The Ritzy Tale of Rupert the Bunny

Once upon a time, in the ritziest part of Briarwood lived Rupert T. Bunny.  Rupert was a dapper hare who wore a monocle, spats, a tophat and a cute little vest with a gold watch fob upon which the sunbeams danced like wee fairies when they came through the tall windows of his beautiful penthouse apartment.

Rupert mostly vested his time hippity-hopping about Briarwood’s smarter boutiques and coffee shops, but today he decided to visit Briarwood Township.  Rupert would not normally slum it like this, but Briarwood Township is where his cousin Flopsy T Bunny lived in a hole in the ground.

“Wot ho, cousin Flopsy,” Rupert said, descending the hole, cautious not to muddy his fine spats. “How goes life in the country?”

“Meep!”  Cried Flopsy, who had just then been startled.

“Wotwotwotwotwot!” Rupert chuckled, as this is how proper rabbits laughed.  “Wot is that you just said there, cousin?”

“I said ‘meep.’”  Flopsy explained.  “It is what I say when startled or to accent any part of my speech that may require it.”

“But we say ‘wot.’”  Rupert stated.

“What?”  Flopsy asked.

“No,” said Rupert.  “Wot.  All bunnies say ‘wot.’  Every man jack of us.”

“Well,” said Flopsy, flouncing her ears, “I say ‘meep.’”

Just then Millionare Joe came down the hole.  “I’m a crazy millionare.”  Millionare Joe stated, “and I have a mind to give half mah fortune to the first bunny I see.”

“Meep!”  Cried Flopsy.

“Wotwotwotwotwot,” chortled Rupert.

“Well,” said Joe, “we all know proper bunnies say ‘wot,’ so Rupert here gets half mah fortune!  Yeeh-haw!”

“Meep de la beep!” Cried Flopsy, “What does the flopsy get?”

Joe scratched his head.  “Well, reckon I could grow mah moustache out and chase you with a gun every now ‘n again!”

So Rupert got to live in an even ritzier penthouse apartment in an even better part of town whilst Flopsy got to live in a hole with vermin and the occasional terrorist.  All because she couldn’t say ‘wot.’

THE END

The Worst Criminal

Barnacle Bob was a math teacher.  Most people with the first name Barnacle, to say little of the last name Bob, would go out and become a sailor or mariner or Fisherman, and many may well have, but the Barnacle Bob you're reading about this instant taught math and fractions and carrying one's ones to the proper row.  This was his life's ambition.  Unfortunately, the children made horrible fun of Barnacle Bob, and he could no longer teach math.  He had to become a criminal.

"Hands up," Bob bellowed as he entered a booze joint, brandishing his pistols sideways like a proper gangster.  "Listen up and no one gets shot!  If I leave Beesley's Point for Newark at noon going forty miles and hour, and my friend JoJo in Point Pleasant catches the express train to said destination at eleven forty five, supposing that the train was going fifty miles an hour and had to make two stops of five minutes each, and I had to stop twice to go to the bathroom at approximately two minutes each, who would get to Newark first?!"

"Do we have to account for acceleration?"  The old man at the counter asked, his sweaty fingers desperately flicking the panic button.

"No," Bob replied.  "Simply assume what I told you and give me an answer."

 "What if there's traffic at a turnpike?" A young man with a fake ID asked. "And who uses a train in 2012?"

"For the hypothetical purposes of this assignment, we will assume there is no traffic, that we have valid options for mass transit, and that I maintain a constant 40 miles per hour to my destination."

"Yes, he's asking them math questions," Said the fat manager to the phone, eating chips and watching the security cams in the dingy break room. "Old Joe out front dropped out of community college, so it's only a matter of time before he gets shot and dies."

"Just stall him," Officer Jim said.  "We're on our way."

"I've got a question."  The fat manager said, hitching up his dockers as he weezed his way out into the store.  "Who the fuck uses a train -- ??"

"HANDS IN THE AIR!"  Shouted Officer Jimbob, crashing through the window on the trampoline he had cleverly placed in the alley outside a week beforehand.  It was the only booze joint in town, so he was pretty sure shit would go down eventually.  Officer Jimbob rolled twice, landing in a crouch with his tazer drawn.  "FREEZE, SCUMBAG!"

Barnacle Bob was arrested and the fat manager got a medal of honor.

The Bittersweet Tale of Geriatric Blue

Once upon a time there was a little hillbilly named Omar Watson who had a hound dog named Geriatric Blue.  They went everywhere together; the river, the creek, the Texaco Latrine between the river and the creek.  But one day Geriatric Blue was bravely defending Omar from a hobo and got rabies.

"I know he is your only friend in the world and that you'll likely become a stunted individual because we couldn't afford a vet to put Geriatric down in a humane fashion," said Omar's Mom, "but you have to take your shooting gun and shoot him in the face.  It builds character."

Omar got his shooting gun.  He leveled the sights at Blue and put his sweaty finger to the trigger.

"Gotta pull the trigger," he said.  "Got to be a man and make momma proud."

But one look in Blue's rolling eyes and frothy gums reminded him of all the good times they had being barefoot and throwing sticks in the river and doing whatever else it was that redneck children do on a regular basis.  It was very bittersweet, which I am telling you rather than describing using critical detail because it takes less effort on my part.

"I can't do it, Ma," Omar said.  "I can't shoot Blue."

And so he didn't.  Geriatric Blue lived a long, happy life biting Omar's redneck neighbors in the neck and buttocks.  Then came the day he bit Squirrely Zeke Loughton, who was out of his inbred mind on some sort of moonshine he'd made out of sterno, Scope and crystal meth.  The drugs caused the rabies virus to mutate, and he became patient zero of the zombie apocalypse.  

This would change Little Omar's life considerably, but that's not what this story is about.  It's about a boy and his dog.  Happy times.

THE END?

The Vampires of Candyland

"Hey," Said Maurice.

"Hey," Said Susie.  "Nice night for a date."

"Indeed it is," Spake Maurice, "and being that it is our third date, I thought I'd tell you that I am a vampire."

"Gee," Susie shouted.  "That means you're all brooding and soulful."

"No," Said Maurice. "It's not like that at all."

"Well," Said Susie, "then you can turn into mist and a bat and other Creatures of the Night!"

"Lord no," Said Maurice, "Bats are dirty.  I think they carry AIDS."

"Oh," Said Susie.  "Well, is it magical?"

"It's very magical."

"Can we go on a Magical Vampire Adventure?"

"We sure can!"

So Maurice whistled and his magical unicorn flew down on a magical rainbow that glittered like Abba would if it were a rainbow and not a band.  "This is my unicorn," Maurice said. "I call him Joe."

"Er," said Susie.  "Will he be doing the rainbow thing every time?"

