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.