twin Pratt & Whitney engines screaming with 900 horsepower. The other planes fall away as the brash young pilot known as "The Intimidator" mercilessly bumps and nudges her way forward. And then there is only the Spirit of St. Louis, and the Electra is soon menacing its rudder.

Lindbergh stares into his rear-view mirror, and his heart grows cold with fear as he beholds his great nemesis, her big, dark sunglasses and huge, bristly moustache instantly recognizable despite the dirt and scratches shrouding her cockpit window. This is the face of grizzled, unrelenting determination. This is a face Lindbergh has seen all too often, a face that damn well means business. And as Earnhardt zooms past him, Lindbergh is sure that the eyes behind those sunglasses are fixing him with a cold and lethal gaze.

He is left bobbing in the Electra's wake, watching the sun flash off its silver skin like some fantastic aquatic creature, hurtling through cerulean seas. As Earnhardt steers toward the finish line, the other planes recede into the distance, and finally she relaxes her grip on the yoke, the whiteness of her knuckles slowly ebbing. Her teeth unclench, and she breaths in deep, icy-cold lungfuls of air. Moments later she takes the checkered flag, and rewards herself with a well-deserved plug of chewing tobacco.

Love her or loath her, Amelia Earnhardt is a winner once again.

(Novelist Lionel Merrimack is a former fighter pilot who flew dozens of combat missions over Iceland during the Vietnam War.)

THE CATBIRD SEAT

2007-06-26T15:00:00.001-04:00

By Billy Q. Pickett

As Murphy and Smith sat in the feed store like they did most every morning, drinking coffee and talking crops, Smith couldn’t help but notice that his old friend looked unusually glum.

“Why so blue?” Smith asked. “Your corn and soybeans are all planted, the summer rains are comin' soon, and you got a heckuva deal on that new Ford. You're sittin’ in the catbird seat for sure, I’d reckon.”

“Well, I should be,” Murphy replied, fiddling with his suspenders. “But I don’t expect that ol’ catbird has designs on gettin' up anytime soon.”

“Oh, he gets up now and again,” Smith said. “Goes and takes his supper over at the Widow Johnson’s house at least once a week, I’m told.”

“I know,” Murphy said. “But have you seen that seat when he gets up? Good Lord! Covered top to bottom in feathers and bird shit, it is.”

“That’s a fact,” Smith said. “And it ain’t nothing special, if you want to know my honest opinion. Just a rusty foldin’ chair with a torn-up cushion.”

“And covered in bird shit,” Murphy reminded him. "But it is the catbird seat."

"Yes, it surely is," Smith said. "And that's a fact."

The two men sat there a while longer, drinking their coffee and discussing the latest fungicides and irrigation spray nozzles, until Murphy wondered aloud if the catbird might perchance leave his seat that morning to get a little breakfast. Scarcely had the words left his mouth, however, when a tempest of wing flapping and grotesque squawking arose from the back of the feed store, telling Murphy everything he needed to know on the matter.

(Billy Q. Pickett is known for his terse but vivid depictions of hardscrabble life in the West. His last Electric Storytime story was "The Jolly Rancher.")

SPRING BREAK (TOUCHED BY AN ANGEL)

2007-06-22T09:33:00.003-04:00

By Greg Grogan

As the Twigglesburg State sophomores stumbled down the sunny Cancun street in search of more foam parties and tequila-shooting opportunities, one of them spied a girl selling Chicklets from a weathered wooden case strapped around her neck.

She could not have been more than six years old, this little girl, with copper skin and shiny white teeth and tangled raven hair that hung to her shoulders. She saw Kevin looking at her and she smiled, and her eyes were filled with such sublime beauty and innocence that the pre-accounting major began to weep.

His friends stopped to watch two women have sex on the hood of a nearby car. But not Kevin, who found himself stumbling across the street toward the little girl, who continued to watch him with those kind brown eyes as she dispensed chewing gum to passerby.

Who is this little girl? Kevin wondered aloud. She seemed bathed in an aura of heavenly light, and her saintly countenance was a comfort to him like the warmth of a campfire in a winter forest, enveloping the wilderness of his heart and filling it with tender, wordless lessons of love and compassion! Soon the Bacchanalian memories of the last four days washed away like the outgoing tide, leaving Kevin's mind a tranquil beach of pure white sand, redolent of hope and joy.

The little girl looked at him with her big, beatific smile, and it was like a revelation, a redemptive splash of cool, sweet water on the face of his soul. It made Kevin's head spin and soon he grew dizzy, his vision began to blur. The streetscape before him became a kaleidoscope of wet T-shirt contests and big inflatable bottles of liquor and Jimmy Buffet cover bands. And suddenly Kevin bent over and soaked the street with a putrid blast of rum and nacho cheese.

When he was finished at last, and his vomit lay glistening in the tropical sun, the cherub ran to him and offered up her last package of wintergreen Chicklets. Kevin smiled, and with a gentle, world-weary sadness he waved her away. He was a lost cause, he wanted to tell her, lost forever amid life's flotsam and folly. And then he burped and farted at the same time, and his friends laughed at this, and he laughed as well, and the little girl watched them all stagger off into the tumult of the crowd.

She sat down on the curb and closed her eyes. She sat there for a very long time. She would always remember this man, this man to whom she had imparted, if only for a fleeting moment, a universe of love and truth and wonderment, before he had thrown up.

Eventually the little girl opened her eyes and looked skyward, and there was Kevin, standing on a platform high above the buildings and the palm trees. A trio of bikini-clad women and a drunken chimpanzee were strapping him into a nylon harness in preparation for the upside-down-margarita bungee jump. For a moment ― just a moment ― Kevin looked down at the bustling street beneath him, and his gaze fell upon his tiny, gum-vending angel.

Their eyes met, and they smiled at each other one last time. Perhaps, the little girl thought, perhaps his heart has been touched after all.

"Fuck yeah, motherfuckers!" Kevin roared for all the world to hear. "Let's get it on!" Then the chimpanzee gave him a shove, everyone cheered, and Kevin leapt into space.

(Electric Storytime regular Greg Grogan is quietly establishing himself as a rising star in the world of inspirational fiction.)

THE FOG

2007-06-14T10:35:00.001-04:00

By Orville Perkins

The fog came on little cat feet.

And as the fog got closer, folks saw that they were not real cat feet. They were a pair of cruddy old sneakers, painted to look like paws.

Sandburg, they called out, is that you hiding in the fog? What the fuck is with those shoes? You’re scaring the children, you old kook!

They gave him a few bucks and a sandwich, and told him to get lost. Sandburg meowed menacingly under his breath, and then he began to trudge down the road that led out of town, wisps of cold white fog drifting in his wake.

(Author Orville Perkins is a timid little man.)

ON THE BORDER

2007-05-28T22:00:00.001-04:00

By Duncan Hindleman

It was no ordinary cake that sat in the back of the battered old delivery van. It was a triple-tiered buttercream cake, covered in a latticework of white icing and brightly colored confectionery flowers. It was, by any reasonable standards, a very large and magnificent cake.

"That's a big cake," the border guard informed the driver of the van. "A real big cake. Big enough to hide an exotic dancer, I'd say."

"That's ridiculous," Jesus Gutierrez replied, casually lighting a cigarette. "Don't you know anything? This is a wedding cake, not a stripper cake."

"Are you sure?" the guard asked him. "We've been seeing a lot of unlicensed adult entertainers in these parts. With frosting in their hair."

"Well, I wouldn't know anything about that," Gutierrez said.

The guard leaned in through the driver's side window until the two men were practically nose-to-nose. "Look," he growled, "do you really expect me to believe that a lady in a thong bikini won't be leaping out of that cake tonight?"

Gutierrez politely turned his head away and exhaled two thin tendrils of smoke. "Go ahead, see for yourself," he said, waving his hand languidly in the direction of the cake. "Tear it to pieces. You'll find a chocolate mousse filling, and nothing more. Then you can call the Polancos in Tucson and explain why there's no cake for their daughter's wedding.

"Perhaps," he continued, shaking his head sadly, "perhaps they can offer their guests an assortment of doughnuts instead."

The guard clenched his jaw in disgust. Every last one of his law-enforcement instincts told him this smooth-talking panadero was lying. But if he destroyed yet another cake without finding a scantily clad woman inside, his career was as good as over. And he couldn't take that chance, not with a wife and three young children and a paraplegic llama to support.

And so, with great reluctance, the guard motioned Gutierrez through the border crossing. The two men stared knowingly at each other as the van's engine sputtered to life. There was a belch of black exhaust, and then the scofflaw and his cargo began rumbling north.

Inside the cake, the famous stripping dwarf triplets of Hermosillo quickly resumed their light-hearted game of Pinochle. Things were not so pleasant, however, for Juanita ― leggy, huge-breasted Juanita, curled up in a tight ball of flesh and sequins, waiting anxiously for that moment when she could finally burst forth from the nearby empanada.

(Author Duncan Hindleman describes himself only as a "chalupa-crazy Scorpio.")

A PLACE IN FRANCE

2007-05-20T21:00:00.001-04:00

By Ellenor Svoboda

There's a place in France where the naked women dance.

Furthermore, there's a hole in the wall where the men can see it all ― and for only 20 francs an hour, which is an excellent deal.

One afternoon, the men who had come to see the naked women dance found a piece of wood nailed over the hole in the wall. On this piece of wood was written, in French: "Sorry, no dancing today."

The men were sad. Their pockets bulged with coins they had planned to spend on naked, dancing women. Now they would have to spend this money on other things, like food.

Then the men remembered another place in France, a place where organ-grinder monkeys dueled with little plastic cocktail swords. And the men could watch for only 10 francs an hour.

Just like that, everyone's mood brightened considerably.

(Ellenor Svoboda's latest work is semi-autobiographical, as she herself is occasionally a naked woman.)

DONNER PARTY MEMORIES

2007-05-18T08:00:00.001-04:00

By Oliver Shanks

The O'Halloran sisters were fat enough already ― that's what we tried to tell old George Donner.

After all, it wasn't like Mabel and Clarabell hadn't been plenty plump and juicy-looking when he picked them up outside Fort Laramie for a couple mules and a barrel of pickled eggs. That was in June. By the time October rolled around and our wagon train was crossing the first frost-covered dimples of the Sierra Nevada, those two were fatter than autumn Holsteins.

They weren't big enough for Donner, though. "Naw," he'd say, his index finger casually tracing the choice cuts he planned to extract from their ponderous, milky-white frames. "Not jest yet. These here girls need some more meat on their bones."

Donner was by all accounts a capable, thoughtful leader, but not where victuals were concerned. He should have salted or smoked the sisters immediately, maybe soaked them in brine. But no, he decided to keep the O'Hallorans trussed up in the back of his Prairie Schooner, gorging them on pies and maple syrup and thick slabs of glistening lard. And with every passing day, the Donner family wagon had sagged a little closer to the ground, creaking and groaning under the weight of its fleshy cargo.

It was pure foolishness, we told him, but Donner would have none of it. “Yessiree, boys," he would crow, "that'll be some fine eatin' there come December, shore enough."

Then one day, the rear axle of the Donner wagon finally broke as we made our way into the mountains. The sound of cracking, splintering wood echoed off the rocks like thunder, and the back of the wagon collapsed in a cloud of dust and pebbles. Out tumbled Mabel and Clarabell like a pair of enormous, soft-boiled eggs, the ropes that once held them in place now hanging loosely around their arms and legs. The sisters stood there for a moment, squinting mightily in the late afternoon sun, and then they hiked up their greasy flour-sack dresses and waddled away into a thick copse of Juniper pine, cursing Donner mightily as they went.

That was the last time we ever saw the O'Hallorans. Years later, those of us who survived that horrible winter of 1847 would hear stories about two mysterious women of remarkable kindness and girth, women who dwelt in the wild mountains, comforting weary travelers with hot coffee and homemade venison sausage. These stories would make us regret almost eating them.

Back on that cold and lonely trail, however, our stomachs were twisted in knots of hunger and despair as we watched the O'Hallorans flee. But not George Donner. No, his craggy old face betrayed not an ounce of concern as he calmed his bellowing team of oxen and then quietly went about surveying the dismal wreckage of his wagon.

A light snow began to fall, and an icy wind whistled through the trees. “Well,” Donner finally said, lighting up a fresh cheroot cigar and eying his fellow emigrants with renewed interest, “I reckon all we got is each other now.”

(Author Oliver Shanks is known as the "Louis L'Amour of Manitoba" in his native Alberta. This is his first story about anthropophagy.)

PRAISE GOD FOR THIS TOUCHDOWN!

2007-05-03T08:00:00.003-04:00

By Ralston Krebbs

The football exploded from quarterback Teddy Frangelica's right hand and sailed 50 yards downfield in a flawless, arcing spiral before landing perfectly in the outstretched mitts of wide receiver Albacore Jones. The fleet-footed footballer tucked the pigskin in the crook of his arm and sprinted another 30 yards into the end zone, leaving a bevy of panting and dispirited defensive backs in his wake.

As the crowd cheered his ninth touchdown of the afternoon, Jones dropped to one knee beneath the goalpost, where he bowed his head and mouthed a short prayer. Then he leapt to his feet, thrusting his arms in the air and pointing both index fingers triumphantly toward Heaven before being mobbed by his teammates and also a man in a large bear costume.

At the post-game press conference, when asked about his team's resounding victory and his own record-setting performance, Jones merely smiled and said, "Everything is possible through my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ."