"He sure will," said Maurice.  "He also shits care bears.  It's all part of being a vampire.  You ready?"

"Er, alright."

So they flew off through the dark and spooky night.  Susie kept hoping they would get to swoop low and maybe wear a cape or a beret and maybe bite people and hang out in coffee shops utilizing iPads, but no such luck.

"Almost there," said Maurice.

Susie looked down and realized she was so lost in her vampire-inspired revery that she had entirely missed their approaching a vast, idealic land with towering spires and cathedrals that seemed to reach to clouds as pink as cotton candy.  She was beginning to think she could get into this medieval-type shit, until she sailed through one of the clouds, and realized it was actually cotton candy. Then they were banking along towers  shingled with gumdrops and the stained glass windows made of some kind of jolly rancher.  Even the night soil carts were laden with chocolate kisses and salted nut rolls.

She sighed, folding her arms in front of her.  "Fuck all," she said.  "we're in Candy Land, aren't we?"

Maurice beamed back at her.  "We sure are!  We're going to go to the castle of the king!  He's my dad!"

"Lame!"

"He's also a vampire!"

She sighed more loudly this time, hoping he would take note.  "Fine.  I'll tolerate this.  But it better be good."

"Oh it's going to be good alright," Maurice said as they banked towards a tall gingerbread castle with peanut brittle ramparts.  "Today's the day of the Lemon Drop Parade!"

Susie rolled her eyes.  "For yay."

They banked through a tall arched window and Joe's hooves clattered on a fruit rollup floor polished as smooth as glass.

"Welcome back, my son!"  An old man with a sour patch crown and a pink cotton candy beard cried.  As Maurice dismounted and embraced his father, Susie could see the king's eyes were red and puffy.  Oh good, she thought.  The old man was probably all shaken up about drinking some peasant girl's blood.  He was probably being driven insane, trapped in the existential rift between disgust for what he had become and  the insatiable lust for blood.

"Father," Maurice said,"You've been crying.  What troubles you?"

The King heaved a sigh almost as heavy as his countenance.  "Oh m'boy, Mean Old Mayor McTaffy called Constable Cream Puff and made a complaint about our trumpets!  There's not to be a Lemon Drop Parade this year!"

"You see, Susie!"  Maurice said.  "I told you there'd be an Awesome Vampire Quest!  We need to go have a polite yet firm chat with Mayor McTaffy tout-suite!"

"You're the king," Susie reasoned.  "Can't you just order someone to cut off his head?'

"Lord no!" The King gasped.

"Well then can't you just order the parade to go on anyway?"

"No."  The old man shook his head sadly. "Not if Constable Creampuff says otherwise!" .

Susie put her hands on her hips.  "But you're king!"

"Technically speaking," Maurice said, "it's a constitutional monarchy.  The parliament has all the real power."

"We do get to have parades though," The King added.  "And ride a float at Booya!"

"Then drink his blood and make him your slave!"  Susie cried.

Maurice cringed at the word 'blood.'  "Oh dear, we could never do that!" The King gasped.

"Look," Susie spat the word through clenched teeth. "Are you guys vampires or what?"

"Of course we are!"  Maurice said.  "We ride rainbows and eat CANDY!"

Susie couldn't take it anymore.  She stomped her feet, hopped up and down, pooped directly in her pantaloons, and sank her molars into  the King of Candy Land's buttocks!

"My ass!"  The King cried, watching her gnaw off a macaroon-sized chunk.  "My royal, butterscotch ass!  Oh, whatever have you done?"

In a poof of pixy stick powder, Susie became a purple gummi bear.

"Oh no!"  Maurice cried.  "The curse!  The molasses witch said that if an outlander ever partakes of the King's royal ass, he or she will turn every night into a gummi bear!"

"She'll feed on the blood of mortals and sleep in a coffin!"  The King cried.

"That's totally skeevy and also dirty!"  Maurice screamed.  "She'll be Candy Land's first ACCOUNTANT!"

And with that Susie bobbed off into the night on a string that was only mostly visible.

Joe the Bear

Once upon a time there was a little bear named Joe.  Joe liked to remain naked all the time.  Fortunately, this was normal.  As he was a bear.

THE END?

Tom Cruise's Magical Wish

Once upon a time Tom Cruise sat upon the toilet. He strained and strained and strained and finally heard a sploosh.

 He was just about to flush the toilet when he heard a magical voice.

 "Tom Cruise! Tom Cruise!" Tom peered into the toilet bowl to see a rainbow-colored, sparkling turd floating in a sea of flourescent yellow.

 "Poo can't talk." Tom said.

 "I can," the poo said, "for I am a magical poo! If you'll just scoop me up and put me in your garden, I shall grant you a wish!"

 So Tom Cruise ran to the kitchen with his pants still 'round his ankles. "Young Scientology 'volunteer,'" he shouted to a toddler washing the dishes, "I need your assistance in the bathroom tout-suite!"

 Soon the young lad had scooped the poopy out and released it in the garden.

 "Now that you have granted me freedom," said the poop, "I shall grant you but one wish!"

 "Well, I already have five hundred oscars and a gold-plated luxury bus and a gaurunteed spot in Xenu's heavenly court on planet Vassuvius," Tom mused. "I suppose my life could have a soundtrack, so it could be just as awesome as my movies!"

 "Your wish is granted!" Said the poop, and then it decomposed into nothing. Just then some voices sang:

 Tom Cruise! 
Tom Cruise!
He rescued a poop and got a wish! 
Tom Cruise! 
Tom Cruise! 
Now he'll make a cult slave make him something delish!

"That's very good!" Tom Cruise exclaimed. "But Scientology is a valid religion. And they're 'volunteers,' not slaves!"

So after eating some beluga caviar with couscous prepared by his maid Billy, he went out on the town to meet his friend John Travolta.

As soon as John stepped into Tom's Gold-plated Luxury bus, the voices sang:


Tom Cruise! 
 Tom Cruise! 
He's hanging out with that guy from Grease! 
Tom Cruise! 
Tom Cruise! 
He smears his **** with elephant grease!

 "Geewow," exclaimed Travolta, "that was like awesome, Tom! Are you, like, teachin' Suri to be a ventriloquist?"

 "No," said Tom, "I rescued a magic crap this morning, and I got a wish.  It's super awesome, but needs some tweaking."

 "Holygee! Did you wish for people to like your movies?"

 "No! They already do!"

 "Goshyshucks! Did you wish for eternal life or like a mansion on Xenu's home planet?"

 "I'm Tom Cruise! I'll already have those things! I wished for a soundtrack to my life!"

 "Awyeah! So it could be just like the movies! I see where you're goin' with that, you sly dog!"

