Cool Cat is Superlative

It was a sunny day outside in Sunny California, and Cool Cat wanted something to do.  He picked up one of Daddy Derek's well-used "entertainment" magazines, but quickly put it back down.  You could only look at pictures of men wrestling women in cat suits and aprons so many times before you got tired and had to go beddy-bye.

"Goo," said Cool Cat, "I'm bored.  I wonder if Daddy Derek has anything for me to do!"

He quickly rushed into Daddy Derek's office, who just as quickly zipped up.  "Well hey, Cool Cat!   How are you doing buddy!  It's a beautiful day today!"

"Goo, Daddy Derek!  That's terrific!"  Said Cool Cat.  "I love it when it's pretty outside.  It makes me want to chase bullies into oncoming traffic!"

"Bullies don't have any friends," Daddy Derek observed.

"Goo!  They sure don't!" said Cool Cat.  "And that means they should die like the tiny infidels they are!"

"Gosh Cool Cat, do you want some breakfast?  Momma Cat's having a wrestling match over at Erik Estrada's, but I can fix you something tasty and good for you!"

"No thanks," said Cool Cat.  "I just ate ten minutes ago and it was FAN-tastic!  I'm just bored and hoped you might have something for me to do!  Do you have any suggestions?"

"I'm just full of suggestions!"  said Daddy Derek. "And soon you will be too!"

"Goo!" Cried  Cool Cat, clapping his furry hand-paws.  "I like it when you have big suggestions!  I want you to fill me on the inside with your big suggestions!"

Daddy Derek nodded, pulling away from the desk.  "I sure do, Cool Cat!"

"Goo!  Well, where is it?" Asked Cool Cat, hopping up and down.  "I want your suggestion in me RIGHT NOW!"

"It's in my pants!"  Said Daddy Derek.  "It's a salted nut roll!"

"That makes me SO HOT!" Said Cool Cat.

"Gosh, that's understandable, Cool Cat," said Daddy Derek.  "It's very warm in that suit.  We need to get you ventilation, buddy!"

"Hey, do you think maybe you could teach me to pluck your VAN HALEN GUITAR?  You look so cool when you pluck it!  I wish you could pluck it with your big stripper hands all night!"

Daddy Derek scratched his chin speculative.  "Gosh, I dunno.  That guitar is awfully BIG.  Are you sure you can handle it in those big furry cat palms of yours?"

"Goooo!  I know I could!"  Cried  Cool Cat.  "I could pluck with your instrument in two hands while eating that salted nut roll with my MOUTH!"

"Could you?"

"I COULD!"

And then they had the sex.

Too Dead for Strangers - A Winnie the Pooh Fanfic

Once upon a time Winnie the Pooh was sitting about eating homey like a boss when along came his buddy Piglet.

"Why hello, Piggy," said Pooh.  "Today we are going to discuss strangers."

"W-w-what are strangers?" Asked Piglet.  "They're not SCARY, are they Pooh?  I'm already S-SCARED of o-o-oh so many things!"

"No, they aren't scary," laughed Pooh, patting his porcine friend on the head. "They just want to abduct kids.  And bears.  And pigs.  And throw them in trunks alongside dirty crack spoons with duct tape over their mouths.  So they can barely breathe.  Then take them to dingy basements and make pants out of them."

"Oh D-D-DEAR!"Squealed Piglet.  "That doesn't sound good at all, P-P-Pooh! How do I stop strangers??"

Pooh laughed. "Let me show you!  Do you see that man over there?  In the short shorts and hat?"

"P-P-Postman Dave?"

Pooh nodded.  "Yes, Piglet!"

"B-But he's not strange to me!  I know him, Pooh!"

Pooh laughed a deep belly laugh full of rumbly tumbly yum yum goodness.  "Silly Piglet," said the yellow, pantsless bear.  "Sometimes strangers can be people in your neighborhood!  See how he's walking towards us and getting something out of his pack?  It's probably duct tape!"