No one gave his comment much thought until the following Sunday morning at church, when Jones was seen dropping a thick stack of bills into the offering plate for the seond time in as many weeks. A murmur of realization rolled through the congregation, and by that afternoon, word had spread to every bookie in town: The fix was in!

(Sports reporter Ralston Krebbs covers high-school football for the Molassasville Daily Inquirer. This is his first work of fiction.)

SHIP OF FOOLS

2007-04-23T08:00:00.001-04:00

By Doreen McClure

"It's quite simple, really," Doctor Fitzgibbons explained, removing his stethoscope. "Your wife has a minor skin infection. That's the cause of all this itching and discoloration."

"Oh really?" Glenn said, rolling his eyes. "That's your diagnosis, is it?" The doctor noticed that Glenn made quotation-mark signs with his fingers when he said "diagnosis."

"Yes," Fitzgibbons replied. "I recommend a course of antibiotics and plenty of rest. She should be fine in a week or so."

Glenn turned to his fellow townsfolk. "Antibiotics and rest," he sneered. The crowd burbled with laughter. "Antibiotics," someone shouted. "What a silly word!"

The doctor was perplexed.

"Look here," Glenn said. "We know you arrived last week aboard the Ship of Fools, so if it's all the same to you, we'll just do things our way, got it?"

"What does it matter that I arrived on the Ship of Fools?" the doctor protested. "It's just a name." Scarcely had the words left his mouth, however, when Captain Nibblets appeared in the town square, furiously waving his fancy pink yachting cap.

"Ahoy, ahoy!" the captain cried. "I'm ever so hungry. Someone fetch me a fresh ape salad at once!" Soon his first mate and boatswain showed up, and as they dismounted the Irish Wolfhound they had been trying to ride, it became apparant that each grinning man's codpiece had been fashioned from pieces of actual cod.

Glenn gave Fitzgibbons a look. Then, ignoring the doctor's protests, he proceeded to apply a poultice of sulphur and horse excrement to his wife's cheeks and feet. After that, leeches were inserted into her nostrils. When the woman began to scream and flail her arms, Glenn and the town cobbler helped her to her feet.

"Now run!" the cobbler advised Glenn's wife. "Run in a circle until you collapse!" Bernice took off in a frantic gallop, and Captain Nibblets and the rest of his crew gathered to watch.

"Hooray, hooray!" the captain cried. "Now the funny lady's off to find my lunch!"

(Author and Nova Scotia native Doreen McClure has been a seafarer's wench for more than 20 years.)

DONNIE THE GIANT

2007-04-18T23:00:00.001-04:00

By Marc Noodly, PhD

None of the other children liked Donnie Buntkin. Plump, acne-riddled Donnie Buntkin, the kid with hands that always smelled like cheese. The kid who played the clarinet and possessed an encyclopedic knowledge of Middle-earth.

Every night, after brushing his teeth and swallowing a spoonful of medicine to temper his excessive flatulence, Donnie would climb into bed and dream of growing big and tall and strong. Then the other children would finally like him!

No, they would love him. The boys would fight over who got Donnie Buntkin on their team. And every girl would ask him to the big dance. Even the gym teacher would secretly pine to be more like the supreme physical specimen that was 12-year-old Donnie Buntkin.

One morning, Donnie woke to discover that his wish had come true! His once-stubby legs now dangled off the edge of the bed, which creaked and groaned under the weight of Donnie's newfound muscles. He got up and ran to the bathroom. One look in the mirror confirmed it: Donnie Buntkin was the size of an NFL linebacker.

Donnie continued to grow rapidly that morning ― so much so that he had to borrow a shirt and pair of pants from his father, a former sumo wrestler. At breakfast, Donnie's chair collapsed, and on his way out the front door, he had to stoop low to avoid bumping his head against the lintel. As he walked to school, Donnie grew taller than the telephone lines, and then his neighbors' roofs, and then the uppermost boughs of the stately trees that lined the street. By the time he arrived, Donnie stood no less than 50 feet tall, with a torso as thick as a minivan.

At first, none of the startled middle-schoolers said a word when they saw their enlarged classmate. Then, to Donnie's horror, they all started to laugh. They laughed at Donnie’s terrible acne, now grotesquely magnified into a hellish landscape of blistered red peaks and deep, craggy valleys. They howled at his enormous, thick-rimmed glasses, and at the fist-size boogers clearly visible along the edges of his cavernous nostrils. And, of course, they laughed at the fact that Donnie was naked, having outgrown his father's clothes seconds after leaving the house.

And as if things couldn't get worse, Donnie spied Cindy, the prettiest cheerleader in the school, and the nervous giant promptly expelled a thundering, malodorous fart.

That did it. Donnie turned away from his jeering classmates and ran as fast as his massive, pale legs could carry him. Through the parking lot, across the football field and into the woods he went. In the distance he could hear the school bell ring, but nothing could persuade him to return, not even his five years of perfect attendance. Oaks and elms were crushed underfoot like so many twigs as nude and distraught Donnie Buntkin stumbled toward home ― crying out now, in a deafening baritone, for his Mommy.

(Author Marc Noodly is a national expert on adolescent self-esteem issues. He recently won the Richie Prize for his short story about anorexia, “The Less I See, The More I Like!”)

WRETCHED WAIFS!

2007-04-08T10:00:00.001-04:00

By Archibald Cromwell

PART I

Johnson's dinner has been interrupted by an unexpected phone call. Reluctantly, he puts down his knife and fork and picks up the receiver. From the other end of the line comes an explosion of phlegmy coughs, and then a soft Cockney voice mumbles something about platinum credit cards.

How would you like it if I called your house at dinner? a furious Johnson barks into the phone. Silence. Johnson repeats his question, louder than before. Now the voice on the other end of the line is no more than a hoarse, tear-choked whisper, informing Johnson that there are no telephones at the orphanage. And dinner? Only porridge made from sawdust and mule hooves, says the voice. Muffled sobbing ensues.

Dammit to hell, Johnson mutters, slamming down the receiver. What clever mind games these waifs do play!

PART II

Driving to work one morning, Henderson's car is sideswiped by an enormous SUV. Both vehicles pull off onto the side of the highway. Henderson walks up to the SUV and sees a small, coal-smudged waif sitting in the driver's seat.

The child doffs his soiled cap and introduces himself as Li'l Tibbits. He admits that he really has no idea how to drive the Cadillac Escalade ― me 'orseless carriage, he infuriatingly insists on calling it ― and seems less concerned with the damage to Henderson's car than he is with rummaging under the seat for a crust of bread to nibble.

And if that wasn't enough, the miserable guttersnipe soon begins whimpering about how he's going to be late for his 16-hour shift at the smelter.

PART III

Martin arrives home to find a trail of tattered tweed clothing leading from the living room to the bedroom. He flings open the bedroom door to find his wife locked in a passionate embrace with ― yes, a wretched little waif! Overcome with rage, Martin raises his briefcase high above his head and rushes to confront his wife and her ragamuffin paramour. And it is only as he nears the bed does he notice the impressive musculature of the waif's forearms, which are covered in thick black hair and numerous nautical-themed tattoos.

Suddenly, Martin realizes that this is not a waif at all. Why, his wife is walking through a garden of carnal delights with none other than Butch, the diminutive longshoreman from down the street! Martin is strangely comforted by this fact. Butch, meanwhile, leaps from the bed and, hardback copy of the Kama Sutra in hand, lands several powerful blows to the cuckold's head before resuming his marathon love-making session with Mrs. Martin.

(Author Archibald Cromwell is singularly inspired by his distaste for Victorian street children.)

COMB OVER

2007-03-19T08:00:00.002-04:00

By Wally Funderburk

There is a man sitting beside her at the bar. He is a pale, portly man with beef-stew stains on his shirt, and he is smiling in her direction.

She finishes her drink and lights a cigarette. Smoke streams from between her pursed lips. She has seen this smile from countless men, a smile that surely implies far more than friendly salutations. Before the man beside her can speak, she points her cigarette toward his head. "That," she informs him, "is the worst comb over I have ever seen."

The man is no longer smiling. Reflexively, his hand moves to the sparse crop of follicles that lie plastered across his shiny crown, like tall grass flattened by a summer downpour. He comforts them now with a few gentle strokes.

He wants to tell her the truth: that beneath his comb over lies a mysterious collection of hieroglyphs, etched into his balding pate by a benevolent race of insectoid aliens. He yearns to take her hands gently in his and explain how, one day, the aliens will telepathically reveal to him the meaning of these symbols, and then he will finally be able to sweep aside his combed-over hair and use this wondrous, newfound knowledge to bring peace and happiness to all mankind!

He aches to tell her these things, but the aliens have sworn him to secrecy until the appointed time. And that is a shame, because this woman would be impressed, as impressed as he is with her fantastic rack.

He finishes his beer and gets up to leave. Now the woman's eyes grow wide as she spies a prominent bulge in the crotch of his pants. He sees her staring and suddenly he yearns to tell her the truth: that from the moment she sat down, he has fantasized about what she would look like in a pair of oven mitts and a prosthetic pig snout, dancing a frenzied polka beneath the Harvest Moon.

But he leaves without a word. Surely, he tells himself, she has heard it all before.

(Author Wally Funderburk believes summer sausage is truly a meat for all seasons.)

METH IS SWELL! ANOTHER FUZZY-WUZZY CLUB ADVENTURE

2007-03-09T12:00:00.002-05:00

By Thorsten Mungren

There’s one mobile home in the Whispering Pines trailer park where the fun never seems to end. Whose mobile home is it? Why, it’s the Fuzzy-Wuzzy Club’s mobile home, of course!

Look at Farthington Bear, so handsome in his new safety goggles! He’s tending to the glass beakers sitting on the stove. See how their contents bubble merrily above the bright blue flames!

Priscilla Piglet and Harry Hedgehog are sitting on the kitchen floor. They’re crushing up little red cold pills with some pretty stones that Oliver Otter has fetched from the river. Crunch crunch go those pills!

What’s Mr. Possum up to? He’s pouring all sorts of household cleaners into a big bucket, and now he’s stirring the bucket with his favorite walking stick. Oh my, how that bucket smells! Mr. Possum is feeling a little dizzy!

“What a fine time we are having!” cries Farthington Bear. “And soon we will have enough money to build a wonderful new treehouse! Gosh, making meth sure is swell!”

Now a rusted-out Cutlass Supreme pulls up in the driveway, and a tall, thin man gets out. He has long, greasy blond hair and brown teeth, and he’s scratching his arms an awful lot. Why, it’s Doug!

“Shit don’t look right,” says Doug, eying a tray of what is supposed to be freshly cooked crank. He sticks out his tongue and licks a piece. “Tastes like strawberry jam!” he tells the members of the Fuzzy-Wuzzy Club.

“We also made blackberry and boysenberry!” says Priscilla Piglet. “And Millie Mouse is baking one of her yummy pies! Won’t you stay and have a slice?”

Oh, how disappointed and trembly Doug looks right now! So Mr. Possum scurries up and wraps his little arms around the man’s legs. “Don’t be sad,” he says. “Smiles and hugs are always free around here!”

(Author Thorsten Mungren is proud to unveil his latest cute and cuddly contribution to the world of children's literature.)

THE RACE AGAINST TIME

2007-02-19T10:30:00.002-05:00

By Emmylou Hawthorne

Deep in the remote wastelands of Nevada, a lone Buick Skylark appears on the horizon, speeding through the swirling dust and desert scrub and smashing through the main gates of the top-secret army base. A siren wails, and a dozen MPs scramble into their jeeps and give chase. The crackle of automatic gunfire erupts from the nearest guard tower, scoring holes along the flank of the speeding sedan and shredding two of its tires. Still it manages to screech along on its rims, bathing the asphalt in a shower of sparks.

Through his binoculars, the base commander watches with dread as the Skylark approaches Building 41, the hulking airplane hanger that contains the military's greatest secret, something not even the president knows about: an alien time machine! Never mind how the information was leaked, the commander says to himself. The only thing that matters now is stopping the occupants of that vehicle before they reach the time machine ― and quite possibly and irrevocably change the course of history.

The car somehow manages to evade the withering fusillade of bullets and grenades, and it parks in the handicapped space outside Building 41. Four elderly women pile out of the Skylark and race inside the building, and now the commander's worst nightmare begins to take shape. The time machine roars to life, shaking the ground like a small earthquake. There is a burst of preternatural green light and then, silence.

The commander rushes down to Building 41 and finds only an empty platform where the time machine had stood moments earlier. No sooner does he start contemplating the bottle of bourbon tucked in his coat pocket, however, when the ground suddenly starts to tremble again, knocking him and his men off their feet. Then the building explodes in a blinding emerald glow, and the time machine reappears on the platform, a thick rime of frost covering its silver exterior. The hatch opens with a pneumatic hiss, and the four mysterious seniors step out, each pushing a heavily laden shopping cart.

The commander scrambles to his feet and levels his revolver at the women, demanding to know who they are and what they did on their journey through time.

"Well," says Gladys, with a twinkle in her eye, "we've just come from the supermarket, where we were able to use all our expired coupons!" Then Myrtle asks the commander if they might use the time machine once more that afternoon, seeing as how their little adventure had made them miss "Wheel of Fortune."

(Reno-area author and homemaker Emmylou Hawthorne was inspired to write this tale after a Mr. Clean-induced vision quest.)