 And so Tom Cruise and John Travolta drove over to a fancy Chinese restaurant. The fanciest in all Hollywood! On their way to the table Tom admired the gorgeous, polished banisters and sexy cherry trim that ran along the ceiling.  Just then the voices sang:


Tom Cruise! 
 Tom Cruise! 
He's going to eat and ring a gong! 
Tom Cruise! 
Tom Cruise! 
The crown moulding is exciting his ****!

 "Shuckwow! What did they just say?" John asked.

 "That I'm hungry!" Tom growled. "Shut up and let's eat!"

 But he couldn't help it. As Tom made small talk with his fellow scientologist, his hands explored the half-wall beside his table. its paint was just so smooth, and the little inset brass sconces had such a delicate curve.

"Let's go order!" John insisted. And so they went up to the counter, because it was one of those places with a big central wok. And so they placed their order, and the food came up real fast.

 "Are you going to ring the gong?" Travolta asked. "

What?" Tom snapped. Just then he noticed the antique gong next to the counter that said "ring if you've had good service."

 "Those paparazzi are looking!" John said. "This would be just the thing to make you look like the 'common man!' Make you the man of the working people! The headlines'll read 'Tom Cruise rings gong! Expresses appreciation to peasants!"

 "Of course I'll ring the gong!" Tom said, taking the gong-beating implement, trying hard not to notice the smooth, supple work counter. "I'll beat it because I'm Tom Cruise!  And Tom Cruise beats it!  He beats it hard!"

And so he smacked that gong like it was a 'volunteer' who'd just messed up his emu omelet, and the voices cried out:

 Tom Cruise! 
Tom Cruise! 
Just like we said he rang that gong! 
Tom Cruise! 
Tom Cruise!
 He's gonna **** this building all night long!

 "NO!" Tom Cried. "NO! That's slander! I'll sue! I'll sue you all until you're DEAD!"

 But he could not do this. Because they were just magical voices, and they had no estate to speak of. So he settled for suing the restaurant owner and having his disgusting Hollywood way with the chair rail.

Susie the Steam Engine

Once upon a time there was a little Steam Engine named Susie. Now, I know what you're thinking: steam engines are quite antiquated, somewhat dangerous, and less environmentally friendly than their modern counterparts. Children, there's such a thing called the 'willful suspension of disbelief,' and if you stop accepting it, your beloved Pooh will knock Christopher Robin's head off and gnaw on his bloody rib cage like a dog with a squeaky toy. The police will then come out and pump him full of bullets, because in real life bears don't go to jail.

 We don't want that to happen, do we? Then hush, children. Just listen to the story.

 Little Susie began her day at the Bobbletown orphanage.

 "Do you really think you can get these children up to Hubtown," Asked Mother Turntable. "They are so very excited to meet their new adopted parents."

 Little Susie was somewhat concerned at this juncture. Not only were her cars not rated for human transport, Nubtown was also across Plot Point Mountain, the highest, meanest, and only mountain in the whole county. But Little Susie loved the orphans and said she would.

 Next she stopped at Lucky Pierre's Baguette Shop.

 "Allo Susie," said Pierre, "I hope joo can geet my baguettes all the way to Nubtown toodee. My weef and I are geeng to huv a beebee und ve need ze profits to buy heem cheese and wine."

 Little Susie thought long and hard. This would mean running yet another car all the way over to Hubtown and across the icy Plot Point Mountain. Still, she dearly loved Lucky Pierre, and his bread didn't weight that much, so she said yes.

 Finally, she stopped at Old Angus's School for Urchins and Ragamuffins.

"Och," said Angus, "I mee bee just an ol' cultural clichee, but I'm hopin' on my shillelagh that ye kin run this load of poopy across the Plot Points t' Hubtoon."

 "Er, uh, poopy?" asked Susie.

 "Aye," said Angus. "Fifteen toons of eet. Een canvas sacks. Y'see th' constable checked oor ordinances, an' we're na' zoned to dispose of urchin poopy, so we sell it t' Hubtoon for a profit."

 "Um, what do they do with fifteen tons of kid crap?"

 Angus shrugged his shoulders and tugged on his pipe in a particularly stereotypical fashion. "So kin ye do it er na'?"

 Susie was really getting pissed off by this point, but she loved Angus, and was willing to take one for the team.

As Angus's was her last stop, Susie left Bobbletown and began her slow, meandering descent through Rolling Valley. Dew on the tall yellow grasses glistened in the morning sunlight and the red and golden maples danced in the soft breeze.

 "Wow," she said, building up speed. "I'm feeling really good today. I think I can do this!"

Susie was feeling pretty good as she entered No Regrets Tunnel at the foot of Plot Point Mountain. It was a steep grade, a bit of a climb, but Susie just kept remembering the Orphans and the Urchins, and Lucky Pierre and his ambiently glowing wife.

 "I can do it!" Susie said. "I know I can!"

 A wintery wind whistled as it whipped snow down on to Susie as she broke out of the tunnel and for the first time she saw the steep climb up Plot Point.

 "I've come this far." She said. "I know I can do it and I just won't look back!" The grade grew steeper and the air grew colder as she continued to climb. She wasn't going as fast now as her wheels slipped in the ice and snow and she was getting tired.

 "I've got to think of the little orphans and the urchins and Lucky Pierre's little baby," She said. "I can do it, I know I can!" The climb was steep now, and she knew she was entering Impasse Pass; the most dangerous point in the whole mountain. The wind howled through the pass, and so did the giant dire wolves that raced down the mountain.

 "Well, I'm just a train! They won't -- OW!" Susie cried as one bit her right in the piston. "WTF??  That really hurts!  Why would a wolf bite a train?!"

 Soon the whole pack was gnawing on her pistons and couplers and wheels, trying to drag her back as she struggled to make her way through this last, hardest part of the mountain.

 "I've got to think of the orphans," she gasped. "The orphans need me, Lucky Pierre too. I can do it, I know I--"

 Just then Little Susie died.


 I know she's a train, and you're probably saying to yourself "Oh, well, she can just be fixed," but STFU. Seriously, she's dead. Don't think so? Don't think I'd do such a thing? Just sit back and watch me work, you little crap-factories.

The orphans screamed as Little Susie tumbled backwards down the tracks. Their world was suddenly inundated with flying, pelting baguettes and frothy bits of poo. They picked up incredible speed as they shot through the tunnel; such speed that the g-forces exceeded their frail human capacity, and they lost consciousness.

 As you shall soon see, children, they were the lucky ones.


It was a sunny day back in Bobbletown. Birds were tweeting, people were out buying bread, and urchins were playing hopskotch on the railroad tracks. It was such a nice, and sunny, and generally bubbly day that they had no warning at all when Susie (now dead) came plowing down the tracks at 1500 miles per hours.

If you'll, for a moment, imagine a party balloon filled with meat and brains (and a lot of blood,) being popped, that is exactly what it looked like when she ran into the children playing hopskotch.