"Then we need to DO something, Pooh?" Piglet said clutching his friends paw.  "Piglets don't like being made into pants!"

Pooh laughed. "Don't worry, Piglet.  I will now show you what to do to be safe from strangers."

"T-That's good, Pooh!  Are we going to sing about safety now?"

"Hey Pooh," said The Stranger.  "Got a package here for--"

"I DON'T WANT TO HEAR ABOUT YOUR PACKAGE, YOU FILTHY PAEDERAST!"  Pooh bellowed, exposing the man's ribs with his claws. "I'LL TEACH YOU TO PUT BEARS AND PIGLETS IN TRUNKS!!" He clamped his teeth down on the man's leg.  Blood guttered from the post man's femoral artery as Pooh shook him like a ragdoll.

"Oh d-d-dear!" Piglet cried, covering his eyes with his hooves.  "Please stop, P-Pooh!  I think he's sorry! I don't believe he will abduct us anymore!"

But Pooh, drunk with bloodlust, was blind to reason.  He was currently feasting on the Postman's bowels, who, screaming, was still trying to claw at the dirt in a vain effort to get away.

Piglet ran through the woods until he met the one and only Tigger.  "Well hello, Piggy," Tigger said, playfully poking the pig's belly. "Why you look as white as a -- like you saw a hephalump!  What's wrong, Little buddy?"

"Oh, Tigger, Pooh was just teaching me about strangers and.. P-Postman Steve...  he's..."

"Strangers are bad news, Little Buddy!!  You don't want to be kidnapped, do you?  You don't want your anal virginity violated by a porking cone!"

"N-n-n-certainly NOT!"

"Then let the one and only Tigger tell YOU how to be safe!" The tiger said, jabbing the petrified porker as though to remind him exactly who 'you' entailed.

"Yes!" Piggy cried, "please tell me how to be safe with a catchy yet c-condescending musical number."

"See that man over there?"

"You want Christopher Robin's dad?"

Tigger  clasped the pig by the shoulders and leaned in close, looking left then right to make sure no one would hear what came next.  "Don't let WHO he is fool you, Piggy." Tigger whispered.  "Strangers come in all shapes and sizes!  Your best friend or favorite grandpa may be a stranger!!"

"Oh d-dear!"

Tigger nodded. "That means ANYONE may want to abduct you and cram that sensitive piggy butt hole just FULL of canolis!"

"Y-You obviously spent a lot of time thinking about this."

"Yes," Tigger whispered sensuously, "and so has HE!" In one bounce of his tail, Tigger had tackled Mr Robins to the mossy ground.

"I'll teach you to be a predator!" He said, detaching the elder man's nose at the moustache.  "I'll teach you to rub Canola oil on young impressionable pigs and put them in sexy storm trooper costumes for your own sick amusement!!"

"Golly gosh!" Cried Mr Robins.  "But I never-"

"I'll teach you to... lithe ankles... tight fitting dungareesss... wrrraaaaagghooo!"  Tigger seethed, semding the older man's jaw flying into the bushes.  "Warggawaghammmmmbl..." he continued, his tigger mouth full of trachea.

"Oh d-d-d-shit!"  Piglet cried, dashing away through the forest.  He ran and ran until he met Christopher Robin, who was sitting in a clearing with his laptop.

"C-C-Christopher Robin!! Tigger!! Your dad!!"

"That's great, Piglet," the youth said, looking up with a wide grin.  "But did you know that strangers can find yout ANYWHERE?? Even the internet!"

"Oh d-d-fuck!"

"That's right!  That's exactly what strangers want to do to impressionable young pigs!  Do you want to be eight months porknant and also high on bath salts?"

"W-w-What are you blathering on about, you shorts-wearing idiot?? Tigger killed your dad!! It was awful!"

Christopher Robins laughed.  "What are you talking about, Piggy?  Tigger can't have killed my father.  Tigger's not real.  I made him up just like I made up the rest of you, and as soon as I find a girlfriend and go off to college your world will end!"