BLADDER-CONTROL ISSUES? NOT THIS STREET GANG

2007-02-08T23:00:00.002-05:00

By Karl P. Gruber

For as long as anyone could remember, the Sixth-Avenue Insane Thugs had been the most feared gang in the city ― more terrifying than the Northeast Hustlers, more vicious than the Fancy Cats. Even the dreaded Los Hippopotamuses Locos were no match for them.

As they grew into middle-age, the Sixth-Avenue Insane Thugs continued to rule the streets with brutal efficiency. But then one day, a new enemy invaded their turf, one that couldn’t be beaten with fists and knives. That enemy was persistent urinary urgency.

Once word got out that the Sixth-Avenue Insane Thugs could only hold it in for a few minutes at a time, the other gangs began challenging them to rumbles where there were no public restrooms or tall bushes nearby. And suddenly, the Sixth-Avenue Insane Thugs didn’t seem so tough.

That's when they decided to consult their physician, and he told them about STREAMINEX. Just one little pill, he explained, could help the gang control frequent urination for up to 24 hours.

Now the Sixth-Avenue Insane Thugs are back in action! Sure, the gang occasionally experiences side effects like dizziness, nausea, inflammation of the toes and mild sexual dysfunction, but no one ever said life on the streets was easy.

(Author Karl P. Gruber recently won the Pfizer Prize for short fiction. He lives in suburban Cleveland and likes warm, fruit-filled pies.)

CEMETERY 'PLOT': ANOTHER CODY AND LINDSEY MYSTERY

2007-02-05T08:30:00.001-05:00

By Carla Cuthbert

"Kids, we sure could use your help," Sheriff Johnson said. "We have a real mystery on our hands."

"Go ahead, sheriff," Lindsey said, fetching her spiral-bound detective notebook.

The sheriff took off his hat. "I'm sure both of you know that our town's beloved librarian, Beatrice Mapplethorpe, was buried last week," he said. "Yesterday, someone"―he paused, wiping the sweat from his forehead ―"some sicko defaced her grave."

"Gosh, what did they do?" Cody and Lindsey cried out in unison.

"They spray-painted 'Here lies a Satan-worshipping whore' on her headstone," the sheriff said, his voice quaking. "That's what they did."

Cody put down his mug of hot chocolate. "Interesting," he said. "Is there any chance Miss Mapplethorpe was, in fact, in the service of the Dark Lord?"

"And also a prostitute?" Lindsey chipped in. "Perhaps a crack-smoking prostitute?"

The sheriff gasped. "No, no. Miss Mapplethorpe was a good, God-fearing woman!"

"Why would she fear God so much?" Cody inquired.

"Good point!" Lindsey exclaimed. "Maybe she felt guilty for all those stupid library fines she gave me!"

"Or maybe she regretted telling my parents about that book on whiskey distillation that I tried to check out!" Cody said.

The sheriff sighed. "Cody and Lindsey," he said, "for a teen mystery-solving duo, you're not helping me very much."

"Oh really?" Lindsey said. "Sheriff, I couldn't help noticing that you wiped your brow with a red handkerchief. Care to explain that?"

Sheriff Johnson could not explain the redness of his handkerchief, much less what that had to do with the defacing of Miss Mapplethorpe's grave. And thus, the mystery only deepened.

(Be sure to read the first of Cody and Lindsey's exciting adventures!)

YETI, BETRAYED

2007-01-31T12:00:00.004-05:00

By Pam Orvlosky

Something was wrong, the Yeti thought. Jessica had hardly touched her dinner. And there was that smell: a musty, slightly putrid aroma that had clung to her ever since she returned from a long hike in the forest. Then the Yeti noticed a long, scraggly black hair stuck to her sweater, and suddenly everything made sense. Terrible, heartbreaking sense.

“I thought things were over between you and the Sasquatch,” the Yeti said, trying to maintain his composure, “but clearly they are not.”

Jessica began to sob. She begged the Yeti's forgiveness. And she waited for him to tear off one of her arms, as he was wont to do in fits of jealous rage.

Instead, the Yeti finished his hamburger in silence, his stare as cold and distant as the mighty Himalayas. And that hurt Jessica more than any arm-tearing ever could.

(This is the first work of fiction by renown cryptozoologist Pam Orvlosky.)

WHAT BRIMLEY WANTS, BRIMLEY GETS

2007-01-27T15:15:00.002-05:00

By Scott Devonshire

"We've got problems," Brimley's agent said. "Big problems."

"Big problems with Brimley?" Brimley's accountant replied wearily. "Is he suing the Queen of Sweden again?"

His agent slapped a sheaf of papers on the desk. "Worse," he groaned. "Brimley wants two hundred bowls of piping-hot porridge, and he wants them right now. Or else."

A melancholy settled over the two men, and they spent the next few minutes grimly contemplating the many horrific indignities that could befall them if Brimley didn't get all that fucking porridge.

(Scott Devonshire also rocked the world of Wilford Brimley fan fiction last year with his action-packed story, Wilford Brimley Goes to the Moon.)

BURIED TREASURE

2007-01-24T10:00:00.001-05:00

By Ervin Pulaski

Over the years, Harold had found many scintillating treasures with his metal detector: pennies and bottle caps, fishing lures and amorphous lumps of rusted metal, to name just a few. But the old beachcomber dreamed of finding more beneath the golden sand. Much, much more.

As he was making his rounds on the beach one day, a strangely enchanting melody suddenly issued forth from his metal detector. Harold immediately fell to his knees and began digging through the sand until his trowel clanged against a metal hatch, a sound that sent shivers of recognition through his bones. With trembling, arthritic hands, he lifted the lid of the hatch to reveal a narrow staircase ― a staircase he had seen in his dreams a thousand times! Now his heart began to pound. Wasting no time, Harold lay his metal detector on the ground and followed the stairs down into the darkness.

He soon found himself in an enormous cavern illuminated by baroque chandeliers that sparkled with innumerable tiny candles. Garlands of sweet-smelling flowers hung from the walls, their delicate pink and yellow petals littering the floor like confetti. And there were elves, throngs of large-breasted she-elves, clad in shimmering, chain-mail miniskirts and low-cut velveteen blouses, strumming lutes and drinking nectar from silver chalices. Exactly as Harold had so often fantasized!

Come, come, the elves cried lustily, we’ve been waiting just for you! Several of them took Harold by the hand and led him to an enormous black stone, from which a golden, jewel-encrusted metal detector protruded. Whosoever pulls the metal detector from the stone shall be our rightful king evermore! they squealed in delight.

Harold took a long look around. Then, to the dismay of all the elves, he politely declined their challenge, explaining that in the underground elf-kingdom he had dreamt of every day since adolescence, there were also wizards and knights and a pair of wise-cracking unicorns, and nothing less would do.

No amount of tender caresses and elfin tears were able to change his mind. Harold bade farewell to the crestfallen elves and made his way back up the stairs to the beach ― still confident that someday, somehow, his dreams would come true.

(Author and metal-detecting enthusiast Ervin Pulaski can be seen prowling the beaches of Ocean City, Maryland, with his Garrett Sea Hunter Mark II.)

'C' IS FOR CROSS-STITCH

2007-01-18T12:30:00.004-05:00

By Carolyn Krebbs

Police Detective Jack Flanagan was no stranger to the recreation room of the Sea Breeze Retirement Village. Again and again, he had counted on the wit and wisdom of the Sea Breeze Knitting Club to help him crack his toughest cases. Now Flanagan was hot on the trail of a cold-blooded psychopath, and he needed this plucky group of senior citizens more than ever.

“They call him the Cross-Stitch Killer,” the hardboiled cop growled, “because after he mutilates his victims, he likes to leave a little embroidered memento.” Flanagan then passed around a needlepoint pillow from the most recent murder scene. With gruesome precision, the killer had cross-stitched the image of a decapitated man prostrate in a pool of blood. Beneath him was the message “Home Sweet Home,” rendered in big, curlicue lettering.

Flanagan munched on his cigar as the members of the knitting club carefully inspected the pillow. “Yeah, he's a real sicko, ladies,” the grizzled lawman said.

Something about the pillow looked familiar. Very familiar. “Look at that lazy-daisy knot,” Gladys whispered. “Only one person I know can make a lazy-daisy like that!”

They all turned their heads slowly toward the back of the room, but Edna Nussbaum, the club's newest member, was gone! It didn't take long, however, for the eagle-eyed Flanagan to spy a set of bloody tire tracks leading out the door.

That's when the horrible truth hit him, like a brass-knuckled punch to the gut. Sure enough, from down the hallway Flanagan could hear the faint but unmistakably furious hum of an electric wheelchair being pushed to its limits. Nussbaum was making a break for it! The detective unholstered his revolver, spat out his cigar and screamed into his radio for backup. Then he turned to the roomful of stunned retirees.

“Stay right here until we find her!” he barked.

“Oh, you can’t miss Edna,” Doris said. “She never goes anywhere without her straw hat and that great, big necklace of human ears!”

(Loyal readers may recall that crime writer Carolyn Krebbs is fond of Pomeranians and Finnish death-metal.)

LIVESTOCK, NO MORE

2007-01-04T10:49:00.002-05:00

By Corliss Potsdam

The flaming meteorite streaked through the early morning sky until it smashed into Clem’s pasture with a terrific explosion that rattled practically every window in the county. As he flung open the farmhouse door, Clem smelled burning flesh and wool. His heart sank.

The distraught rancher raced up the hill toward the pasture. When he arrived, the air was a swirl of smoke and burning cinders, and all that was left of his beloved Rambouillet sheep was a deep, smoldering crater.

Everyone would say that it wasn’t his fault. They would remind him that only last June, a falling satellite had wiped out a dozen of Old Man Hoskins' prized steers. Yet Clem would never forgive himself. For the rest of his days, he would be haunted by memories of that afternoon at the feed store, the very afternoon before tragedy had struck. There, sipping coffee with Skeeter Jenkins and the rest of the boys, Clem had remarked that next season, he would finally think about meteor-proofing his flock.

(Corliss Potsdam has written for Hoof World, Monthly Cud and numerous other periodicals. This is his first work of published fiction.)

WHY HOBOS HATE ROBOTS

2007-01-01T10:30:00.002-05:00

By Dick Nelson

At first, the hobos were suspicious of the robot. But their wariness vanished when Vienna sausages were ejected from an opening in its torso, followed by cigarettes, harmonicas and can after can of baked beans. The sudden appearance of these items delighted the hobos, as did the thick fountain of fortified wine that spurted from a nozzle extending from one of the robot's arms.

Soon, the highway underpass was alive with merriment. After eating their fill of sausages, Billygoat Johnson and Mister Slops began guzzling the robot's wine, which they had collected in several old paint cans. Li'l Corncob and The Oleo Kid sang "The Bindle Stick Blues" several times before stumbling through a particularly long and bawdy rendition of "A Toothless Tease." And Snickerdoodle, beard dripping with wine and beans, simply danced from one end of the hobo camp to the other, feeling as free as a runaway locomotive.

"Come on over here and join us, friend!" one of the hobos yelled to the robot. The robot, however, was content to stand quiet and motionless, its silver skin gleaming in the light of the hobos' fire.

Several more hours passed before the hullabaloo was finally over and all the hobos had fallen asleep. It was then that the robot pressed a button on its chest, and a molecular-destabilizer beam shot out across the camp, instantly transforming the slumbering tramps into bubbling puddles of smoking, scarlet ooze.

The remorseless machine glided over to the log where Parasite Pete had been sleeping. It paused for a moment, the lights on its head softly pulsing. Then it picked up Pete's banjo and disappeared into the night.

(Author Dick "Dirty Beard" Nelson based this short story on the Woody Guthrie song of the same name. For more tales of science and vagabondism, we heartily recommend Nelson's spellbinding A Hobo Laser.)

A VERY FUZZY-WUZZY CHRISTMAS

2006-12-01T13:00:00.003-05:00

By Thorsten Mungren

Mr. Possum was walking down the street when he saw Farthington Bear sitting on the curb outside the downtown plasma clinic. He was crying.

“Why so blue?” asked Mr. Possum, offering his friend a handkerchief.

“Oh, fiddlesticks,” replied Farthington Bear, wiping his moist eyes. “I’ve been selling my blood every day for a month so I can buy Priscilla Piglet a shiny new bicycle for Christmas. But I still don’t have enough money!”

“Why not ask Kitty Cat for some money?" Mr. Possum suggested. "Or what about Oliver Otter?”

“Oh, that will never do,” said Farthington Bear. “They’ve spent all their money already on yummy foods for the big picnic!”

Just then, a man sat down beside the two animals. “Say, little bear," he said with a smile, "I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation. I think I can help. That is, if you’re willing to sell me your gallbladder and pancreas.”

“I’ve never heard of those things,” said Mr. Possum.

“Neither have I,” said Farthington Bear. “Whatever do they do?”

“Oh, nothing special,” the man said. “But my associates in Shanghai pay good money for bear gallbladders and pancreases. Very good money. They use them to make a soup that increases sexual potency.

"And here is something delicious for you to munch on," he said, handing Farthington Bear a big cookie.

“Hooray, hooray!” cried Farthington Bear, suddenly feeling happier than he had ever felt before. “Hooray for gallbladders and pancreases!” He grabbed Mr. Possum’s paws, and the two animals began dancing in a circle.

Meanwhile, the man made a call on his cell phone, and soon a black windowless van pulled up to the curb. And that was the last thing Farthington Bear remembered, other than the funny-tasting cookie.