They didn't scream so much as squeak, and that was the last anyone ever heard or saw of them, though they were sprayed a bit on the couples having a picnic with their parasols and straw hats.

The car full of orphans came dislodged at this point and plowed like a battering ram right through Lucky Pierre's house. Many would say his wife, who just then had a roller in her hands, never got to finish painting the nursery, but they were wrong. That nursery was painted red.

The car plowed through his shop, and spun into his courtyard like a dradel that happened to be flinging orphans from the windows and massacring people eating bread like an enormous, dull lawnmower blade. 

Lucky Pierre lived up to his name. Trapped under a small mountain of cream puffs from which the authorities later extricated him, Pierre never quite got over the death of his unborn child and took to drinking and surliness, but being that he was French already, no one really noticed or cared.  Bobbletown already had enough to think about, yeah?

At any rate, Little Susie continued her swan dive, barreling down the tracks into the orphanage, which she plowed into at nearly 2,000 miles per hour. Some of the kids probably would have survived, but being that she was a steam engine a fire broke out, and the poop and bread in her cars exploded, killing everyone in a quarter mile radius.

Never try, children.  Never try.

Wishes and Buses

One fine day Bartles McGee and his dog Snuffles McWeewee were sitting on their front porch when a little boy rode by on his tricycle.

"Hey," said Bartles, "look at that little kid."

"I hope he dies," said Snuffles.

Just then a bus came along. With a squeal and a trail of gore and triciycle bits, the little boy was gone.

"Gosh," said Bartles. "Your wish came true. Make another wish!"

"I wish we had a smaller house," said Snuffles.

Like Cinderella, Only Better!

Once upon a time there was a straightforward young go-getter named Johnny Business. Johnny worked in the mergers&acquisitions department of Velicoraptor Inc.

"This is a hostile takeover," he would say. "You're taken over. Get out!"

"But this is a school," the principal would say. "Who would do a hostile takeover of a public grade school?"

But Johnny Business did not care. It was not his job to care. It was his job to say things. The more things he said, the more Mr Moneybelt would make the money. Someday he hoped, the old man would notice his pluck and energy and complete disregard for sentimentality or common sense. Then he would become a VP and wear a big hat.

"I hope Mr Moneybelt notices me today," Johhny would say as he and his girlfriend Tootie lay in bed. Tootie would not say anything. She just liked Johhny for his money, and secretly hoped that he would one day shut up and maybe die.

But while Johhny was trying to catch Mr. Moneybelt's eye, someone else was trying to catch his. You see, every day Johhnny came to work, he ordered an overpriced coffee drink. That drink was handed to him by a pretty young girl named Flopsy.

"Good morning Johhny," she would say. "Here's your half-caff mocha latte in a rival chain's coffee cup just like you like."

And then he would take it from her without so much as a word. So she pined and waited until one day he came in with that special look in his eyes.

"Flopsy," He said.

"Yes?" She asked.

"I've realized something. Something I should have come to know a long time ago. Something that was under my nose all along, but that I needed to be aware of in order to know."

"I see," she said, putting her tiny hands to her fluttering heart.

"We've bought you out in a hostile takeover," he said, "get out."

"But doesn't honesty and humility true love triumph over mindless corporate greed," she asked, "can't you see that, all this time you've been out bringing down other corporations I've been right beside you, handing you your coffee?"

"I thought you were a machine or some sort of toilet," he said. "Now get out. I've also hostiley taken over your home and your cat. You can't look at them either."

Flopsy cried and cried. Then later she got a big major degree and made lots of money. She took over Mr. Moneybelt's corporation and turned it into a giant toilet. She made Johhny Business into a human urinal cake and that was awesome.

THE END.

Is "Propaganda" the Opposite of "Cautionary?"

Prior to meeting That Rufus, Little Katie was a relatively good student who regularly attended meetings of the Sewing Club. Now she had missed a few meetings, and only had a B- average. She had met That Rufus on a Yahoo sewing chat board. It was technically outside the exact line of this narrative, but believe me, it happened.

"Mm," Katie said, "Since I am a rebellious and headstrong teen, I plan on scaling down the side of my suburban home and hopping in my car, where That Rufus and I shall make decisions of a questionable moral bent." And this she made to do when she was unexpectedly interrupted.

"Stop right there," Katie's Mom cried. "I can't stop you from seeing That Rufus, Little Katie. All I can do is plead with you. Plead with you to do the right thing. You met That Rufus on the internets and he has a tattoo of mimes on his tushy. That means he is in a gang of carnivore mimes. Your grandmother says so and she watches TV."

"You will never stop me from loving That Rufus." Katie stubbornly insisted, folding her arms before her ample teen bosom.

"Remember Uncle Steve? He dated online. Now he works at the department store. Do you want to be like Uncle Steve?"

"I no longer love That Rufus," said Katie. "You have convinced me."

"I'm so glad, Little Katie."

"How did you know about the tattoo?"

"Let's have pie."

The very next day, Katie broke up with That Rufus in a firm yet tasteful fashion. Five years later she met Bob, who was going to law school, but ended up being the district manager at Rax Burger. She married him and took up cross stitching. Together they had a kid and moved to a slightly different housing development, and nothing of an untoward manner ever took place.

The Unplumbed Depths of Tom Tiberius Cruise

One day Tom Cruise went to a Starbucks and actually liked his coffee-flavored beverage. He liked it so much he asked the barista for the recipe.

"If I give you the recipe," said the barista, "will you give me tips on acting?"

"Well," said Tom Cruise, "This was not the best coffee drink I've ever had in my life, or even all that memorable, but I guess it's worth the hoary secrets to fame and success that it has taken me a lifetime to uncover." And with that, Tom Cruise leaned over and whispered his eldritch formulae in the barista's ears.

"Wow," the barista whispered as Tom Cruise walked away. "That is profound. I shall become the greatest actor the world has ever known."

So he joined a community theater and vlogged on Youtube and he sang and danced his little heart out on street corners and the very next summer he was running the slurpy stand at the movie theater.

THE END

Chuckie Finds Religiosity

Once upon a time there was a little boy named Chuckie. One day Little Joe was listening to REM when he realized that he couldn't find his religion. He tried to retrace his steps. He checked under his bed and in his backpack. He even checked the lost and found at school. No religion at all.

He was walking home feeling all bad about himself when he met none other than Tom Cruise.

"Hey, Chuckie," said Tom Cruise.

"Hey," said Chuckie. "My grandpa liked you in that plane movie."

"You look down, Chuckie. Is anything wrong?"

"Well, Mr Pilot, I've looked everywhere and I can't seem to find my religion."

"Well, what did it look like?"

"Well, gosh..." Chuckie thought and thought, but he couldn't remember.

"Well, did it look like this?" Tom Cruise asked, pulling out his copy of Dianetics.