"W-w-what??"

"But don't worry about that.  I want to teach you how to be safe online."

Piglet heaved a sigh.  "There isn't going to b-be a musical number, is there?"

"Silly bacon.  Of course not.  Now I've invited a random pervert to this very clearing with promises of fellatio!"

"Oh d-d-dear."

"Yes.  Here he comes now."

And indeed, through the woods came a man in a police constables uniform with a bad wig tucked under his hat.

"B-But that's constable Higgins.  Wearing a bad Corey Feldman wig."

"Shh!" Urged Christopher Robij, reaching behind his back.  "We don't want to let him on to our clever ruse!"

"Good day, young fellow," the constable said from beneath his neatly combed moustache.  "Would you happen to be going on the Internets under the alias..." he whipped open a notepad, smudging a line with his gloved thumb. "Christopher_Rubbins420?"

"Why yes," Christopher Robbins said, standing up.  "You must be creepy0ldster69!  I've been ever so excited to meet you."

"Young man, I am Constable Higgins with the 100 Acre Wood internet crimes division," the man taking off his hat for a moment to whip off his wig.  "I have come to inform you that sharing unsolicited bum photos with overage men is a crime and you may be looking at twenty years behind b--"

"You filthy pervert!" Christopher cried, pulling a kris knife out from behind his back.  "I sacrifice your degenerate soul to the true Bophisto, He Who Sleeps Beneath the Hundred Acre Wood!" 

"Drop your weapon!"  The constable barked, drawing his painted constabling stick.  He moved in, attempting to tackle Christopher Robins, only for the young man to duck behind him.

"IA IA BOPHISTO PHTHAGN!" Christopher cried, plunging the knife deep into the elder man's lungs. 

"I'm g-getting out of here!" Piglet cried.

"Wait! Piggy!" Christopher Robins cried, wiping his brow with a bloody hand.  "It's okay!  He was a STRANGER!"

Piglet ran through the woods all the way to the shopping mall, where he bought a flame thrower and a decade's worth of spam and canned corn.  He ran home and barricaded himself in, living beneath his bed until, with a sigh of relief he realize Christopher Robin had finally met a girl, and he blinked out of existence.

THE END

Spoopy Cruise

Chuckie rolled on to his right side and rubbed his eyes.  He thought he’d heard a gentle tapping on his bedroom window.  That would be impossible, however.  He slept on the second story of his parent’s rambler and--

Tap Tap Tap.

He sucked in a breath and silently counted to ten.

“It’s just the wind,”  He reasoned.  “The wind on the big oak tree outside my window.”

Yes, it was enough to make him laugh.  He let the long breath out was just about to go to sleep when a spring of memories bubbles into his consciousness.  A letter on the table -- daddy up on a ladder -- the sound of a chainsaw outside his window.  The association made Daddy remove the big oak tree for being too damn spoopy.  

Tap Tap Tap.

He shot up in bed.  

“It’s a bird,” Chuckie reasoned.  “Or - or a bee!”

That’s it.  According to Mommy, birds and bees were always getting up to all sorts of hyjinx.  They were probably having sex on his windowsill as he lay in bed.  It was a line of reason so perfectly obvious that it wasn’t even worth turning his head twenty degrees to verify it.

Tap Tap Tap.

But maybe it wasn’t a bird or a bee.  Maybe it was a man with really long legs, rapping on the window with long, snakey arms as his smooth, featureless face scanned the room.

Tap Tap Tap.

Maybe, without any eyes, it couldn’t see him properly, and it was waiting, waiting for Little Chuckie to uncover his face, uncover that first morsel of child-flesh so it could crash through the window and drag him back to its lair deep in the sewers.

Tap Tap Tap.

Or maybe the tapping was on the inside. Maybe it was a man in a bunny mask with a long butcher knife.  He’d drawn a smiley on the window with his parent’s blood and he was tapping on the window from the inside, just waiting for Chuckie to wake up so he could join the rest of his family.