Later that day, the little bear woke up in a bathtub full of ice cubes. His tartan vest and bowler hat sat in a pile on a nearby stool, along with a crumpled wad of dollar bills. His tummy hurt something awful, and Mr. Possum was nowhere to be seen. But all Farthington Bear could think about was that SHINY NEW BICYCLE!

(Writer and itinerant ventriloquist Thorsten Mungren has enchanted children for years with his Fuzzy-Wuzzy Club adventure series, including last summer’s delightful romp, War is Hell.)

THERE CAN BE ONLY ONE

2006-11-14T23:45:00.001-05:00

By Randall Crick

For the first time in the history of the Thornton County Fair, the rabbit contest had ended in a tie.

"Impossible!" Bill Johnson cried as he gently stroked his Flemish Giant. "Clearly, I have the superior rabbit!"

"That's bullshit and you know it," Jimmy Springer replied, fists clenched. "I wouldn't take 10 of your Flemish Giants and a bottle of the finest Tennessee whiskey for my one Silver Marten. He is truly the Cadillac of rabbits."

The last thing anyone wanted was a repeat of the Pilkston Rabbit Show Massacre, but the situation was clearly beginning to spiral out of control. Then someone in the crowd spoke up: "The Dance of the Lepus! You must perform the Dance of the Lepus to break the tie!"

No one had witnessed the Dance of the Lepus in a generation, but it was quickly agreed that this venerable ritual was the only way to resolve the situation. One of the judges clapped his hands, and several 4-H members appeared with two large rabbit-ear headpieces and matching rabbit-foot slippers. They also carried the requisite salad tongs, tambourines and furry white loincloths.

Soon the crowd was cheering wildly as Johnson and Springer hopped around the stage in full regalia. The judges could award only one blue ribbon, of course, but on that magical Saturday night, it seemed like everyone was a winner.

(Author and state representative Randall Crick, D-Porkville, is known far and wide for his charming tales from the heartland.)

KINKY SUMBITCH

2006-11-08T23:20:00.002-05:00

By Gottfried Vanderplatt

"Here's what you gonna do," Bobby said, with that mischievous grin of his. "You gonna take off them clothes, right quick." And that's exactly what Clem did.

"Lookin' good," Bobby growled at the naked man. "Lookin' very good. Why don't you just take them pink-and-yeller tassels and tape 'em to your nipples, like I showed you how." Without a word, Clem did as he was told.

"Hell yeah!" Bobby screamed. "That's what I'm talkin' about, boy! Now you see that giant paper-mache kitty-cat head? That's right, go ahead and put it on." So Clem gently lowered the monstrous head over his own, while Bobby clapped and whistled.

"Good lawd," Clem said in a muffled voice, "you sure is one kinky sumbitch."

"I ain't payin' you to talk!" Bobby bellowed, snapping a cat o' nine tails across Clem's bare back. "Now you git to workin' on my tax return!"

(There is but one name in erotic fiction in Swine Junction, Alabama. And that name is Gottfried Vanderplatt.)

IN CASE OF RAPTURE, THIS CAR WILL BE UNMANNED

2006-11-06T13:00:00.004-05:00

By Reverend Thad LeMasters

Ellen Funston was driving to the Fleming County Atheist Potluck when, suddenly, the late-summer sky seemed to explode in a shower of impossibly golden light. From her stereo speakers came a deafening chorus of angelic voices. Then automobiles up and down the road began careening out of control as all the Christian motorists ascended to Heaven, leaving behind a tangle of smoldering wreckage and mangled heathen bodies.

Miraculously, Ellen and her 1998 Chevy Cavalier also started rising skyward, and soon she was soaring through the high wispy clouds. A burst of trumpets filled her ears, and none other than the Archangel Gabriel appeared in the backseat.

Gabriel gently placed his hand on Ellen's shoulder. In a deep, mellifluous voice, he told her about General Motors quality-control specialist and born-again Christian Jeff Peabody. One day many years ago, Gabriel explained, Peabody had spent his lunch hour ministering to a certain two-door coupe as it sat on the assembly line in Ohio, ministering to it until the automobile began weeping windshield-washer fluid. It was then, Ellen learned, her future car had accepted Jesus Christ as its personal savior.

Ellen had so many questions! But before she could open her mouth, Gabriel had vanished.

Moments later, her seatbelt unbuckled itself and the driver's side door swung open. The car rocked from side to side until its astonished passenger and her green-bean casserole tumbled out into the stratosphere. And then the little Chevrolet continued its glorious journey toward an eternity of golden highways and heavenly, high-octane gasoline.

(This story was excerpted from a new collection of sermons by the Reverend Thad LeMasters, founder of The Good News Hallelujah Ministries of Panama City, Florida.)

WAL-MART OF THE GREAT WHITE NORTH

2006-10-23T11:33:00.001-04:00

By Sir Richard Shelbourne Thistlebottom

Spring was dawning across the Arctic, and with it, timeless rhythms of nature began to beat anew. The ice that had covered the bay in a thick sheet now heaved and groaned as it broke into floes. At the water’s edge, snowy owls frolicked with their fuzzy hatchlings while an adorable polar bear cub looked on. Nearby, a herd of caribou was starting the long migration north along the coast to the calving grounds, and the promise of food for the summer.

It was with a heavy heart that Nasamiituuq began loosening the sinew that held together the seal-skin walls of the Wal-Mart. She didn't want to leave, but the elders had said it was time to move on, like the caribou. The wind howled along the shore, and she called to Amaguq and Oogrooq for help. When they had finished folding the skins into tight bundles, they started dragging the vending machines into the sleds. It had been a good winter, Nasamiituuq thought. So many items had been sold for unbeatably low prices; surely this winter would live forever in songs and stories!

Inside the partially dismantled store, the ice floor was littered with pallets and empty cardboard boxes and, here and there, a few walrus tusks and whale vertebrae. Makittuq and Biisaiyowaq had nearly finished packing away all the merchandise. Now they took a short break from their work to share a piece of blubber and talk excitedly about the new shipment of hot summer fashions that would await them at the end of their trek.

Outside, Old Oomailiq the Greeter took a long look across the fractured ice, which glinted in the late morning sun. He had seen many seasons came and go; soon, they would be on their way once again. He glanced up and saw Nasamiituuq, and the old man knew she was sad to leave this place. He would talk with the young girl. In time, she would come to understand the ways of her people.

The air was warming quickly. Oomailiq took off his heavy jacket of musk-ox hide and folded it neatly along with his hunting knife and a pouch of dried ptarmigan meat. Soon he would slip on his familiar blue vest and begin walking with the other Wal-Mart associates ― across the parking lot, out onto the endless expanse of tundra.

(As he lay dying in the splintered remains of his sailing vessel, famed Arctic explorer Sir Richard Shelbourne Thistlebottom filled the last pages of his weather-beaten journal with this short but profound work of fiction. When the journal recently surfaced at a yard sale in the town of Taloyoak, Thistlebottom scholars were delighted to find the story accompanied by several whimsical sketches of copulating seals.)

THE PERFECT KICK IN THE NUTS

2006-10-17T23:45:00.005-04:00

By Edmund Sledge

Doug Putterman was no masochist. Nor was he insane; misunderstood, perhaps, but not insane. In point of fact, Doug was simply a man who had spent a lifetime in search of the perfect kick in the nuts.

His quest had taken him to the farthest corners of the world, enlisting the services of Rockettes and Riverdancers, martial artists and soccer players, and more stout-legged dominatricies than he could remember. They had all kicked his balls, and kicked them very, very hard. Just not hard enough.

So Doug had begun seeking out kangaroos, ostriches and particularly ill-tempered Shetland ponies, and the pummeling each creature had delivered upon his testes had been fierce and magnificent indeed. But alas, this had only whet his appetite for more.

Increasingly desperate, Doug had even journeyed to the mountain redoubt of the infamous Doctor Suzuki Yakamoto, inventor of the gyroscopic testicle-kicking dynamo, and there his gonads had been punished relentlessly for a fortnight. But this, too, could not satisfy his desires completely.

Many years of frustration passed. Then, while walking through the forest one day, Doug stumbled across a cave, and in this cave there sat an old Indian shaman quietly tending a small fire. He gestured for Doug to sit down beside him.

"What is it you seek?" the shaman asked.

"I seek the perfect kick in the nuts," Doug replied.

The shaman stared at him for what seemed like an eternity. "I can help you find this thing," he finally said, lighting a stick of incense, "but you must have a patient mind and a noble spirit.

"And one more thing," the shaman said as he rose slowly to his feet. "You must first kick me, in my nuts."

Doug was confused but did as he was told, and the shaman groaned and crumpled to the ground. His eyes rolled back in his head, and his body began to quiver, as if possessed by the mighty spirits of the ancients. Suddenly, the small fire roared to life with bright, blue flames that licked hungrily at the roof of the cave. Shadows danced on the walls like unseen madmen. Then an eagle cried out from atop a nearby mountain.

Finally, the shaman spoke. "Your quest is over, Doug Putterman," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "You've finally found the perfect kick in the nuts!"

Doug fell to his knees, dumbstruck. Oh, how he wished it were his testicles that now ached so splendidly, and not his broken heart!

(Writer Edmund Sledge is one of America's foremost chroniclers of grievous groin injury.)

A TIME TO MEOW

2006-10-09T20:30:00.002-04:00

By Bernard Sizemore

The café was small and cozy, bathed in the soft amber glow of candlelight. Elegantly dressed patrons nibbled Fancy Feast from crystal goblets and lapped up bowls of warm, creamy milk. An attractive young couple sat mesmerized by an aquarium swirling with tropical fish. Another frisky pair bounded between the tables in pursuit of a ball of yarn.

The hostess led Murray to the bar and handed him a small, felt mouse to play with. He stared at the mouse for a minute, gently stroking it with his thumb. He thought about his loving wife and three beautiful children. He thought about their large and well-appointed house, and his new job as foreman at the rubber-band factory.

Then he closed his eyes and listened to the meows and mewlings and playful hisses that filled the dining room, and soon he ached with bittersweet memories: of long, furious nights at the scratching post, the ineffable pleasure of kitty litter crunching under bare feet. Oh, how he wished things had turned out differently!

"Meow," he whispered sadly. "Meow, meow, meow!"

(Author Bernard Sizemore is a former restaurant critic for Cat Fancy magazine.)

HOW THE KITTENS SAVED THE DAY

2006-10-02T19:00:00.001-04:00

By Chip Fleever

All was not well at Door Knockerz Gentlemen's Club. Jacquelyn Juggs was nowhere to be found.

The crowd, having paid good money to see the largest set of bosoms east of the Mississippi, was getting drunk and ornery. They began stomping the floor and chanting her name. But still, no Jacquelyn Juggs.

When it was announced she was canceling her appearance due to an infected toenail, the place erupted. Bottles and fists flew, tables were overturned. A urinal was torn from the wall and heaved through a plate glass window. The dancers locked themselves in their dressing room and the club manager grabbed his nunchucks. Things were looking terribly bleak.

But then Doug climbed onto the stage. Doug, the most sensitive soul who'd ever tended bar at Door Knockerz. He crouched down and gently shook that Harry Potter backpack of his until out tumbled five little kittens. Unfazed by the chaos around them, the kittens began to wrestle with one another and chase a big ball of yarn.

That did it. Everyone stopped to watch the kittens play. "I've never seen something so adorable!" someone cried, and the crowd murmured in agreement. The manager emerged from the kitchen with plates of freshly baked cookies and glasses of cold milk, and Jade, Sapphire and the rest of the dancers helped pass them out.

The kittens finally fell asleep in a furry heap, and the club patrons ― stuffed full of cookies and exhausted from their blood-soaked fracas ― weren't far behind. Pillows and blankets were distributed, and everyone quickly settled down for a nice, long nap.

In no time at all, they would forget just how batshit horny they had been.

(Despite his abject virginity, Chip Fleever has become one of Newfoundland's rising stars in erotic short fiction.)

A BRIGHT SMILE, DARKLY

2006-09-29T12:51:00.002-04:00

By Samuel Colfax

Ever since they’d seen The Lion King, Ted and Tina McClosky had simply been nuts about Africa – quite possibly more so than any other couple in suburban Cleveland. So for their tenth anniversary, they decided to go on a safari. Before leaving, Tina bought herself several khaki suits and a lovely pith helmet. Then, as the Frommer’s guidebook suggested, she got her teeth whitened.

The safari had been going splendidly until the ivory poachers showed up. From their camp several miles away, they had seen the procession of Land Cruisers rumbling across the savannah; they had also noticed the preternatural gleam of Tina McClosky’s pearly whites, and had concluded correctly that she would be easier to handle than an elephant or rhinoceros. Guns and pliers drawn, they surrounded the vehicles one afternoon and quickly extruded all of Tina's freshly polished teeth. The remainder of the safari passed pleasantly enough, though Tina spent much of the time prostrate and weeping.

The McClosky household just wasn’t the same after the poaching incident. Ted seemed lost in a world of melancholy, and Tina kept getting caraway seeds stuck under her new dentures. Then things really fell apart: Tina discovered that Ted was having an affair with their neighbor, Gloria Hildebrand. Worse, he had seduced her with an aphrodisiac specially ordered from Tanzania ― a white, musty-smelling powder made of ginseng, hippopotamus gallbladder, and Tina McClosky’s pulverized molars.

(There is nothing author Samuel Colfax won’t do for a fresh, tasty yam.)

TUPPERWARE IS EVERYWHERE

2006-09-19T08:15:00.001-04:00

By Oswald Culpepper

They were coming for her, no question about it. Yes, after what she had said at the Tupperware party, they were most certainly coming for her.

