Hyperspaced
The discovery of faster-than-light travel came about in much the same way as most great scientific discoveries in the universe: as the result of a night of drunken debauchery. After an overly dramatic space battle wherein they completely destroyed the armada of their mortal enemies, the X’th’qulikans, the crew of the battleship Crybabyslobberpuss proceeded to get totally smashed. After waking up, they discovered that they were a few dozen light years away from their original location.
Unfortunately, they had somehow managed to park themselves around the X’th’qulikans’ home planet, and so their important discovery was not reported for centuries until an eccentric collector bought the disk containing the Crybabyslobberpuss‘ starship data from a X’th’qulikan caffeine addict whose great-great-great-great-grandfather had fought in the war and had handed down the disk as a family heirloom for generations until this X’th’qulikan in question really needed his next fix at any cost.
But I digress.
It was soon discovered that the secret to faster-than-light travel was the simple extension of one of the most widely known facts in the universe. Just as you might find yourself lying in a strange gutter (or bed) on an unfamiliar side of town (or even in an entirely different town) after a raging bender, it turns out that starship crews who get completely blackout wasted tend to find themselves in entirely different sectors of the galaxy after waking up the next daycycle. Nobody is really able to discern the method of actual travel — the inevitable meddling with the ship’s controls by the drunks leaves any computer data completely undecipherable.
Of course, this method of transportation is incredibly unreliable as the crew really has no idea where they’ll end up. Which is where another well-known fact about drunk people comes into play: they love fatty, fried foods. The crew almost invariably awakens somewhere near a franchise of McGarbilax’s 25-Hour Diner, guaranteeing that they will, at least, be near some semblance of civilization.
When We Were Jung
“Got any spare change?” asked the Bum as the Truck Driver pushed passed him into the bar.
“The usual?” asked the Bartender as he entered.
“What else?” grunted the Truck Driver, sliding onto the stool. “I don’t know why you work in this dump,” he said, shaking his head.
“We all have to pay the rent somehow,” shrugged the Bartender, mixing up the drink.
“Tell me about it,” sighed the Truck Driver, “But you could do so much more! You’re the Wise Old Man for God’s sake! Couldn’t you have been a professor or a therapist or something?”
“I was self-taught,” sighed the Bartender, “No degree, no fancy title. But hey, you’re not exactly the Playboy Millionaire either!”
“Maybe not,” admitted the Truck Driver, “The Fool got there first, somehow.”
“I heard it was the Trickster,” said the Bartender. “He decided to become a Con Man, then he and the Fool worked together, did some embezzling and fraud, made millions. Of course, then he got arrested and the Fool got to keep all the money. Been living it up ever since, doesn’t give two shits about anything.”
“Hell, man,” laughed the Truck Driver, “why couldn’t that have been us? Ah well, at least I’m still doing what I was meant to. Driving a truck is sort of like being a Wanderer. I get to travel a lot, anyway.”
“Things sure have changed,” sighed the Bartender. “Have you seen the Mother and the Child recently? Now that’s sad.”
The Truck Driver nodded. Back when humanity was young, the Child was all sweetness and light, instead of the snotty little shit he was today. One could almost forgive the Mother for turning from the strong, supportive parent she once was to the henpecking, controlling woman she had become.
“What we need is a Hero to come along and set things right,” the Truck Driver sighed.
The Bartender smiled wistfully. “Every day I wish it more and more. It’s such a shame he was killed back in World War II.”
Not for everyone
Everyone said I was crazy, that it was a dumb idea, that I’d regret it. My friends wouldn’t stop calling my phone, sending text messages and showing up on my stoop at odd hours, begging me not to do it. My boss fired me, saying “I don’t want someone like you working for me!” as he drank his 100 proof whiskey, straight from the bottle. I stood fast on my position, I was going to do it, and there was nothing he could do to stop me. “Get out!” he bellowed at me, before he started sobbing uncontrollably. “You’re dead to me! Do you hear me!? YOU ARE DEAD!” I left, but my will was stronger than ever.