Tap Tap Tap.

Bird and bee sex couldn’t last this long.  Mommy and Daddy could barely go ten minutes.  He had to know what was out there.  He had to take just one peek.  Open just one eye just so he could know how spooky it wasn’t.

Tap Tap Tap.

Chuckie opened his eye to see an old man in a leather jacket and sunglasses standing outside his window.  His smile was broad and his teeth were white in a way that only the supernatural - or gobs of Hollywood money- could explain.    “Oo Chuckie,” the man said as he bobbed spoopilly in the wind making woo woo noises, “I can take you to fantastic, marvelous places!  I’m Tom Cruise, and all you have to do is invite me in!”

“Uh -- who?”

“The star of Top Gun!”

“That British reality show daddy watches?”

“No.  Um, I was in Far and Away?”

“Could you be farther?”

“Mission Umpossible?  Eyes Wide Shut?”

“Hey, I know you!”  Chuckie said, his young eyes glittering.

Cruise’s smile widened.  “I knew you were a Kubrick fan!”

“You’re that guy on Youtube who jumped on Oprah’s couch!”

“That was that, uh, John Travolta.”  Tom sighed.  “Can you just let me in?”

“Are you going to jump on our couches?  Mommy hates it when I do that, and you are a little bigger than I am.”

“Look kid,”  Tom said, rubbing his temples.  “The couch thing?  Common misconception.  Every time people see Tom Cruise in movies, they don’t say ‘hey, there’s the cool dude who hung by a wire or threw a bomb into an alien vajayjay.’  No; they say ‘there’s Crazy Old Tom Cruise; the guy who jumps on couches and thinks he’s a superhero and sues people and makes weird, homophobic comments about ice cream while his cultists scour the world for his next bride.’  Tom Cruise is trying to step away from that.  He’s trying to rebrand himself.”

“It’s two in the morning,”  Chuckie said. “Also, I am eight and I have no idea what rebranding is.  What does Tom Cruise want from me?”

“Well, I was thinking that creepypastas are hip with the kids these days.”

Chuckie nodded. “If hip means cool, then yes.”

“Well, let’s say that, instead of Slenderman or whatever, they told Creepypastas about Tom Cruise!”

“That would be pretty dumb.”

“Tom Cruise would float outside kid’s houses at night and there would be creepy rules, like you have to sing nursery rhymes backwards to summon him, and you have to invite him in before he abducts you!”

“And why would they do that?”

“So people forget about him jumping on couches!”

“But they’d remember you abduct children.”

“Exactly!  It would be a huge boost to my career!”

“I’m going to bed, Tom.”

“Bad move kid,”  Tom growled, watching Tommy slip back under his Beyformer comforter.  He looked down to the cherry picker below.  “Let’s go, John!  This time try to find one of those dumpy fifty-something housewives I’m so popular with!”  He looked back as he rolled away.  “You better write about this, kid!  Write about it on creepypasta or I’ll suuuuuue!”

But Chuckie had already gone to sleep.  He was hoping that instead of tap tap tap, next time it would be fap fap fap.

Never Trust Sea Shells, Children.

Once upon a time there was a little boy named Little Joe whose mommy and daddy loved him very much.  So much, in fact, that they took him to vacation in Australia!

One day Little Joe was walking along the docks off Dangerous Reef when he saw a sea shell.  He picked it up and put it to his ear.  "Little Joe!" It cried.  "Little Joe!!"

"Gee," said Little Joe, "a magical sea shell that knows my name and everything.  This must be the luckiest day of my life."

Little Joe was wrong, children.  It was not the sea shell calling his name.  It was the people on the shore.  The dock was very old and was leaning dangerously into the ocean.  Little Joe fell off and was eaten by sharks.