Jenny sat up in bed and lit another cigarette. Why did I say it? she wondered, replaying the moment over and over in her mind. What could have possessed me to blurt out such a thing? The end of the cigarette crackled in the flame, and she took a long, contemplative drag.

Had it been the apple schnapps talking? Maybe so. Maybe she had still been grieving for her recently deceased guinea pig. After all, grief can make people say things they should keep to themselves, and this was the one thing she needed to keep to herself.

She had grown weary of all the talk at the party about stackable bowls and festive tumblers, and had announced with tragic glibness, "Oh, I just put my leftovers in old yogurt and cottage-cheese containers." How she had wanted those words back! No amount of chit-chat about modular pantry containers would make the other women forget what she had said.

Trudging home from the party along the city's empty streets, Jenny's despair seemed to grow with every step. By the time she arrived at her apartment, it was all she could do to fix herself a drink before crawling into bed to wait for the inevitable.

It all happened so quickly. It always did. Not long after midnight, Jenny heard whispers in the courtyard below. A walkie-talkie crackled softly. Suddenly, a powerful light blazed through the window, illuminating every corner of her bedroom. Seconds later, the front door exploded off its hinges, and several pairs of heavy boots thundered up the stairs. Four black-clad men grabbed Jenny and stuffed her into a very large Tupperware container. The lid was snapped shut, and then they hustled her out of the building and into a black sedan, which sped away into the darkness.

Soon, Jenny and her abductors would arrive at the dreaded Ministry of Food-Storage Solutions, a cold and windowless place that made even the most loyal Tupperware Party member shudder. And it was here that the merciless authorities would teach young Jenny the one true way to lock in freshness and flavor.

(In the tradition of Huxley and Orwell, author and philosopher Oswald Culpepper introduced the world to his peculiar dystopian vision in 1949 with the publication of “Through the Plastic Looking Glass." On this, the 50th anniversary of his trampling by a syphilitic mule, Electric Storytime is proud to present just one of Culpepper’s magnificent and misunderstood masterworks.)

PAIN IT FORWARD

2006-09-15T10:10:00.001-04:00

By Kelvin Patterson

Ricky was roused from sleep one morning by his furious wife, who had begun assaulting his testicles with a taxidermied muskrat.

"Why?" he cried out in pain.

"Because you're going to have a ménage à trois next month with a pair of long-haul truckers!" she replied, tightening her grip on the muskrat's rigid forepaw.

As Ricky watched Cosmina rear back to deliver another fierce blow to his groin, he really began to regret that night at the carnival last year ― specifically, his decision to wed the muscular and clairvoyant Gypsy princess.

(Cincinnati-based storyteller Kelvin Patterson has owned the same Buick Skylark for more than 20 years!)

THE SQUIRRELS HAVE THE BOMB

2006-09-12T23:45:00.001-04:00

By Templeton Steele

Everyone at the coffee shop was talking about the missile that had appeared overnight in the park. This was not just any missile: It was an intercontinental ballistic missile, with multiple nuclear warheads. And, as the townsfolk noted with no small amount of concern, the missile seemed to belong to a large family of squirrels.

No one knew much about these squirrels. They buried nuts, they dug up nuts, they scurried around – that was pretty much it. But now they also had a weapon of mass destruction, and while it seemed unlikely that the squirrels knew how to use it, no one was willing to rule out the possibility. After all, Bucky Johnson said, he had sealed up his attic last winter tight as a sumbitch, and they still found a way in.

A gloom settled in over the coffee shop. How this missile business would affect next weekend's Acorn Festival was anyone's guess.

(Author and retired three-star general Templeton Steele whiled away many an hour beneath Cheyenne Mountain with a bottle of Yukon Jack.)

THIS IS NO JOKE

2006-09-06T13:20:00.001-04:00

By Fran DuBois

Stinky Brumbles was busy unpacking a box of itching powder when the front door of the Joke & Novelty Emporium flew open, and in strode a trio of grim-faced men in dark suits. One of them slapped a fistful of pink, deflated whoopee cushions on the counter, while his partners stood behind him, staring contemptuously at a rotating display of fake poop and vomit.

"Listen, Brumbles," the first man growled. "You know what happens when anyone in this town tries to sell a whoopee cushion without our say-so? Bad things, Brumbles. Very bad things."

One of the other men spoke up. "Here's some advice, pal," he said with a sneer. "If you want to stay in the simulated-fart game, you'll buy FartMor-brand whoopee cushions, and nothing else. Got it?" He cracked his knuckles menacingly.

"Sure, boys," Brumbles replied, pressing a button hidden under the counter. "I don't want any trouble." Suddenly, a fish mounted on the wall began to sing, and this was just enough to distract the men. Quick as a wink, Brumbles hobbled each of them with a Chinese finger puzzle, and as they struggled in vain to free themselves, he locked the front door and closed the blinds.

Now the terrified men began to realize they had greatly underestimated Stinky Brumbles. And they would pay dearly for their mistake, for over the next six hours, a vengeful Brumbles turned their world into a waking nightmare of joy buzzers and exploding cigars.

(Author Fran DuBois likes to start her day with a bracing shot of gin from her favorite squirting flower.)

FORD VERSUS CHEVY

2006-08-29T11:50:00.002-04:00

By the Creative Writing Class at Fatback Mountain Technical College

"You know what, motherfucker?" Chad announced. "I'd rather push a Chevy than drive a Ford."

"Fuck that shit," Ricky replied. "I'll push my Ford up Mount Fuckin' Everest 'fore I get behind the wheel of a shitty-ass Chevy. Yessir, I'll take a Ford any day a the week."

Shaken to the core by Ricky's unexpected resolve, Chad cursed softly and walked away.

THE TWO TOWERS

2006-08-25T18:30:00.001-04:00

By Chauncey Plover

Since time immemorial, the Ivory Tower had stood amid a grove of gently swaying willow trees, its smooth, alabaster walls shimmering in the sunlight.

Then there was the other tower, the one that rose from a weed-choked lot behind Jimmy's Grocery & Pawn. This tower was constructed mostly of old tires and burlap feed sacks, and it swayed precipitously on even the most windless of days. This tower smelled of beer, and of well-chewed tobacco.

The Ivory Tower was a quiet place, redolent of leather and Darjeeling tea. A place where one might hear the sound of soft footfalls upon marble floors, the clink of chess pieces, a discussion of Etruscan burial rites.

There was, conversely, a constant ruckus in and around the other tower, usually accompanied by unintelligible hollering and the sound of breaking glass. It was not unusual for a wrestling match and demolition derby to take place there before lunch, with wet T-shirt contests in full swing by the early afternoon. In between organized events, the residents of the tower amused themselves by discharging rifles or spitting on one another. Often, they enjoyed the simple pleasures of dropping pork rinds and empty bottles of Mountain Dew from the balustrade.

One afternoon, Professor Timsdale opened a window in the Ivory Tower and politely asked his neighbors to conclude their three-day orgy of pig chasing and whiskey drinking, lest the squeals and grunts interrupt a reading that evening by the poet laureate of Belarus.

“See,” his colleagues sneered when no response was immediately forthcoming, “we told you it was pointless to try to reason with those troglodytes.”

But that was not entirely true. For the next morning, the residents of the Ivory Tower would discover that Timsdale’s entreaties had earned them a large pile of human excrement on their doormat, and a spray-painted invitation to have intercourse with themselves.

(Imagine Electric Storytime’s surprise when we received a submission from Chauncey Plover, NFL Europe’s all-time leader in blocked punts! There was never any question we would publish the promising work of this prince of special teams.)

ALL THE SOCKS IN ALBANIA

2006-08-17T10:01:00.002-04:00

By Quentin McGraff

The people of Albania awoke one morning to find that all their socks had disappeared — every last pair of them, including those with holes and unpleasant odors. Even the sock puppets of Albania had vanished, button eyes and all.

Was it mere coincidence that as millions of Albanians gazed dejectedly at their empty sock drawers, the town of Heifersburg, Kansas, was proudly proclaiming itself "Sock City, USA"? Yes, perhaps it was just that — a coincidence. But Gazmir Peco thought otherwise, and soon the young trout salesman from Tirana had slipped barefoot into a pair of loafers and talked his way aboard a cargo ship, which was, as luck would have it, sailing to Kansas that very day.

He would eventually find himself standing along Main Street in Heifersburg, watching the first annual Heifersburg Sock Parade, followed by the crowning of the first Sock Queen. Later, he would witness a rousing performance by Flapjack Granny and the Li'l Butterscotch Cloggers. Then he would eat five corn dogs and a glistening funnel cake.

And late that night, Gazmir Peco would steal away to the Topeka Airport with an upset stomach and a large sack, filled with what very well could have been all his countrymen's socks.

(Quentin McGraff has written about Eastern European footwear for a variety of national periodicals. This is his first published work of fiction.)

BATTLE OF THE BANDS AT OAK VILLAGE NURSING HOME

2006-08-14T12:20:00.002-04:00

By Carolyn Krebbs

Flo and Eunice sat in their rocking chairs, whiling away the afternoon.

"Who is the greatest death-metal band in all of Finland?" Flo asked Eunice.

"Oh my stars, that's easy," Eunice replied, taking a sip of iced tea. "Oksennus Saatana, of course."

"Right you are," Flo said politely, knowing full well that no one rocked harder than Hautausmaa Ulostus, a fact that would gnaw at the 92-year-old for the rest of the day.

(The insufferable Carolyn Krebbs would like to dedicate her latest story to her beloved Pomeranian, Pinot Grigio.)

THE SECRETS LOVERS KEEP

2006-08-11T14:00:00.001-04:00

By Anonymous

One afternoon, Jason and Maria struck up a conversation while standing in line at a café. The two strangers soon discovered a shared interest in Dave Matthews and seedless grapes. An hour later, their souls had embraced.

As he sipped the last of his coffee, Jason stared approvingly at Maria's glowing skin, pouting lips and seductive curves. And from across the table, Maria admired Jason's perfectly coiffed blond hair, preternaturally chiseled arms and chest, and a beaming smile that never seemed to falter. At that moment, nothing mattered to them but each other. They held hands and discussed the heated intercourse they would enjoy later that day.

Suddenly, Jason hesitated. Things were going too quickly, and he had been hurt before. "Whoa, this is crazy," he said, his voice muffled by a gargantuan plastic head. "Maria, I don't even know your last name!"

Her last name. For a moment, Maria said nothing. If there was one thing her family held dear, it was that name. Her beloved grandfather had carried that name with him to Ellis Island almost a century ago. Later, he had refused to change it to sound more "American," and had endured with quiet dignity a lifetime of jeers and threats and other small-minded cruelties, even from his closest colleagues at the yam-canning factory. His pride in that name had been unshakable.

"Clementine," said Maria Pukestain-Hitlerpimple, fiddling nervously with her tea infuser.

"Maria Clementine, what a beautiful name," Jason replied, itching and sweating beneath his ponderous costume and its scratchy inner lining. Hearing this, Maria smiled wider than she'd ever smiled before. "And you're a beautiful person!" she cried with excitement and relief, squeezing his mitt-like hand. "Oh, Tom Tasty, we were meant to be together. I just know it!"

It was only then Jason Feldstein remembered he was still dressed as Tom Tasty, cartoon mascot for a national chain of buffet restaurants. Dear God, he thought, looking out the window at a nearby street corner. I forgot to hand out the rest of those fliers!

Beautiful, starstruck Maria talked dreamily about the romantic evening ahead, and Jason tried to nod politely as he searched for the strength to confess his secret. But the top-heavy Tom Tasty head exaggerated the nod, pulling Jason's own head up and then down with terrific force, like he could not have agreed with her more.

SIBERIAN SURPRISE!

2006-08-10T16:00:00.002-04:00

By Anonymous

Relaxing in the paleontology lounge with an afternoon cup of tea, Professor Reinhold Carlson saw a mail-order bride catalog draped over the armrest of his chair. Curious, he began flipping through the well-thumbed publication, no doubt the property of the department chair, F. Worthington Smythe, a repugnant and depraved man whose appetite for exotic young women was legendary. Carlson noticed one of the pages was dog-eared and flecked with dried spittle; on it, a single photograph had been enthusiastically circled in green highlighter and surrounded by a forest of exclamation points. He gasped.

Little Dimitra!

Incredibly, it was her. Yes, Carlson was sure this was the darling girl he remembered from his fossil-hunting expedition in Siberia so many years ago. The same laughing, smiling youngster who had brought him fresh bread and honey from her family’s farm, who had watched wide-eyed as Carlson and his team hauled up wondrous dinosaur bones from the earth and brushed them clean of dirt in the cool summer breeze. Oh, how she had clapped and sung with joy!

Now the little girl had grown into a beautiful young woman, a woman who was in terrible danger. Carlson knew he had to do something, and quickly. Soon he was on the phone with his bank, instructing that the entire contents of his savings account be wired to the offices of Far East Beauties, Inc. Sweet Dimitra would not be falling into Smythe’s lecherous clutches if Reinhold Carlson had anything to say about it!

A week later, the professor found himself standing nervously in the airport, waiting for Dimitra to emerge from customs. Would she recognize him after all these years? Could he, an aging widower, bring her comfort and happiness? Suddenly, she appeared, and all his doubts were forgotten. Carlson broke into a wide grin and began walking toward her, arms outstretched. But then he stopped. His arms went limp. Dimitra’s face and hair were covered in gravy. She was screaming obscenities in broken English and trying to caress a panic-stricken grandmother. On her head was a partially torn customs inspector’s hat.