"Yes," Chuckie said, "maybe. It had a book involved with it somehow."

"Well, I can't give you my copy," said Tom Cruise, "but I could get you another if you get audited."

"Then I'll get audited," said Chuckie, "I'll get audited and never listen to REM again."

"That's great," said Tom Cruise with a smile. "I just need five thousand dollars."

"But I don't have five thousand dollars," Chuckie exclaimed. "I'm just a little boy!"

Tom Cruise smiled, sliding a benevolent and nonthreatening arm over Chuckie's wee shoulder. "Well, lad, maybe you can come work for me."

"Gosh," said Chuckie. "What would I do? Clean windows? Whitewash fences?"

"Do you like cars?" Asked Tom Cruise.

"Gosh, do I," cried Chuckie.

"Do you like buses?" Asked Tom Cruise.

"Gee, they're my favorite," Chuckie bellowed.

"Then you can work on my luxury Scientology fleet! Forever!"

"Uh, what?"

"I mean for the summer. For the summer."

And this is how Chuckie finally found out that Scientology is a fat load of bunk peddled by overpaid Hollywood brats. Unfortunately, he couldn't do much about it because he was under contract for a million billion years. It was entirely Chuckie's fault, of course, as he should have had a lawyer, which just goes to show.

THE END

The Interactive Tale of Little Joe's Internet Experience

Once upon a time, there was a little boy named Little Joe. Little Joe was a bright little boy who liked nothing better than to spend a good hour on the internet. One day he was blogging about Sticky Bear when an instant messenger window popped up.

"Little Joe," cried the messenger, "I am a unicorn!"

"Gee," tippity-typed Little Joe, "a unicorn!"

"A magical unicorn named Gummipants! Of the Rainbow Skittle Forest!"

"Gosh!"

"I need your help, Little Joe! If you do not help me, none of the Rainbow Skittle Forest Unicorns will survive!"

"Oh no!"

If you want Little Joe to help the unicorns, see option A. If you think Little Joe should abandon the unicorns and get a damned Job, see option B!

A. "Sure I'll help!" Tapped Little Joe.

"Then all I'll need is your mommy or daddy's credit card number!"

"Hmmm..." typed Little Joe, "what will you need that for, Mr Gummipants?"

"By maxing those cards out we can secure five kajillion acres of unicorn habitat, Little Billy!" Gummipants reasoned. "That's enough for five unicorns to sit around eating hamburgers!"

"That makes no sense," Little Joe typed. "I think you are a scammer and I am going to report your firewall's telephone number to the Google police."

"That's OK." Gummipants replied. "I was just distracting you while Sticky Bear snuck around to the back door!"

"STICKY BEAR???!1" Little Joe typed excitedly, so gassed up about finally being able to meet his childhood hero that he let the 1 slip in. If you think Little Joe should rush forward and embrace his childhood hero, see option C. If you think Little Joe should bend over and kiss his underage buttocks goodbye, see Option D.


B. Shame on you! It's because of narrow-minded, unicorn-hating jerks like you that 10,0000 acres of prime unicorn habitat are lost every second. Did you know that in the time it took you to read this, 24 unicorns died, that in the time it took you to read THIS clause another 13 got addicted to unicorn laxatives, and that by the time this sentence became a run-on abomination a further 32 found out that one of their unicorn parents had an affair? Next time suck it in and choose option A. Shmuck.


C. STICKY BEAR!

SWOOP!

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWR

OMIGOD NO!!!!!

RIP! SHRED!

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!

OOO OOO OOOO!!!!!!!!!

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAR! *SNORT*

MY SPLEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEN!!!!!!


D. CRASH!

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAWR!

POKE! TEAR!

WHYSTICKYBEARWHY???!

GRAAAAAAAAAAAAAWWWWWWW!!!!!!!!

EVICERATE! TINKYWINKY!!!!!!!

OK THAT FELT KINDA GOOD!

ROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!

A LITTLE HIGHER PLEASE!

In Which a Character Almost Gets his Comeuppance, but then Ends up Not Getting it For Some Reason or Other

Professor Tomkins was a real jackass. He liked to look down girl’s blouses and tank tops in class, and openly put down the boys in front of them.

“Do you know why the artist employed negative space in such a singular fashion?” He would ask, to which the students would shake their heads. “It’s because all the boys in this classroom have tiny wankerdoodles. It’s a scientific fact.”

He was mean to all the boys, but especially Chuckie, who was fat. Professor Tomkins didn't like fat people. “This answer may have made sense if you weren’t so damn fat,” he wrote on one of Chuckie’s papers. “I find your argument compelling,” he wrote on another, “but you are totally fat.”

One day Chuckie died for some reason. Professor Tomkins didn’t really notice, or care, until he saw yard sale signs posted all over campus. Chuckie’s mother would be selling his stuff.

“Gee,” Professor Tomkins said, “for a fat kid, Chuckie sure had lots of nice stuff.”

It was only a few block’s walk over to Chuckie’s mother’s house. It was one of those split-level structures that were so popular in the 1980’s. “It’s typical,” he said to himself. “Fat people don’t usually have a multitude of stairs.”

Chuckie’s stuff was laid out on totes and orange crates and a card table on the front lawn. His mother sat on a lawn chair in a green sun dress. She was also obese and barefoot and was using a beaten tv tray to hold her cash box, calculator, and tear-stained Twilight novel. It figured, Professor Tomkins huffed to himself, digging through Chuckie’s CD collection. Fat people always read twilight. It’s because they wanted to become vampires and lose weight. After wiping the hoho crumbs off a few Ricky Martin albums, he moved on to Chuckie’s furnishings.

“Oo,” he exclaimed. “Look at this mirror! And it’s only five bucks!”

It was a very strange mirror, in that it was made entirely of a specific sort of mahoganny used only to Filipino blood magicians, and was decorated entirely with their most blasphemous and lurid symbols of necromancy and dark magic. It reflected him back as a man that was younger and much more sexy, but who also worked at B Dalton’s. How would such a morbidly obese person have found such a thing? How would he have bartered for it with his sausage fingers? How would he have afforded it with the ridiculous amount of tuition required to bankroll Tomkin’s salary? Tomkins was not sure, but he had to have that mirror.

Chuckie’s mother gave him an odd look as he brought it up. “That’s very strange,” she said. “I’ve never seen that before.”

“Typical,” he said. “Fat people always try to trick you and drive up the price so they can buy more KFC. WELL YOU WILL NOT FOOL ME. I will give you fifty dollars for this mirror and not a lard-coated nickle more, do you hear?”

“I’m not even sure it’s ours.”

“FIVE HUNDRED THOUSAND DOLLARS AND TEN PERCENT OF MY PAYCHECK!”

“What I’m saying is that I’m not sure it’s mine to sell...”