Hetrosexual Baseball Cap Joe VS Casual Online Homophobia OR The Gay Vampire Bat

An eerie October wind whispered through the maples that lined Stillwater Road, rattling what remained of their candy corn leaves.   Night birds made woo-woo noises in the farm fields across the way, and a bunny screamed as it learned it was adopted.  A fog was blowing into Willernie; an ephemeral velvet that muffled the hum of the occasional car and distorted the blue and brimstone neon of the gas station at the town’s edge.

Hetrosexual Baseball Cap Joe shoved the hard nozzle of the gas pump into the eager orifice of his 2007 Buick Skylark.  The young man leaned back as the pump gushed fluid.  The gas station was as familiar as his well-worn hoodie.  Joe had visited it many times to buy gas, hang with his homeboys and pick up hoochies.  Yet, distorted and muffled in the fog it was as alien to the young hetrosexual as a cashmere sweater.

"Cold as the devil t’night." An eerie voice observed from behind him.

Joe, not expecting a voice to come from behind as he pondered sweaters, spun around. A wiry old man stood at the pump behind him.  He was truly unremarkable, with the exception of his spidery grey brows, his magnificent braided beard, and also his white socks.  Which were super white.

"Yeah cold." Joe agreed, slightly embarrassed.

“I wouldn’t want to be living in them apartments up on Vanderhoff,” The old man laughed. 

 “Not with The Fog rolling in.”

"Yeah." Joe muttered.  Wait, how did the old man know what appartments Joe lived in? “Out of curiosity, why not.”

The old man cackled. His wizened hand darted up to wipe some of the chaw juice staining his beard like bloody feces. Joe suddenly noticed that the old man was wearing a princess tiara and chewing tobacco.  It was gross and Joe was glad he only smoked cigarettes, drank excessively, and snorted bleach.  “You never heard  ‘bout Him then?” 

“‘Half the people I know are ‘hims.’” Joe snapped.

The old man nodded. "Thirteen years and thirteen years ago this night, Reg'nuld Braflofski wuz livin' up in that apartment.  He was as blasphemously popular and successful as he was obese.  Worked with his boyfriend Brian at the travel agency back, and ran a guild on th’ World of th’ Warcraft.  Some say that it was in an epic PVP raid atop Mount Teatime that some rando called ol’ Reg ‘super gay.’”

“Gee,” said Joe.  “An asshole on the net.  Wow.”

The old man nodded sagely.  “Some say that Reginald was so incensed by this casual homophobia that he made a pact with the dark powers, vowing to return to that apartment in thirteen years and thirteen days to  get revenge.  Some say he turned into a bat, and then fog!  And then flew out the cold air return into the night!”

“Only some say that?”  Asked Joe.

“Aye,” the old man nodded.

“What do others say?” Joe asked.

“That he shrugged it off,” the old man muttered.  “And got a job at Jiffy Lube a few years later.  In Minneapolis.”.

Joe shrugged.  “Well, that makes more sense.  I mean, thirteen years and thirteen days seems pretty arbitrary, and why would he go back to his old apartment?  Did he think the internet rando was living there with him?”

“Don’t ye laugh at The Fog, boy!  Don’t ye ever wonder why ye got that bachelor pad fer so cheap?”  The Old Man asked.  Joe suddenly recalled that he had, on multiple occasions, wondered just that.  He also wondered why the lady at the office  feigned epilepsy whenever he brought up the blood that leaking from the cable modem.

He looked back to confirm his bewonderment, and found with a start that the old man had disappeared into the foggy night.  Perhaps he had been a figment of Joe’s imagination.  Perhaps he had just driven off while Joe was standing around like an idiot.

"What took you so long, Joe-Joe?" Bambi Petumpki, Joe's cosmetologist girlfriend, asked as he started the vehicle.

"Nothin'." Joe said, driving off into the night. "Let's go back to my place and make out, puppy doll."

"Joe-Joe, I'm scared." She said. An ex-cheerleader, Bambi was blond, tan, and painted her toenails fungal green every Tuesdays. "Maybe it's just my feline intuition, but I feel like this fog is reaching out, Joey! Reaching out for you!”