Oh no! Carlson thought, terrified. It was not Dimitra, but her insane twin brother, Dimitri, last seen by the professor bounding away mirthfully from an excavation pit with a stegosaurus vertebra in his pants. The demented imp now had long hair and small, perky breasts. (The professor would later learn about his short and troubled stint in a Vladivostok cabaret.) Yes, he looked remarkably like his sister. But unlike polite Dimitra, he thought it perfectly reasonable to apply a flying karate kick to Carlson’s stomach, then leap onto the rental-car counter and wet his pants.

Two policemen quickly pulled the screaming, urinating Russian to the floor and pinned him with their knees as they slipped handcuffs around his dainty wrists. Dimitri pounded the floor with his head and began to moo. Carlson, meanwhile, grabbed his cellphone and dialed Smythe, who was delighted to hear that his colleague had a very special someone for him to meet.

FOR THE LOVE OF MONEY

2006-08-09T14:00:00.002-04:00

By Anonymous

CoinFest 2006, the county’s biggest coin show ever, was in full swing, and Bradley was positively goose-bumpy as he walked down the main aisle of the exhibition hall. To either side of him, glittering coins stretched in seemingly endless, intoxicating rows. So many to choose from! Bradley thought hungrily. The young numismatist reminded himself to relax, and not to pick the first pretty thing he saw. It was much easier said than done.

After browsing for several minutes, one particularly well-stocked booth caught his eye. Bradley slowly walked the length of the table until he spied an 1882 Morgan Silver Dollar in mint condition. He gasped. Somehow, among the trove of sparkling delights, Bradley knew this coin was The One.

“I’ll take it,” he said, tapping assuredly on the glass display case. The man behind the table nodded approvingly as slipped the coin into a paper bag and handed it to Bradley, who laid a neat stack of bills on the table. Clutching the bag against his chest, he then sprinted to the exit, oblivious to every other piece of currency around him.

When Bradley returned to his apartment, he drew the curtains and lit a fragrant candle, which he placed beside an arrangement of roses on the dining room table. Then he gently slid the silver dollar from the bag and examined the coin in the flickering light. What he saw was the face of a goddess – pristine and shimmering, impossibly beautiful. What was she thinking beneath that demure gaze? he wondered. She was a mysterious and complicated woman, and that only thrilled Bradley more. His fingertips trembled as he carefully removed the coin from its protective Mylar sheath.

Suddenly, he spied something else sticking out of the bag, something completely, fantastically, unexpected: a 1910 Barber Quarter! The coin dealer must have accidentally dropped it in the bag, and now Bradley could scarcely believe his good fortune. Unlike the silver dollar, the Barber was well-worn and tarnished, its dull mintmark barely visible. Oh, she’s been around the block a couple times, Bradley thought excitedly as he walked into the living room. A real dirty girl.

He placed the two coins together on the sofa, and they made a soft, sensuous clink. That set Bradley’s heart racing, and the exhilaration in his pants soon became more than he could bear. “Don’t worry, ladies,” he whispered, unbuckling his belt with one hand, caressing the coins with the other. “There’s plenty of Bradley Appleton to go around!”

WHAT I'LL DO FOR LOVE

2006-08-08T13:45:00.001-04:00

By Anonymous

No one in the Burger King saw Tina slide her Whopper under the table and stuff it with the freshly killed rat she had been carrying in her purse. No one, that is, but Glenn.

He had watched the sad young woman from the moment she walked into the restaurant, and he knew exactly what she was planning: a bite of the rodent-filled sandwich, a hideous shriek, a hefty lawsuit. But he wasn't going to let that happen.

"You don't have to do this," Glenn whispered, sliding into a chair beside his shocked fianceé. "I know how I can pay for the wedding. I'll even be able to get you that engagement ring I promised."

"But how?" Tina cried, fighting to hold back the tears. "Love of my life, how can you possibly come up with all that money?"

Glenn smiled grimly as he lifted the bun of his fish sandwich, like he was opening the lid of a jewelry box. To Tina's surprise and delight, the fried cod fillet was studded with small pieces of broken glass, sparkling like diamonds in the flickering fluorescent light.

A BONE TO PICK

2006-08-07T13:00:00.002-04:00

By Anonymous

It had been the worst fight of their marriage. Promises had been broken, bonds of matrimony shattered. Now Jack needed to show Sally his love for her was true and everlasting.

“Buy her some snazzy jewelry,” a friend recommended. “Tattoo her name on your arm,” said another. But after fourteen cans of beer at the local tavern, Jack had a much better idea: He would have an image of his wife’s beautiful face scrimshawed on his leg bone. A salty dog named Pickles overheard Jack’s plan and, being an incurable romantic as well as a master scrimshawer, said he would help.

They got started immediately. Pickles washed most of the bilge grime off his forearms and secured his oily, rancid hair with a rubber band. Jack then took off his pants and woozily indicated he was ready to be scrimshawed. The bartender had found a paring knife beneath the sink, and Pickles used it to cut through the flesh and muscle of Jack’s leg with near-surgical precision until he reached the femur. With only a tear-stained photograph of Sally to guide him, the swabbie proceeded to painstakingly etch her likeness onto the bone.

When he was done, Pickles set aside his gore-smeared knife ― and began to cry. If only he had found a woman like this! Amid the slurry of blood and subcutaneous fat, Sally’s smile radiated warmth and comfort to Pickles, like a lighthouse on a stormy night. What would his life have been like, the lonely mariner wondered, had he spent it not upon the high seas, but in the safe harbor of her gentle embrace?

With an old sailor’s sinewy strength, Pickles suddenly yanked the femur from the remainder of Jack’s leg, twisting it around until it popped free of its tendons and connective tissue. Jack protested feebly, but to no avail. Tucking the bone under his arm, Pickles stumbled out the back door of the tavern and down the street until he came to the Robertson’s neat, whitewashed bungalow. When Sally answered the door, he handed her the bone. “I love you,” Pickles stammered, “so I made this for you.”

It was the most wonderful thing anyone had ever done for her. Suddenly, Sally saw more than a greasy, malodorous seafarer standing on her front porch. She saw a kind and beautiful and honest soul. The sort of man who wasn't afraid to show his true feelings. The sort of man who would never swear to his wife that the naked prostitute hiding in the laundry hamper was really a census taker.

Something stirred deep in Sally’s heart. “Would you like a drink?” she asked, opening the door wider, and a grinning Pickles hurried inside.

ANOTHER AWARD FOR HORACE

2006-08-01T09:00:00.001-04:00

By Bradley Boykin

The town of Handyville was known throughout the state for its elaborate Memorial Day festivities, the centerpiece of which was the presentation of the coveted Handiest Handyman in Handyville Award. This year, the handsome trophy and 25-dollar Red Lobster gift certificate were going, once again, to local handyman Horace Handelman, winner of the previous 12 awards.

When the mayor called his name, the crowd erupted. Like he did every year, Handelman smiled grimly as the sons of Handyville scooped him from his seat and carried him to the stage while the town square rang with applause and chants of Handelman! Handelman! Handelman! Reluctantly, he shuffled to the podium as a fusillade of fireworks exploded overhead in the shape of a hammer. And when the recently crowned Little Miss Toolbox 2006 handed him the microphone in her sparkly gloved hand, Horace Handelman decided enough was enough.

“You know, when I first moved here, I thought Handyville was a great place to live and work,” Handelman said to the hundreds of beaming faces assembled before him. “And when I first won this award, I was honored.

"But then I found out you people really couldn’t care less about a nicely painted porch or correctly installed gutters. You just like my name ― my goddamn name."

The crowd began to rumble. "You know," Handelman continued, "I never get any compliments when I repair a garbage disposal or put up shelves or patch some drywall, but a day doesn't go by that a dozen people don't tell me what a great name I've got. I mean, what the fuck is wrong with this town?"

The crowd booed and hissed, but Handelman didn't care anymore. "To hell with you all!" he yelled, stepping down off the stage with both middle fingers defiantly aloft. And that was the last anyone in Handyville would ever see of Horace Handelman.

Meanwhile, at the back of the crowd, handyman Henry Handler salivated wildly at the thought of the Shrimp Lover’s Combo that would soon be his.

(Author Bradley Boykin is often beset by bothersome bees.)

PLAYING WITH FIRE

2006-07-25T22:40:00.001-04:00

By Sebastian Manx

Old Man Huppleschmitt was about as mean as a one-legged goat in battery acid. True, his wife had been devoured by a family of praying mantises, but even this fact failed to justify Huppleschmitt's preternatural crabbiness, to say nothing of his powerful urge toward public displays of perversion.

One summer evening found Huppleschmitt sitting on his porch, drinking Schlitz and polishing a pile of walnuts as the neighborhood children scampered to and fro in search of fireflies. Bobby Peterson was collecting the creatures in a glass jar, and soon the other children gathered around and oohed and ahhed at the swirl of green and yellow lights.

Suddenly, a fat hairy hand reached down and yanked the jar out of Bobby's grasp. It was Huppleschmitt. The brute unzipped his pants and, to the children's horror, proceeded to drown the fireflies in urine.

"To hell with your little insect friends," he bellowed when he was done, "each and every goddamned one of them."

Later that night, as a dozen sobbing children were being comforted by their parents, the surviving fireflies gathered in the parking lot of the community center, where they flew in lazy circles until they saw a police officer making his way down the street.

As he approached, the fireflies quickly came together to form a bright, flickering arrow that pointed toward a row of azaleas in front of the building. Curious, the policeman walked over to investigate. Through the window he could see the Daughters of the American Revolution drinking tea and knitting scarves. And when he peered behind the bushes he discovered Huppleschmitt, crouched and pantless under the window ledge, his forbidden lust now wilting in the vengeful glow of his insect adversaries.

(Once celebrated as the "Dennis Quaid of Entomologists," Sebastian Manx abandoned science for a gloomily unsuccessful writing career soon after he made his greatest discovery: the pleasurable effects of sniffing glue and various solvents.)

TREMBLE BEFORE THE LORD OF SNACKS!

2006-07-21T14:05:00.001-04:00

By Serge Rostov

The door to Doobie’s Quik Pik bursts open, and in thunders the Lord of Snacks astride a towering, coal-black stallion with eyes like flaming rubies.

As the Lord of Snacks guides his mighty steed down the main aisle, he leans across a saddle hewn of gleaming obsidian and snatches packages of powdered mini-donuts, fried pies and chocolatey Ding Dongs, which he secures in a black velvet sack.

A display of NASCAR key chains is crushed under a foursome of fearsome hooves as the Lord of Snacks gallops to the roller grill, relieving it forthwith of its juicy hot dogs and crispy Taquitos.

But he is not done yet. Sheathed beneath his dark cloak is a 96-ounce travel mug, which the Lord of Snacks fills with a roiling downpour of Mr. Pibb.

And then he is gone, furiously galloping through the parking lot and down the lonely frontage road, deeper and deeper into the moonless summer night.

(This terse offering from Serge Rostov has been declared "plagiaristic poppycock" by literary rival Fenton Hammersmith, author of Supermarket Badass and a fellow veteran of the Crimean War. It is well known that Hammersmith has never forgiven Rostov for what he refers to as the "undergarment incident at Sebastopol.")

THE GREATEST INVENTION

2006-07-16T21:50:00.001-04:00

By Steven Dellenbach

There had been no shortage of media ridicule when the Professor unveiled his long-lasting chewing gum made of Orangutan hair and old bicycle tires. Later, his so-called colleagues had loudly denounced his designs for a biodegradable sex doll. Even the Professor's mother had gently questioned the wisdom of his adobe hang glider.

But his latest invention would silence the naysayers for good; all that was left was a final test. The Professor covered each of the moose's antlers with a plastic sleeve, then he snapped the swimming goggles into place. When the moose calmed down, he coaxed it into position with some soft grunting and a fistful of pondweed.

The Professor took a deep breath. Was it this simple? Was the solution to world hunger and global warming this laughably simple? He was about to find out. The wash cycle began, and the Professor sat down and waited to see if he had truly created the world's first dishwasher-safe moose.

(Author Steven Dellenbach is himself something of an inventor, having recently filed a patent for the "strapless herring.")

LITTLE JOHNNY, NEIGHBORHOOD SCAMP

2006-07-12T00:09:00.003-04:00

By Marc Noodly, PhD

One morning on his way to school, Johnny stopped by the creek and caught a big fat frog, which he hid in his knapsack. Later that day, he slipped the frog into Mrs. Smith’s purse while she was writing equations on the blackboard. The rest of math class passed uneventfully.

When the bell rang, Johnny and the other students filed out of the classroom, and Mrs. Smith reached into her purse for the cigarette she planned to enjoy in the teachers' lounge. Suddenly, the frog leapt from the purse and onto Mrs. Smith, who began shrieking uncontrollably, for she was batrachophobic. Worse, as the frog hopped away, Mrs. Smith discovered that the amphibian had urinated in her purse, soaking every last one of her Misty Lights.

That night, Johnny’s family ordered a pizza for dinner. As the steaming pie sat on the kitchen counter, a little imp who shall remain nameless sprinkled sage on it. Johnny’s father had just begun munching on his second slice when the allergic reaction took hold. Little Johnny watched with wonder as Mr. Thompson’s lymph nodes and testicles swelled, and his ears began to bleed ― exactly as he had once warned they would if he ate sage. Johnny pointed to his brother, the quadriplegic, and then helped himself to another slice. Later, at the hospital, he stole ten dollars from his father’s wallet.