“FOR LIFE!”

“OK then.”

How clichee, Professor Tomkins thought. Fat people always caved at the first offer. They were not smart at all like him. He ran all the way to his office and asked his student aid to nail the mirror to the wall and go put something sexy on. When she refused he fired her and made a mental note to shred her transcripts. He then had a professor with less tenure nail the picture up and fired him too.

Frightening things began to happen after that. He got a student aid who weighed about 140, and when he threatened to fire her, she said she would sue and then passed gas. The walls of his office also started to bleed mucus, and not in a good, dadaist way, and a cold wind began to blow through his office.

“Those dumb janitors,” he said, “If they were smart and had a doctorate in art history like me they could take care of this problem, which obviously an air conditioning or the snot congestion filters on the roof..”

One morning he came in and a cold wind whistled down the hallway like the Andy Griffith intro in a minor key. His student aid was crouched under the desk, her hands white as a David Matthews concert. “Eraweb!” She shouted. “Eraweb!”

“Stereotypical obese people and your secret language!” He huffed. His muscles froze, a scream trapped in his throat. A steady, howling moan pierced by screams and perforated with sighs and groans and shit manifested in an icy blast. His desk was coated in frozen snot, his papers trapped under the translucent bubbly goo like flies locked in a plastic ice cube. His eyes followed the snot up the walls to the mirror. Coated with frost, one sentence was etched on its sworling, blood-red surface.

“I’d come out and do something really scary if I weren’t so damn fat.”

The Cautionary Tale of Little Joe

Once upon a Time there was a Little Boy named Little Joe who liked to collect stamps. He also liked to play with slot cars and model trains, and had more bottle caps than any other little boy on his block! Little Joe also liked to make meth. It was a great hobby, and he met lots of interesting people!

One day Little Joe was walking down the street when he met Little Katie. “So,” Little Katie said, “I’ve heard you’re mixing meth too.”

“Gee, I sure am,” said Little Joe. “It’s darn fun. Funner than throwing sticks in the river!”

“You just do not take life seriously, Little Joe,” Said Katie, shaking her head. “My Daddy says that you should only be in things to be the best. And I am going to make the best Meth because he bought me extra special cough syrup!”

“Gosh,” said Little Joe,”it doesn’t have to be a competition.”

“Everything’s a competition,” said Little Katie with a smile. “I win at board games, and I win at jacks, and I’ll win at this too. And when I do win, I’ll break your knees.”

“Gee,” said Little Joe. “Gosh.”

Little Joe was a very sad little boy. He went home and lay on the couch and did not want to do anything. After a while, a scary movie came on. It was about a scientist who made a monster using lightning. That’s it, little Joe thought; there was nothing lightning couldn’t fix!

“Daddy,” Little Joe said, running into the kitchen where his father was reading the paper. “Can I have a twenty foot antennae that attaches to the roof of the house? With guy wires? Can I? Can I?”

“Well,” Daddy contemplated, holding his pipe with one hand whilst rubbing his stubbly chin with the other, “I don’t know why you would need that.”

“It’s for science,” Little Joe exclaimed.

“You loveable scamp,” Daddy said, rubbing the top of Little Joe's head in a non-threatening manner. “you probably want it for a ham radio or weather research station or something, don’t you?”

“Or something, yes,” Little Joe said.

“Well, run along and play then,” said Daddy. “You will get your 20’ antennae.”

Little Joe did gt his twenty foot antennae. Once it was attached, he had all the kids in the neighborhood over to watch him make meth. Even Little Katie.
“Look at my twenty foot antennae,” said Little Joe.

“Gee,” said Little Katie.

“Yeah bitch,” said Little Joe. “That’s how I roll.”

Just then a lightning bolt hit the antennae and his lab exploded. Everyone died.

There is a moral to this story.

Don't do drug, kids!

Little Joe's Horrible Loss

Once upon a time there was a little boy named Little Joe. Little Joe had a mommy and a daddy who both loved him ever so much. They would take him to the park and the zoo and the hot dog stand down the block.

One day, Hot Dog Stand Pete saw Little Joe walking to his stand all alone. “Why hello, Little Joe,” said Pete. “How are you today?”

“Bad,” Little Joe pouted.

“Why,” Pete asked, “did you break your tonka truck?’

“No,” Little Joe said.

“Did you chip your choo choo train,” Pete asked.

“No,” said Little Joe.

“Did they cancel Firefly again,” Pete asked.

“No,” said Little Joe. “My mommy is sick.”

“That’s too bad,” said Pete, “but I am sure she’ll get better.”

“No,” said Little Joe. “The doctor said she’s real sick. She may go to Mommy Heaven.”

“I see,” said Pete, “would a foot long help? I’ll put extra jimmies on it.”

The foot long did not help. Little Joe’s mom died that night. Little Joe was sad. He was the saddest little boy on the whole block.  Maybe even the whole world. He stayed in his room for days and days. He did not want to go to the zoo or the park or the hot dog stand. He did not even want to go to school.

People came over to visit Little Joe, but he was mad and said things he did not mean. He told Grandma she smelled like feet. He told Reverend Poundstone his hat looked funny. He told Hot Dog Stand Pete that running a food stand was the most he would ever achieve in life.

“Now, Little Joe,” Daddy said, “I know you are upset about Mommy’s death, but we both need to get on with our lives and start dating again."

“Why did Mommy have to go to Mommy Heaven,” Little Joe asked. “I needed her here.”

“Well,” Daddy said, taking Little Joe on his lap, “I don’t know, really.  But if you stay cooped up in here you’ll become an asshole.”

“That’s not true,” Little Joe said to himself when his Daddy went away. “I’m just sad about Mommy. I’m just acting out and grieving in my own way. It’s not like I’ll become some sort of monster if I stay locked up in here.”

Oh how wrong Little Joe was. It turns out that his bedroom was built on an old Mohican Graveyard that had also been used as a nuclear waste dump back in the 1950’s. Overnight Little Joe grew six eyes and tentacles from his chin, and his skin was coated in a layer of slimy scales.

“I feel a little better,” Little Joe said, waking up the next morning. The sun was rising bright and pink and birds were twittering in the chestnut trees. “I think today I will go to school.”

Mister McGillicutty was raking his lawn across the street as Little Joe emerged from his house. “A monster,” Mister McGillicuty cried. “Someone get a gun and shoot it!”

Little Joe ran back into his home and cried and cried. He did not come out ever again. Instead, he played World of Warcraft and wrote bad poetry on Livejournal.

THE END

Tom Cruise is a Hippo

Barrista Bob’s day was normally filled with the bitter smell of hot coffee, the crackling whine of the grinder, the whoosh of whipped cream and the barking of customer’s orders. It did not normally feature Tom Cruise, which is why he cried “Tom Cruise! What are you doing here and why are you wearing that sexy hippo costume?”