“Ha,” Joe laughed. “That is silly nonsense, puppy muffins.  Nonsense like the nonsense spouted by that old man I talked to that didn’t exist.”

"Joe-Joe," Bambi pleaded.  She had a 2.6 GPA and liked Skittles. "Please, let's go back to my parent's house.  You can talk to my dad about guns and things."

"C'mon babe!" Joe urged, "We can go back to my place, chug some brewskis, and, y'know,  watch reruns of Will and Grace!"

Joe’s eyes went wide.  Will and Grace?  Not Duck Dynasty?  Not The Sports?   He had  seen commercials for Will and Grace during halftime, maybe he’d been a little curious about the quirky humor, but he’d never outright said it.   He was unsurprised at the sharp intake of breath from the seat beside him. 

"You are not the Joe-Joe I know." Bambi sobbed, folding her arms over her ample bosom.  This would ordinarily make him randy, but today it just made him think about how soft her cashmere sweater probably was. 

"Drop me off here,” Bambi insisted. “I will walk home."

With a sigh, Joe pulled onto the shoulder.  Bambi slammed the door, and stormed up Paddington Road towards her house.   Joe shook his head and made the left towards his apartment building.  The fog pooled about his ankles as he padded across the parking lot, and he tossed his keys and blazer on a chair as he slammed his apartment door.  He was about to make  himself a half caf skinny mocha red eye over ice, when he realized with a start that he had no idea what any of those things were.

Suddenly and without warning, Big Fat Rubbery Vampire Bat Reginald was flopping about in the sky.  His radar penetrated the thick fog below, whispering of a young, straight man with a chest as hairless as a mole rat, a yellow baseball cap and a really greasy beard!  With obese grace, Reginald swooped down to the young man’s patio and returned to fat vampire form.    WOOSH!

His purple sequined cape was ravishing, his cankles were magnificent, and his rhinestone hot pants were the very essence of divine.  OH YEAH!

 Slowly he opened the door and crouched behind the clattery venetian blinds. CROUCH! 

As Joe dipped his oblivious hand into a bag of straight Fritos, Reginald clandestinely slipped across the room and hid beside a sticky pile of girly magazines and pizza boxes. CARDAMOM!

As Joe changed the channel to The Sports, Reginald stealthily pranced in front of the TV screen, diving behind an Ikea floor lamp on the opposite side. TINKYWINKY! 

"Vwa!" Big Fat Gay Vampire Reginald cried, pouncing ambiguously from his hiding place.
Joe lept from his butt groove in lanky heterosexual horror. "AIE! Is my heretofore unquestioned sexual orientation about to be compromised in some dastardly yet arousing erotica?"

"Yes!" Reginald hissed.

"No!" Cried Cap, "Sweet, Merciful Hetrosexual Randy ‘Macho Man’ Savage no!   No please no!"

"Shout all you like," Reginald said with a sneer. "In the fog no one will hear you!  I know it was you Joe, or should I say capn_baseballcap_4da_ladies69!”

Joe gasped.  “Phat_dracula_74?”

The vampire drew his cape over his triple chin beard  “The same!”

“That was an epic raid, bro!”

Joe’s face lit up, while the vampire’s was as stolid as a plus-sized tombstone. “I was never the same after that internet comment.  And soon... soon you shall never be the aame either!!"

“I was only ten!” Joe cried as the liche loomed forward, casting the young man in his beach ball shadow.  “C’mon man!  I was young and stupid!”

”You will not be the same,” the vampire continued, ”as I shall add you to my army of the fabulous undead, and together we shall go to the Gay 90’s!  And sip suds! And dance to Prince!  Thus you will be different, just as I was after that comment I didn’t like!”

“No!”  Joe cried.  “I want to go to TGI Fridays!  And watch The Sports!  And pick up hoochies!” 

