THE WHORES OF ANDROMEDA

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

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

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

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

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

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)

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

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

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

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

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!

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

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

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!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.)