“Listen bitch,” Tom Cruise growled, upsetting shakers of cardamom and some brown stuff that was probably sugar with his purple fuzzy hippo fists. “Xenu is a bad dude! Do you accept scientology?”

“SQUEEEEEEEEE!” Bob squealed, rolling into a fetal ball.

Tom Cruise vaulted over the counter and grabbed Bob by his lily white collar. “I’m a hippo!” He bellowed, his sunglass-shaded eyes zipping down to the barista's nametag. “I’m a hippo, Bob!! How does that make you feel??  What's your motivation right now??"

“Please!” Bob cried. “Please don’t sue me, Tom Cruise! I have children!”

"So I should sue them?"

"No!"

Tom Cruise’s breathing slowed. He threw Bob to the floor with every ounce of strength his 5'4 frame could muster, and walked towards the production counter, fluffing his hippo ears with barely concealed titillation. “Do you like that espresso machine, Bob?” He asked.

“That’s Chuckie!” Bob whimpered. “Oh, he's my favorite! Please oh please don’t touch him!”

“You don’t want me to touch him,” Tom Cruise said, running his hippo mitts over all the buttons.

“No!” Bob screamed, “don’t touch him like that!”

“So you really don’t want me to touch him like this!” Tom growled, ramming his purple hippo groin into the steam nozzle.

“NO!” Bob squealed. “You’ll jam the nozzle and it will come out of my paycheck!”

“Yeah, she never had hippo before, Bob!”

“It’s a he!”

“Maybe I’ll do her proud and fill her up with my own special foam!”

“His name is Chuckie!  He's a male appliance!"

“What?” Tom Cruise cried, releasing his death grip on Chuckie and zipping up his hippo furry suit pants. His cheeks scrunched up like an angry chipmunk that was simultaneously a hippo. “That's slander,” Tom Cruised seethed. "That is slander, Bob.  I'll sue!"

“No! Don’t!”

“Well,” Tom Cruise said, exploring the production area, “what about this fine coffee grinder here?”

“His name is Billy!”

Tom Cruise’s eyes narrowed. “You ever heard of muck spreading, Bob?”

“No,” Bob whimpered.

Bob heard a clang as Tom Cruise slammed Billy down and the floppy flap slap of his heavy hippo slippers against the linoleum.  “Muck spreading is when a hippo presses his tail to his anus as he empties his bowel, Bob.” Tom Cruise explained, standing directly over the cowering barista. “As the poop jettisons he shakes his tail. Have you ever put your thumb over a garden hose, Bob?” Bob's jowels jiggled like man boobs as he nodded. “It’s just like that, Bob. Only with hippo poop.”

“You wouldn’t,” Bob said. “This is a sanitary area, Tom Cruise! People sometimes drink our coffee! They pay for it too! With money!”

“And so they will,” Tom Cruise said, taking Bob by the collar and heaving him up until the barrista’s glasses were level with his marshmallow hippo teeth. “The public will drink my poop, Bob. They’ll like it and they’ll pay for it, just like they did with Mission Impossible and War of the Worlds and Jack Fucking Reacher, you daft cunt.”

Tom pulled Bob's collar even tighter as the barista began to sob, his voice escaping with the ferocity of a steamer’s hiss. “I’m a hungry, hungry hippo, Bob. Do you know what I’m hungry for?”

“No,” Bob whimpered.

“Fame.” With that burning epiphany free of his lips, Tom Cruise exploded with mad, raucous laughter. He laughed like he was jumping up and down on Oprah’s couch. He laughed like he was in some batshit scientology ad. He laughed and the light reflected off his sunglasses and his hippo tail and ears bobbed maniacally. Suddenly he snapped back to cold, merciless sanity. "I’ll give you one chance, caffeine jockey. One chance to save this franchise and the people who consume its sticky, overprices goods. If you win, I go away forever. If you fail, I will sue you, and your barista progeny will end up mixing my frothy fecal concoctions forever.”

Bob shut his eyes, summoning up all the good times he’d had at the store; mixing coffee drinks, refilling coffee machines, listening to Micheal Buble music. He thought of all the customers with their iPads and little scarves.  Men who had tattoos of Chinese symbols they couldn't read.  Women with vintage shirts that went down to their cut-off tights and bow ties that made them look like Oscar Wilde if he were color blind and also blind-blind.

He’d made his choice.

“This job sucks,” Bob said, standing up. “It is a terrible job full of self-absorbed yuppie hipster pricks, and you can go sue someone else. I quit.”

“Wait,” Tom Cruise said, dodging Bob's balled-up apron. “Maybe I will not sue you.”

“Go to hell, Tom Cruise,” Bob spat, flipping the Top Gun star off. “You’ve sucked since Rain Man.”

“Maybe you can sue me, huh, pal? I’ll loan you a lawyer!” Tom leaned over the counter as Bob walked out the door. “Can you at least show me how this thing with all the dials works?”

But the door shut, and Tom Cruise was alone.

Tom Cruise Makes a Deposit at the MoneyBank

It was a normal day at Super Money International Bank.  Chuckie Dorn, bank manager, was busy nodding approvingly at numbers and dollar signs when, without warning, he caught something terribly different out of the corner of his eye.   There, out the tall bank window, was Tom Tiberius Cruise, rappelling down the side of the building like a mad rockstar!

"Wow," Chuckie said.  It was totally unusual to see a Top Gun star coming bouncing down the side of the building, yet what happened next was so blasphemously irregular that by the time the dumpy bank manager reassembled his sense of reality clearly enough to cry “No! Don’t! This is a bank!” Thomas Cruise had once again pressed the seat of his $5B Dockers to the expensive bank window.  His fecal winds cascaded over the expensive glass like a lover's smelly touch. “Oh yes,” The pretend-pilot sighed, “just like grandma’s pudding!”

“This is madness,” Chuckie cried.  "Tom Cruise, take your anus off my money bank!  It is very crazy and obscene!  Also you cannot do it!”

“Your bank refused to accept scientology,” Tom snapped. “I’ll sue!”

“No! No! Don’t!”

“Oh yes,” Tom sighed, loosing another fart, “And when L Ron and I own your precious money, maybe I will do this!” And with that, Tom Cruise spun around and rammed his groin into the fart-tainted glass, making a noise that sounded like “DOING!”

“NO!” Chuckie sobbed, “you can’t! Not to our money bank!”

“Oh yes,” Tom laughed, moving his hips like he was Elvis. “Your building likes it!”

“NO!”

“Yes, it likes it and it says...”

“It says what?”

“That I’m way better than you at this!”

“NO!" Chuckie bellowed, hurling a hole punch across the office.  "I bought the strategy guide, Tom! I practiced day and night!”