Reginald closed in slowly, scooping his victim up in an intimate embrace. His sausage fingers peeled off the eponymous baseball cap as the youth went limp, his rhinestone fangs brushed the youth’s throat. Joe felt the heady rush of blood as he surrendered control to the rotund immortal.   Control, his soul, and his deepest inhibitions.    

And then they had sex.

Because God

Chuckie’s eyes blurred as he stared through the windshield.   The road lines were long since lost in about an inch of snow and it was now a matter of trying to discern the tire tracks through the greasy, early-April sludge.  At this point, he was willing to admit, taking the 40-mile trip home may have been a mistake.  He had, after all, imbibed a few alcoholic beverages, he was rather sleepy, it was snowing, and Old Clinton Road - the lonely stretch that spanned between his home and that of his mother-in-law’s, was known to be haunted, treacherous and radioactive.

He flipped on the defogger and looked at his hot wife Fanny in the seat next to him.  She was hot and also had blonde hair, which he liked.

They met in college where she was pursuing a degree in parapsychology and he was going for a masters in art history.  Neither degree is important, really, and as they will never be mentioned henceforth, I’m not certain why I even brought it up.  At any rate, they found they had the same taste in reality television, and as they had nothing better to do really got married.  

That was ten years ago, and while he left the toilet seat up every now and again, he had to admit that it wasn’t that bad.  The only thing he didn’t care for in the relationship was Fanny’s mother Muffin, who was a horrible woman who didn’t break the spaghetti in half prior to cooking it and never got his name right.  He’d moved more than forty miles to get away from her and also to pursue that big art history money, which yes, I mentioned the degree again.  Goes to show you can’t trust authors.  Especially ones who break the fourth wall. Still, Fanny seemed to like her own mother, which is precisely why they’d been over to change the lightbulb today.

“It’s getting late, Kevin,” Muffin had insisted as Chuckie climbed off the ladder.  “You two should just take the spare room.”

“That sounds nice,” Fanny said.  “Maybe in the morning we could cut out paper dolls like we used to when I was little.”

“Yes,” said Muffin.

“No,” Chuckie said.  “After that she will want me to unplug the toaster and wind the cord on the vacuum and perform other mundane tasks.  It is my weekend and all I want to do is study art history and make woopie with you, my hot wife.”

“Oh Kevin,” Fanny said.  

You know what?  His name is Kevin now.

Kevin looked across the car at his sleeping wife, her hair a halo in the dashboard lights.  He loved her so much when she

Out of nowhere they were hit by a tramp locomotive!

WHUMP!

The next four months were a blur.  Chuckie was whisked away to the hospital with a contusion, and was out of the hospital and into physical therapy in a week.  Bambi wasn’t so lucky.  She’d taken the brunt of the locomotive’s wrath and had been run over three times.  She had a broken leg and was in a coma.

He sued the locomotive and, thanks to his Scientology lawyers, received a sizeable sum of two billion dollars.  He now had a gold-plated zeppelin and his own colony on the moon, but a million colonies could not bring Suzie out of her coma.   Every night, Kevin dreamed she woke.  Every morning on his way to not working, he stopped by her hospital room.  He brought her favorite songs and DVD’s.  He tied balloons to her IV drip on her birthday.  

Eventually he transferred Buffy to the best hospital on his moon base, where she was tended by the best doctors, like that robot from Star Wars, and the singing moon with sunglasses from that 80's McDonald’s commercial.  Sadly, even they reached the zenith of their ability; the point from which they could proceed no further.

“Bleep bleep bloop,” the robot said.

“Sadly,” the moon said, “I agree with my colleague. The chances of your wife recovering are so slim, Mr. Blatsowski, that they cannot be expressed meaningfully in fractions.  Even if she were, by some miracle, to awake, I fear she will remain a brain functioning to a quarter of its capacity within a paralyzed shell.  I fear she will never play piano again.”

“Chuckie,” said his mother-in-law, who was there sweeping the floor.  “Son, I think it’s time.”