The next day, I carried out my plan. My sister drove me down to the dealership, pleading, begging me not to as we drove. The car slowed to a stop as I opened the door. At the last minute she grabbed the back of my shirt, tears flowing down her face. I shrugged her off and walked into the dealership, her car peeling away, leaving nothing but skid marks and a broken heart. I stepped into the dealership and walked straight up to one of the agents. I looked him straight in the eye and said “I’d like to buy a Smart Car.”
You know that scene in Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, where the evil Nazi henchman’s face melts off? Well that didn’t happen to the sales agent, but his lip curled a little bit and I noticed sweat breaking out along his thinning hairline. “H-h-h-here are y-y-y-your pap-pap-pap-PAPERS, just f-f-f-fill them out, a-a-a-and I’ll run a c-c-c-credit check” he stammered nervously. I handed him my drivers license and walked out of the room as fast as he could without trying to look obvious. I looked at all the Smart Cars they had in the show room. I admit that at this point, I was having my own doubts about the whole idea. I vividly recalled the sleepless nights of weeks past, up until six AM, tossing and turning, thinking about what might happen, weighing my options. I banished those dark thoughts from my mind just as the agent returned. His eyes were stained, evidence that he had most likely been sobbing uncontrollably in the back room for the last ten minutes. He handed me my license and opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out, only unintelligible grunts. Sensing his question, I said “I’ll take the red one, with the leather interior.” He nodded again and scurried off. Thirty minutes later, the agent, his boss and a nun come out of the back room. The manager tries to reason with me. The nun falls to her knees, praying for my salvation. I shrug past them, grabbing the car keys and I drive off the lot.
The drive home is short, too short to second guess myself, too short to turn around and redeem myself. Light after light, turn after turn, white knuckles gripping the steering wheel, fingernails leaving permanent impressions. I get home and back into the driveway. The neighbors come outside to watch. Steven Robinson starts to cross the street but wimps out under my withering glare. I open the garage, grab the tuba case, and return to my new car. The rear hatch glides open silently as everyone watching gasps loudly. No time for pleasantries now. I grab the tuba and try to shove it in. No luck. Silently, I close the hatch and walk back inside my house, feeling every pair of eyes staring at the back of my neck. A perfect walk of shame.
I should have known.
I should have listened.
Tuba players shouldn’t buy Smart Cars.
King of Hearts
The King of Hearts is called the Suicide King because he’s sticking a sword in his head. Seeing as he’s also the King of Hearts, you’d think that means that he killed himself for love.
Actually, he made everyone else kill themselves for love.
When he was born the doctors and nurses said he was the most beautiful baby they’d ever seen. Now of course they always say that, but this time it was true.
As he grew older, women loved him. His mother’s friends always talked about what a handsome young man he was, and of course, mothers’ friends always do that but this time they really meant it.
He became a teenager, and girls threw themselves at him. He always won best-looking contests, he even did a little modelling. Women everywhere went crazy for him. They left their boyfriends or their husbands or even sometimes their girlfriends just to be with him.
There was only one problem. He was aromatic and asexual. He had no desire for sex, and no capacity for romantic love. He could never return their feelings because they were feelings he could never feel.
As he grew older, he became more and more beautiful and soon it wasn’t just girls who loved him. Even men fell in love with him. Gay, straight, it didn’t matter. When he smiled at you, or even looked at you, you loved him and wanted him in ways you’d never loved or wanted anyone else.
Of course, he could never feel the same way about you.
And so, his admirers began to kill themselves.
Not all of them, of course. But the heartbreak they felt when they realized he could never love them was the worst pain any of them had ever felt. Many just couldn’t cope. Even those that didn’t kill themselves were never truly happy again.
Ironically, the King of Hearts was lonely.
He couldn’t have friends. It was just too awkward to try and be friends with people who felt so strongly towards him when he couldn’t return or even understand their feelings. Not to mention, so many people he knew killed themselves. He was afraid of even trying to get too close in fear that they’d die on him.
And so, eventually, one night, this man, the most beloved human being, this person who nobody could hate and everyone adored, died of a broken heart.