“Shut up bank man,” Tom snapped. “Your building has been dry humped by Tom Tiberius Cruise!  It will never be satisfied with your junk bonds!”

“That’s not true!”

"I bet your mortgages weren't even prime, little man!"

"Lies!"

“Shut up," Tom sneered, "or I’ll sue you!”

Chuckie felt faint.  He'd never experienced anything like this.  “Gee,”he said, grasping his chest, “I’m powerless! Won’t someone please do something!”

“I will!”  A mysterious New York accent said.

“John Travolta!”

“Put on some Kenny G music, bank man!”

Yes!  This was a plan of action that would achieve something active!  “iPod Activate!” the banker cried, the sounds of Kenny’s sexy sax filling the house of money.

“Yes,” John said, rotating his shoulders and strutting like a gorram disco star across the room, “Yeah, that’s it, money man! Your building has real nice banisters!”

“Thank you,” Chuckie blushed. “I have someone wax them every day.”

“Then clearly you wouldn't mind,” John licked each portly fingertip before wrapping them around the polished cherrywood. “If I -- straddle them!!"

“No,” Chuckie fell to his knees, shaking his fists at the uncaring light fixtures. “It’s obscene! Why!!”

“Oh yes,” Tom groaned, licking the window's metal casement. “Take that banister, John! Take him like you know he wants it!”

“Stop this madness,” Chuckie cried, jabbing the buttons on his desk phone with his portly fingers. “You stop this, and get away from my bank, or I will call someone!”

“Telling people of events that have occurred constitutes fraud and defamation!” Tom vowed. “I'll sue!”

“Hello,” Chuckie shouted into the phone, “Hello! Yes, I am a bank manager of a bank and there are two celebrities here who are up to no good! I need a firehose and tasers and also some guns!!”

Tom ground against the glass like a mad belt sander that was going to town.  His bunny was almost to the tea party.

“Yes, they’re scientologists! What? NO, I don’t want cheesy bread!”

The operator suddenly went away with a “click.” “You disturbed my revelry,” Tom Cruise growled, pressing on the switch hook. “Coitus buildingus interruptus. I’ll sue you for that.”

“Fine,” Chuckie swallowed hard. “Sue me.”

“Oh I’ll sue,” Tom said, jabbing one perfectly manicured finger into the pudge beneath the manager's tie tack. “But then," he backed off a step, nodding wisely, "maybe I won’t.”

“What do you mean, Tom?” John Travolta asked, removing his nipple clamps. “We always sue. We are scientologists and we sue whenever sueing is something we can feasibly accomplish.  Suing is sort of our thing.  It's what we do with our day.”

“No,” Tom said. “If this little... banker wants his bank back, maybe I’ll give him one chance.”

“Anything,” Chuckie whispered. “I’ll do anything to get Bankie back.”

“Alright,” Tom said. “One chance. Just one, you hear me little money man?”

“Yes,” Chuckie said, feeling each bead of cold sweat as it exploded across his brow.

“OK,” Tom said, “this is it, you hear me?”

“Tom,” John cried, “no!”

“Yes,” Chuckie closed his eyes, trying to drown out the mixture of shirtless Travolta and Kenny G that invaded his senses like circus peanuts and kim chee. “I hear you.”

“Okay,” Tom said. “This is it, bank man. Your one chance to save your bank through nothing but the skills and resources you have attained through decades of honest bankery.” He slid closer until his lips were nearly touching Chuckie’s right ear. "Are you ready?"

Chuckie nodded.

Tom's breathing calmed. "Okay, bank man,"  He leaned ever closer, his voice a dry, husky whisper.  “What number am I thinking of?”

Chuckie clamped his eyes shut. In the darkness he could see himself as a younger, trimmer man walking through the rotating doors of the bank for the first time, feeling the lacquered grain of the banister under his palm, the nap of the carpet under his loafers as he ascended the stairs into the specular brilliance of faux crystal light fixtures on the marble-like linoleum. He could recall the buzz of his crt monitor; the perfect, sanitary angles of the white walls and fiberboard laminate desktop.

Chuckie's breathing slowed.  He thought of all the pieces of paper that had found their way to his desk, flowing neatly from inbox to outbox -- a fountain of numbers-- outstanding balances, available credits, dividends, adjusted interest rates and calculated equity; all interpreted in decimal format with various periods or commas or percentage signs to mark their relative significance. So many numbers, and now all he had to think of was one.  One discrete number in billions.  Trillions!  And those were just positive, real numbers.  The number in question could be negative, possessed of any number of significant digits.  It could be a variable number such as I, a complex polynomial such as 3x+2y^4, or a theoretically endless number such as Pi.  An impossible task indeed.  Yet if he couldn't do it, who could?

Chuckie Dorn's consciousness drifted into the cosmos like a rowboat on the tide. He was, all at once, Chuckie Dorn, the bank, and Tom Cruise's Dockers.  His temporal anchor blurred as he spiraled through a fractal of multiverses, infinite instantiations of Tom Cruise's $5B Dockers, simultaneously classic pleated and slim tapered.  Just as Chuckie's soul faded into nirvana like some manner of metaphysical urinal cake in the cosmic piss stream, a legion of Chuckies echoed back.  Together they reached the harmonic resonance of matter, becoming one blinding laser point, a static, magnetic pole in space-time.

Drawing a slow breath, Chuckie opened his eyes. “Is it three?”

Though Tom Cruise's chiseled features betrayed no emotion, a lone eyebrow slowly arched.  "Is that your guess?" The superstar asked.

“Tom,” John Travolta said.

“Did I hear you right,” Tom asked, his steely eyes locked on the money manager. “You only get one guess."

“Tom, let's just sue him," John insisted.  "Sue him and then go on making sweet, beautiful love to his beloved moneyhouse."

“Yes.” Chuckie whispered.  "That is my guess."

“I’m going to call you Numbers,” Tom said, ruffling the banker's sparse comb-over as he laughed. “I am going to name you that name I just named you right now because the number was three, you crazy mother.”

A wave of relief swept across the banker’s body. It was like an orgasm, only different. Different in that he did not loudly insist that he, indeed, was in the money.

“No!” John whined, dismounting and wiping off the udder cream. “Geez, Mav, this place had banisters!”

“Come on, John."  Tom said, putting an arm around the Italian's sporadically hairy, greasy shoulder. "There’s a Starbucks across the street.  Let’s blow this sad little moneystand and go dryhump a franchise.”

“If there’s a giant cup out front,” John said proudly, “it’s all mine!”

A Mission Statement

I like to write things now and then. Nothing serious; just bits of fluff, often rife with the sort of clichees, melodrama, and awful, cardboard dialogue we like to keep our of our more serious writing. It's an exorcise or maybe an exorcism of sorts. These writings aren't the sort of thing I'd send to a publisher, or own up to, except here.