“No,” Kevin insisted. “ We can’t just pull the plug.  You can’t ask me to kill my wife, even if she will never play chopsticks, which was her favorite thing to do.”

Muffin put a motherly hand on his shoulder. “No one loves Suzie more than I do, Sylvester,” she said.  “No one except possibly you.  If you truly love her, son, you need to let her soul go.”

“This sucks,” Chuckie said, having a big mac with the moon after they had pulled the plug and ejected his wife into the sun.  “How could God do this to me?”

The moon took a meaningful bite of processed meat and looked up at the stars for a long while.  “As an anthropomorphic moon,” he said at last, “I can’t acknowledge the existence of any god, but I can tell you that I blame the conductor.  He’s the one who ran that yield sign.”

Later that night, Kevin was sitting on his gold-plated super computer that ran the internets, surrounded by his robot harem.  He was all upset because his wife was dead.  He would never hear her beautiful piano music again.  All at once, he got an AIM message!

GOD: U BIN TALKIN SHIT SON?

Assuming it was the doctor who was also a burger mascot, Kevin composed a retort regarding how it was completely unethical to violate client-patient confidentiality, and that he would be reporting him to the veterinary board in the morning.

All at once, he remembered that he didn’t have AIM installed.  He wasn’t even certain AIM was a thing anymore.

GOD: HAHA IC U REALIZED.  I CAN HAZ UR ATTENSHUN NOW?

Chuckie nodded.

GOD: GUD.  I GOTS BAMBI UP HERE YO.  SHE SEZ HI.

“Tell her I said hi back,” Kevin said, still taken somewhat aback.

GOD: WILL DO YO.  SO YU TALKIN SHIT ABOUT ME?  U ALMOST AS BAD S DICK DAWKINS.

“You killed my wife.”

GOD: TRAIN KILLED YO WIFE SON.

“You made the train!”

GOD: DAT WAS GE YO!

“You made GE!”

GOD: IC UR POINT YO.  HOW BOUTS I GIVES U A MULLIGAN?

“What?”

GOD: A DO OVA, SON.

“You’d give me the opportunity to relive that fateful evening?  To save my wife’s life and change the fabric of my existence?”

GOD: FO SHO

All at once, Chuckie was back in his volkswagen.  He blinked, almost blinded by the snow in the headlights, then looked across to his sleeping wife.

“I love you so much, snugglemuffin,” he said.  “I swear this time I will drive more slowly and watch ever so carefully for those train tracks and

Just like that they were hit by a stray blimp.

“WTF,” Chuckie from present time said.

GOD: WUT?

“You hit us with a blimp,” Chuckie said.  “Different accident, same net effect!”

GOD: SORRY BOUT DAT YO I WUS WATCHING MY GOT!  STARKS FO LIFE YO!!!

“Well, can you send us back?  Maybe a bit further this time?”

GOD: FO SHIZZLE DAWG!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!1

And just like that he was stepping down from his mother-in-law’s stepladder, CFL bulb freshly changed above him.  

“It’s getting late, Kevin,” Muffin had insisted.  “You two should just take the --”

“FUCK YOU, BYATCH!” he cried, grabbing his wife’s arm and cramming her like an air mattress into the passenger side door.

“I love you so much,” he said, strapping himself in, “but I can’t stand your damned mother.  Now, Old Clinton Road is full of blimps and trains and probably poisonous giant car-eating anacondas, so we have only one way to get home.”

“Highway 61,” Suzie asked.

“No,” Chuckie said.  “Low orbit.”

There was a skateboarding half-pipe just down the road, Chuckie reasoned.  If he hit it at just the right velocity, he could launch his wee car into the stratosphere and catch the jet stream back to their home.  It went terribly, terribly wrong, but that didn’t matter as God, who was a cool guy, was thoroughly sick of his shit by this point in the story, and was also watching Game of Thrones.

THE END???!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!1