The next day was Saturday, a warm and sunny Saturday, most beautiful Saturday ever ― the perfect day for a boy to play! But Johnny had been grounded because of the frog and pizza incidents. This made him very unhappy, and he longed to teach his parents a heartbreaking lesson. Then he had an idea: He would dig a hole to China. That’ll show ’em, he thought, anticipating his new life as a dumpling salesman or member of the Politburo.

So Johnny grabbed his mother’s garden trowel and ran into the backyard, where he knelt down and began excavating clumps of fresh Bermuda sod. From the living room window, Johnny’s parents saw what he was doing and hurried outside to stop him. But they were too late; Johnny had already disappeared underground. His mother began to sob. “Don’t worry,” his father said, “he’ll come back when gets hungry.” He cupped his hands together and yelled into the hole, “China’s a long way off, pal!”

But Johnny had packed himself several sandwiches and a juice box in anticipation of the long slog. His father’s angry voice faded in the distance as Johnny dug steadily through the earth’s crust, and then into the mantle; when he reached the mesosphere, he ate a sandwich and took a quick nap. Later that afternoon, he reached the planet’s inner core but, to his displeasure, found that the trowel was not designed for burrowing through hundreds of miles of solid iron and nickel. So Johnny slowly worked his way through the semi-liquid outer core. The scorching, molten iron made him wish he had packed another juice box.

Hours later, Johnny was back on course. The digging was easier now, and he breezed through rock and magma and clear up to the top of the lithosphere, where the cool, moist dirt felt wonderful against his face. As he dug, he began daydreaming about his first day in China. Would he be given all the fortune cookies he could eat? Would the People’s Liberation Army organize a parade in his honor? Suddenly, he broke through to the surface! But instead of being greeted by warm sunshine and pandas, Johnny had just enough time to squeeze himself into a tiny, subterranean crevice as a deafening torrent of seawater rushed past. This seemed to go on forever. When the deluge finally stopped, he scrambled out of the hole and looked around.

To Johnny’s surprise, he was not in Guangdong Province. His remedial geometry skills had led him astray, and he had emerged several miles offshore at what had been, moments earlier, the bottom of the South China Sea. An unfathomable amount of water was now racing down the hole he had dug and would soon leave the planet’s core ice-cold. As a result, all life on Earth would be extinguished. All thanks to Johnny’s clever little journey.

Nibbling ruefully at his last peanut butter and jelly sandwich and trying to avoid the incredulous stares of the Chinese fishermen whose trawler had run aground nearby, Johnny thought, I should have paid more attention in class! But it was too late, because Mrs. Smith was as good as dead. And she didn’t even have a last cigarette.

(This tale of mischief and geological cataclysm originally appeared in Yankee Pot Roast. It is to be savored as one might a particularly irksome foot rash, or a can of expired gravy.)

THE RETURN OF DOCTOR SAUCE

2006-07-06T18:02:00.001-04:00

By Horst and Kiki Sloat

"Pardon me, sir," said a man with an enormous Afro and a pair of horn-rimmed glasses, "would you care to take the Extreme Burstin' Berry Fruit Slammer Challenge?"

Joel had only planned to grab a few things from the supermarket on his way home from work, but the idea of a challenge intrigued him. "Tell me more," he said, setting down his bag of chives.

"On this table I have two cups," the man explained. "One contains the leading artificially flavored fruit drink. The other is filled with new Extreme Burstin' Berry Fruit Slammer. I challenge you to tell me which beverage is bursting with more fantastic, chugalicious fruit flavor!"

Joel could not resist. "Okay," he said, reaching for the closest cup. He drank down the fizzy, purplish liquid and found himself not entirely displeased by its vague taste of raspberries. Then he took a sip from the other cup. The murky, gray libation had a metallic tang, and almost immediately Joel felt a burning sensation in his throat.

The man who, moments earlier, had seemed like just another friendly promoter of fruit-flavored beverages now smiled devilishly as he removed his glasses and Afro wig. It was none other than the evil Doctor Sauce! Joel tried to scream, but the doctor's diabolical concoction had dissolved his vocal cords.

"Don't you wish you could talk right now?" Doctor Sauce whispered in his ear. "Don't you wish you could warn your fellow shoppers that Doctor Sauce no longer limits his dastardly acts to the world of condiments?"

(Lucky for the English-speaking world, the nephew of Horst and Kiki Sloat has agreed to continue the exciting adventures of Doctor Sauce. Click here to read the first installment of the mighty saga.)

MESSAGE IN A BOTTLE

2006-07-02T22:35:00.001-04:00

By Meredith Fitzsimmons

Dan had been shipwrecked on the island for longer than he could remember. Each day, he had yearned for a sign that he was not completely alone in the world: a glimpse of a ship on the horizon, the contrails of a distant jet, an empathetic message in a bottle. Any of these things would have been indescribably welcome.

One morning, as he sat on the beach drawing a portrait of his former accountant in the sand, he saw something small and shiny bobbing in the gentle swells. Curious, he put down his stick and waded into the water, and soon the object drifted into his grasp. It was a clear glass bottle, and it made Dan tremble with excitement. For inside, he saw a small piece of paper, neatly rolled up like a scroll and secured by a rubber band.

Dan splashed his way back to the beach, where he smashed the bottle against a rock and unfurled the paper on a piece of driftwood. It was a sheet of stationary from a La Quinta Inn, and on it was written this, in big, shaky letters:

"I farted into this bottle and put the cap back on, and now you are smelling my farts, MR. FARTNOSE."

It was not much, but it was something.

Dan pondered this message all day and into the evening. Later that night, as he slumbered beneath a tropical sky lit by an infinite scattering of stars, he dreamt of a guest at a La Quinta Inn ― a vicious little sixth grader, whose nose is slowly crushed by a malfunctioning elevator door.

(For those who, inexplicably, can't get enough of Meredith Fitzsimmons, Electric Storytime's grand dame of maritime intrigue, we suggest her classic "Here Come the Clams.")

DOCTOR SAUCE

2006-06-29T11:00:00.001-04:00

By Horst and Kiki Sloat

The doctor that met Sam at the clinic was vaguely familiar, in spite of his prosthetic nose and large, fake moustache.

“Excuse me,” Sam said, “but aren’t you Doctor Sauce, that physician under indictment for experimenting on patients on behalf of the condiment industry?”

The doctor smiled. “No, I’m William Sauce,” he said. “You must be thinking of Gerald Sauce, the ear, nose and throat man. A real Mengele, that one.”

His suspicions allayed, Sam removed his clothes and lay down on the examination table as he had been instructed. "Now, what seems to be the problem?" the doctor asked, slipping on a pair of latex gloves.

“It's my back,” Sam groaned. "I think I pulled something."

The doctor said nothing as he pushed a button on the wall. A pair of steel restraints sprung from the side of the table, clamping Sam firmly against its cold metal surface.

“Why, you are Doctor Sauce!” Sam cried.

“Indeed I am,” the doctor said, tearing off his disguise. “And your HMO was none the wiser!”

Sam now struggled wildly to free himself, but the restraints held fast. Meanwhile, Doctor Sauce calmly prepared a hollandaise enema.

“I want you know this will be an utterly terrifying experience,” he told his wide-eyed patient, who no longer felt any pain in his back.

(This previously unpublished manuscript was found in a steamer trunk owned by the late husband-and-wife writing team of Horst and Kiki Sloat. The trunk also contained several poems about apes.)

TENDER IS THE CORN

2006-06-14T11:50:00.001-04:00

By Tammy Salazar

Another summer day was drawing to a close. Farmer Jones walked to the edge of his field and quietly observed the rows of gently swaying corn that stretched to the horizon. In all his many years, Jones had never tired of the sight of golden stalks beneath an azure Iowa sky. It was a beauty too perfect for words.

Jones bent over and removed his boots and socks. Then he unhooked his overalls, and the dusty garment fell to the ground. Now wearing just a straw hat and his wife's frayed cotton panties, he stepped into the nearest furrow. The dark, fecund soil felt cool and wonderful between his toes. Jones started walking.

The farmhouse disappeared behind him, and Jones found himself once again enveloped by the serenity of green leaves and wispy tassels. A cool breeze stirred, and with it his troubles seemed to drift away: the dispute with the Farmers Cooperative, a malfunctioning variable-flow irrigation sprinkler head, allegations of lewd and lascivious conduct at the feed store. Jones closed his eyes breathed in the rich, moist air. He felt so peaceful, so completely at one with his corn, as if the universe had bound his spirit inexorably to every last kernel.

On the far side of the field, Eduardo, Jesus and the rest of the Guatemalans put down their tools and watched the large, hirsute farmer in women’s underwear as he ambled toward them, eyes closed, with a look of ecstasy not normally associated with agriculture. They glanced at one another and sighed; though the long and dangerous journey to El Norte was over, their real troubles were just beginning.

(Loyal readers may recall Tammy Salazar's last story, "A Lesson at Breakfast." This woman is hopelessly infatuated with corn!)

DOJO AT THE HOJO

2006-06-12T23:47:00.002-04:00

By Skippy Vance

"And now, Channel Six Action News has a story about one local motel manager who really gets a kick out of life," anchorwoman Monika Powers announced. "Reporter Gary Melvin is going to tell us all about it, right Gary?"

"That's right, Monika," Gary replied. "For 42-year old Howard Johnson employee Sung Lee, practicing martial arts on the job used to be a big Tae Kwon Don't! But recently, his boss agreed to let him teach classes to motel guests in an unused conference room. Now it seems Sung has turned this HoJo into a real dojo!"

Back in the Channel Six studio, every last member of the Action News Team felt goose bumps. Gary had nailed it. Absolutely nailed it. Powers leaned over to weatherman Chance Danson. "Let's see those bastards at Channel Three top this one," she whispered.

(Skippy Vance is associate professor of media studies at Hudspeth College.)

WORLD'S HORNIEST GRANDPA!

2006-06-10T19:42:00.002-04:00

By Greg Grogan

It was the last night of the Kinsler family vacation in Gatlinburg, Tennessee. A buffet dinner at Davy Crockett’s Surf & Turf was followed by a visit to the wax museum and then a rousing session of Skee-ball. As the evening was winding down, the Kinslers stopped for ice cream, and that's when little Kip Kinsler, a month’s worth of allowance rustling in his pocket, wandered across the street and into one of the city's many fine souvenir shops. He returned a few minutes later with a small package tucked under his arm. "Happy birthday!" Kip yelled, handing it to his grandpa.

Stan Kinsler was touched. He unwrapped the package and there, nestled in pink tissue paper, was a coffee mug. And on this mug was written, in bright red letters, "WORLD'S HORNIEST GRANDPA!"

This was an uncomfortable moment for the Kinslers. Stan managed a chuckle or two and patted his grandson’s head, hoping the boy wouldn't notice his moist eyes and trembling lower lip. Hold it together, Stan, he thought. Kip had meant well. The boy simply had no way of knowing what all the grown-ups did: that Stan Kinsler was, in fact, not the world's horniest grandpa. Far, far from it.

But oh, the horniness he had once known!

Years ago, Stan was, without a doubt, the horniest merchant marine in the world, having established his credentials in whorehouses from Buenos Aires to Bombay. Later, he became the world's horniest air-conditioner repairman, followed by stints as world's horniest Shriner, world's horniest subscriber to Reader’s Digest and, finally, world's horniest member of a carpet-deodorizer class-action lawsuit. Time, however, had taken its irrevocable toll, and neither pills nor videos nor a cream made from the gall bladders of Bengal tigers could turn back the clock.

"World's horniest grandpa, my eye!" Mary Kinsler snorted. "If that's the case, then I'm Dolly Gosh-Darn Parton!"

Confused, Kip and the other children put down their fudge sundaes and waited for their parents to explain grandma's highly improbable assertion. Stan, meanwhile, drifted off to a nearby tavern to fill his birthday present with bitter tears and several pints of Tennessee whiskey.

(Look for more literary thrill-rides from Greg Grogan in the near future.)

WILFORD BRIMLEY GOES TO THE MOON

2006-06-05T17:17:00.001-04:00

By Scott Devonshire

"He did what?" Brimley's agent screamed into the phone.

"You heard me," his publicist replied coolly. "He's gone to the moon."

"You're telling me Brimley up and went to the fucking moon, just like that?"

"Just like that," his publicist said.

"So what do we do?"

"Honestly," his publicist said with a sigh, "What can we do?"

There was nothing more to say, really. The matter was settled. Wilford Brimley had decided to go to the fucking moon, and there wasn't a thing anyone could do about it.

(When Scott Devonshire's unauthorized biography, "Being Brimley," failed to set the publishing world ablaze, he began writing short stories that have only served to terrify the Brimley family.)

SWIMMING UPSTREAM

2006-06-02T01:13:00.001-04:00

By Rex Dobbins Jr.

The National Salmon Association had sent its top man into the heart of cattle country on what would surely be his most challenging mission yet.

"You see, salmon is delicious and good for you," he explained to several hundred ornery Nebraskans, who were wondering what this man and his fish were doing at the big livestock show. "And it's so tender, who needs a knife?"

They regarded him warily as he sliced off a piece of soft, pink flesh with his fork. "Easy to prepare, and just bursting with mouth-watering flavor!" he told the crowd, popping the morsel into his mouth and swallowing after several ecstatic chews.

"Mmm, that's tasty," he said, "to say nothing of the fact that salmon is high in protein, low in saturated fat, and filled to the gills with heart-healthy Omega-3 fatty acids!"

Suddenly he felt a twinge in his stomach. He tried to ignore it, but the pain rapidly grew worse. Within a matter of minutes, it would become the most terrifying case of gastrointestinal distress ever witnessed in Clem County.

As the puzzled police detectives would eventually discover, this particular fillet of salmon was not only rich in Omega-3 fatty acids, it was also suspiciously rich in hydrochloric acid, and no one had a clue how it had gotten there. For not even the sharp-eyed cattlemen at the livestock show had seen Rusty "T-Bone" McMurtry, Avenging Angel of the Midwest Beef Council, splash the fish with the contents of his water skin and then disappear into the sea of chaps and 10-gallon hats.

(Not even a brutal panda attack can stop the writing exploits of Rex Dobbins Jr.)

MEETING MINUTES OF THE CARCASS-DROPPING CLUB

2006-05-29T08:11:00.001-04:00

By Thad C. Brogdon

President-elect Jimmy Prescott tapped the dais with a taxidermied woodchuck, and the Sunday meeting of the Tibbly Carcass-Dropping Club was called to order. The pledge of allegiance was recited, and the minutes and agenda from the previous week were unanimously approved.

Two new members were welcomed: Janet Peterson and Scott McCluttney, both of whom said they couldn’t wait to begin dropping! (Historical aside: In 1947, Scott’s grandfather, Peter McCluttney, set the Tennessee muskrat record from atop the Skeetersboro Bank and Trust Building.)

Success! The policy and advocacy committee reported that the Tibbly Town Council had finally voted to decriminalize carcass dropping, except on Sundays and national holidays. There was vigorous applause.

During the community outreach update, Al Moline reminded everyone about the upcoming pancake breakfast with the Kiwanis, noting the need for volunteer cooks and servers as well as two Master Droppers (Level 5 and above) for the morning demonstration.

Secretary Skip Pelham thanked club members for a successful Adopt A Highway cleanup on the interstate frontage road. Special recognition went to Gloria Monroe, who had bested everyone by filling seven trash bags, and Jason Orn, who had found a deer carcass that will surely "bring home the gold" in the ruminant division of next week's competition. Pelham concluded by asking Ernie Nussbaum why he looked unusually pale and sweaty, to which Nussbaum replied that he had likely eaten some bad shrimp.

Prescott explained that due to liability issues, the club would longer be able to present its “Kids & Karcasses” educational series in Tibbly's elementary and middle schools. The news was greeted by boos and at least one call to arms. Nussbaum seemed to take the news especially hard, slumping in his chair with a pained expression on his face.

Social Committee Chair Rita Bosworth said she had received an e-mail from the Society of Remote-Controlled-Vehicle Enthusiasts, letting her know how much they had enjoyed last month’s cocktail hour at Applebee's. She also announced plans for a summer mixer with both the Baked Hams amateur radio club and the Tibbly Model Rocketeers. Ever the joker, Bosworth said Nussbaum looked like he was already warming up for the breakdancing competition. In fact, he was in the throes of a fatal seizure.

Ernie Nussbaum's death was duly recorded. Al Moline knelt by the body and wept softly before calling for volunteers. Chucky Vasquez, Jason Orn and newcomer Scott McCluttney stepped forward, lifted Nussbaum's frail little body over their shoulders and carried him to the rooftop, where Moline gave a brief eulogy. Nussbaum, he said, had been a great friend, a loving grandfather and an enthusiastic club member, a man who had brought grace and dignity to the sport of carcass dropping for more than two decades.

Then, as was his duty, President-elect Prescott grasped Nussbaum by the heels and slung the retired actuary over the side of the building, municipal regulations be damned.

(Had Garrison Keillor spent decades chronicling the fictitious town of Tibbly, Ohio, and had his work had been utterly ignored by everyone but his mother, then he would be known as the author Thad C. Brogdon.)

DESECRATION OF THE ANCIENTS

2006-05-25T20:50:00.001-04:00

By Don Wooster

After laboring for months in the green hills of southern Bulgaria, Professor Feldstein and his team of archaeologists had finally found the long-lost tomb of a Thracian king. It was a rare find indeed: The stout, stone door of the tomb, crusted with soil and lichens, had clearly not been moved in millennia. Feldstein scraped away some loose dirt and ran his fingers over the cold granite, his heart racing like that of a graduate student on his first dig.

With the help of several mules, the door was pried open and he squeezed through the entrance and into the gloomy anteroom. Outside, Feldstein's colleagues listened for that first, breathless exultation as his light fell upon what they expected to be a sparking trove of gold and jewels.

But it was not to be. "No!" they heard him wail. "Dear God, not again!" A string of curses echoed against the stone walls, and soon the professor stumbled out of the tomb and into the arms of Kathryn, his young and eager assistant. "What is it, professor?" she asked, stroking his wispy gray hairs. Feldstein didn't answer. He tore himself away and collapsed under a nearby tree, where he buried his face in his hands and began to sob. Kathryn grabbed the flashlight and rushed into the tomb.

The air inside was cold and damp, and it smelled, curiously, of stale cigarette smoke. Everywhere Kathryn looked, amphorae and other ceremonial objects lay broken and scattered along the floor. She made her way to the center of the main chamber and saw a heap of empty beer cans, but the king and his riches were nowhere in sight. Frustrated, she shined her flashlight toward the far wall and discovered a breathtaking, early-Hellenistic fresco; on it, someone had drawn two testicles and an enormous, ejaculating penis.

A seasoned archeologist in her own right, Kathryn now had little doubt as to who had desecrated the tomb. Then she saw the clincher: a pair of fresh tracks that wove around the floor of the chamber in a haphazard circle before trailing off into a narrow passageway, tracks that bore the unmistakable tread pattern of tires on a late-model Chevy Camaro.

Kathryn emerged from the tomb no less anguished than the professor had been. Feldstein, his dusty face streaked with tears, grabbed her arm and pulled her to his side. "Was it who I think?" he whispered hoarsely. “Was it–"

"Yes," Kathryn groaned. "I’m afraid so. Somehow, those troublesome teens from Elmwood High School have stuck again!"

(The inspiration for Don Wooster’s newest tale comes from his abiding passion for Thracian history. Wooster is also interested, almost pathologically so, in marching bands, frozen pizzas and the birds of Madagascar. Look for dozens and dozens of stories on these subjects in the near future.)

BIG TIMMY

2006-05-14T18:18:00.001-04:00

By Margaret Allison Jennings

Our parents had always told us to stay away from Big Timmy, all 300 lumbering pounds of him, but we couldn’t figure out why. Was it because he was the only adult in town who wore a tweed sport coat with dirty pink sweatpants? Was it because his chin was perpetually glistening with slobber ― and not necessarily his own? Maybe they didn’t care for the odor of old cheese that followed him around, or his habit of stealing ladies’ hats and filling them with his empty juice boxes. Whatever their reasons, our parents were uniformly opposed to anything we did that could possibly involve Big Timmy.

“Don’t let me catch you talkin’ to Big Timmy,” Pa would holler, “lessun you want your hide whupped!”

We’d be riding in the old Plymouth and there would be Big Timmy on the side of the road, gnawing a piece of wood or trying to dress a dead possum in a shirt he’d stolen off someone’s clothesline, and you’d wonder aloud why you couldn’t spend some time with him.

“Never you mind,” Ma used to say. “Big Timmy’s ol' head is full of crazy ideas, that’s all.”

One day we saw Big Timmy peeing on a newspaper machine, and curiosity got the better of us. He saw us coming and politely removed a chicken drumstick that had been in one of his nostrils. “Is it time for bingo?” he asked sheepishly, threads of drool swinging from his bottom lip.

We told him we just wanted to say hello. Big Timmy grinned at us and waved his hand furiously. Then he looked around, as if to make sure no one else was listening.

“I've got something very exciting to tell you,” he said, with the sort of crisp enunciation one wouldn’t expect from a person whose head was festooned with bird droppings. “Six months ago, I had no job, no prospects and a mountain of credit-card debt. But then I discovered how I could make a fortune in real estate with NO MONEY DOWN, using a proven formula that had me buying and selling property in days! Now I’d like to share with you, at no cost or obligation, my five simple steps for attaining TOTAL FINANCIAL FREEDOM!”

We finally understood why our parents had been trying to protect us. Horrified, we turned and ran away from Big Timmy as fast as we could.

(Critics have compared the works of Margaret Allison Jennings to that of a young Harper Lee, if the Alabama-born author “had taken a big snoot of paint thinner, or possibly been lobotomized by a blind longshoreman and his rusty butter knife.”)

BUNKY TAKES FLIGHT

2006-05-04T22:02:00.002-04:00

By Richard “Ricky” Fescue

A man can take only so much. And Bunky was nothing if not a man. A man whose heart had been broken, whose kindness and wisdom had been met with spite, whose beer and cigarettes and snack crackers had been consumed often and without proper remuneration.

When Bunky had taken all he could take, he threw a Salisbury steak against the wall and hopped on his Kawasaki all-terrain vehicle. “Fuck this shit,” he declared, and roared off into the crisp November night.

The trailer park quickly disappeared behind him as he rode deep into the forest, a late-autumn latticework of trunks and bare limbs illuminated by the moon. The cold air stung his face and his hair danced wildly against his shoulders. Bunky felt alive.

He had traveled this gravel road many times before, but tonight was different. The deer and possums and raccoons that he passed on the roadside seemed to know this, too. Bunky saw them, their eyes glimmering like jewels in the dark, and wished he had remembered to bring his gun. But it was too late for that now.

The road forked up ahead. To the left, it meandered to the river before looping back to the trailer park. To the right, it rose sharply to a pinnacle of fantastic steepness before descending to the intersection with Skoal Highway and the world that lay beyond. After a moment of hesitation, Bunky opened the throttle wide and steered in the only direction his heart would let him.

He crested the hill at full speed and was launched into the air. Higher and higher he went, and soon he found himself far above the road and the trees. Woodland creatures stopped what they were doing and stared in wonder as Bunky and his ATV soared across the night sky. The world seemed to spread out before him as he observed in the distance the twinkling lights of Stumpy’s Corner, Little Pig City and Molassesville. They called to him.

“Get ready, you sons a bitches,” he hollered in reply. "Get ready for Bunky!"

(Today’s story was selected from the most recent anthology of Richard “Ricky” Fescue, who holds the Ernest P. Worrell chair in southern literature at Cyprus City Community College.)

THE MILE-HIGH CLUB

2006-05-03T19:56:00.001-04:00

By Avis Torkelson

On his flight back from Dayton, he told us with no small amount of glee, he had inducted a comely stewardess into the Mile-High Club.

Oh, not that Mile-High Club, he explained. The other one, where you seduce a flight attendant into giving you extra snacks.

Then he leaned back in his chair until all those shiny little packages of pretzels and peanuts began spilling from his pockets, and watched us quietly smolder with envy.

(Author Avis Torkelson has nothing going for him.)

GOING WHOLE HOG

2006-05-02T06:24:00.001-04:00

By Linda Tribbles

One of Karl’s passions was Scrabble tournaments. And, according to the newspaper, a tournament was set for that afternoon at the town armory. So imagine how Karl felt when he arrived and realized that, in his haste, he had misread the announcement: This was no Scrabble tournament, it was an eating contest: the Pennsylvania Dutch Scrapple Challenge.

Karl was disappointed, of course, but he decided to sit down with the other contestants anyway. The whistle blew, and he began shoveling handfuls of steaming scrapple into his mouth. The spirit of competition seized him, and soon he forgot about triple-word scores and seven-letter bonuses and became singularly focused on the seemingly endless mounds of pulpy porcine scraps heaped in front of him. The crowd rose to its feet with deafening applause. Even the other contestants had to stop and admire the heroic ferocity with which he was devouring his scrapple. The breathless Fleck County Scrapple Queen placed the crown on his head before he was even finished eating.

Driving home, all Karl could think about was winning more scrapple contests. His wife had never seen him so happy and full of life, and the love they made that evening was the deepest and most meaningful of their long marriage.

Who knows how brightly Karl’s star might have shone, had a man with a slight speech impediment not told him about a contest the following weekend. Alas, it was not another scrapple challenge, but rather the Stapleton Medical Equipment Annual Scalpel Challenge, and Karl’s defeat would be both swift and unsightly.

(Today’s story by Linda Tribbles is the first of what she hopes will be many tales involving regional culinary delights.)

A MATTER OF CONSIDERABLE GRAVITY

2006-05-01T23:41:00.001-04:00

By Jason West

Janitor Jim was about to clean the men's room in the university astrophysics laboratory when out rushed a clearly shaken Doctor Von Wentner.

"If I were you," warned the notoriously loose-boweled professor, "I wouldn't go in there right now. There's dark matter everywhere!"

Von Wentner hurried down the hall and locked himself in his office. Sighing heavily, Janitor Jim got out his mop to once again clean up what he assumed would be the aftermath of the professor's explosive diarrhea. But when he opened the door to the stall, he quickly deduced that it was filled with another dark matter ― the mysterious, invisible kind, detectable only by the gravitational force it exerts on galactic clusters.

This dark-matter business was a bigger mess than Janitor Jim could handle with just a mop and a bucket of bleach water, so he carefully closed the stall door and walked down the hallway to his supply closet, where he eventually found the extra-strength cleanser that could handle a cosmic anomaly like this.

(Author Jason West is living for today, or so he says.)