The next day everyone who’d ever met him killed themselves.
And that’s why the King of Hearts is the suicide king.
Icarus’ Yearbook
Keep reaching for the stars! Miss ya man.
- Odysseus
My dad’s gonna be out of town this summer and he’s leaving his chariot at home. One last joyride maybe?
- Phaeton
Thanks for introducing me to Theseus. He’s a great guy, I’m pretty sure we’re gonna get married.
- Ariadne
Aim for the heavens. You’re sure to make it some day.
- Hermes
Remember all the times we got high? Man you sure loved to get high bro. One day I bet you’ll get higher than anyone!
- Theseus, Original G
One day you’ll go far, young friend. Ride the wind to your destiny.
Have a great summer never change!
- Homer
Turns Out Lycanthropy Really is a Curse After All
When we discovered the spell that let people turn into animals, of course everyone had to try it.
We all missed the obvious problem, though — you can’t fit a human intelligence into an animal brain. There just aren’t enough neurons or lobes or whatever. Trying to squeeze something so big into something so small, parts are going to get lost.
Let’s just say the term “bird-brained” took on a whole new meaning after that congregation in Hoboken decided to spend a few days as doves.
Actually, for a lot of people it wasn’t that much of a problem. Sure, the people who turned themselves into dogs came back with the mental acuity of five year olds, but they were also incredibly happy and loyal to their families and friends.
Some animals didn’t even seem to cause a problem. Chimpanzees, obviously, but people could also transform into crows or other more intelligent birds without much problem besides losing a few IQ points. The few who tried out elephants were perfectly fine. Some people who turned into dolphins actually seemed to get smarter.
It wasn’t all sweetness and light, of course. Afterwards, more than a quarter of the world’s population was below the level of mental retardation. Even those who weren’t, sometimes came back bad. There are more than a few who turned into leopards or tigers and came back as stalking serial killers. Most who became gorillas came back with anger management problems.
And then there’s the guy who turned into an ant. Everyone was expecting him to come back basically brain dead, but unfortunately that wasn’t the case. What happened instead was horrifying.
House of Cards
OK, so, there were these three guys, see? Two twins and their younger brother.
So, the twins. Identical twins, and I mean completely identical. Only way to tell ‘em apart was to get way up close, ’cause you see, each of ‘em had only one good eye. The other one was glass. Funny thing was, one was missing his right eye and the other his left. A little too coincidental if you ask me, but anyway say you manage to get close enough to their faces, you could know who was who.
‘Course, they never let anyone get that close to ‘em. And anyone who did ain’t fit to talk about it.
Creepy bastards, too. You know how some twins got that “sixth sense” about each other, can tell what the other’s thinking or doing at the time, right? These guys had it like no other. Sometimes it seemed like they were the same guy just in two different bodies, y’know? One of ‘em would be off doing something and the other would know everything before he even heard about it. Nobody knew their real names. They both went by “Jack.” To confuse people, I guess, but it’s not like it mattered since you couldn’t tell ‘em apart anyway. And of course people called ‘em the One-Eyed Jacks.
You see where this is going, eh? Yeah. If they’re the One-Eyed Jacks, that made their brother the Suicide King.
Alright, you gotta understand, this guy, even though he was the younger brother, he was big. The Jacks were scrawny types, they were the schemers and talkers of the operation. The King was the muscle. And he was an animal. He fought like he wasn’t afraid of dying, and I guess he wasn’t ’cause a lot of the time the fights would end with him shooting himself in the head.
Yeah. “A lot of the time.” He did this more than once. What, you think people called him the Suicide King ’cause it was cute? Yeah, after he shoots himself in the head he just lies there ’til things settle down and then he just gets up and walks out at his leisure. I don’t even wanna know how he discovered that particular talent.
Nah, it’s all true. How the hell could I make this shit up? Remember that rash of robberies all across the country few years back, three-man teams, two of ‘em always got away but the third always ended up taking his own life? Sure, they said it was “copycat crimes” but who the hell would want to copy that?
You’re laughing. You don’t believe me. Well, maybe so. Hell, I never met these guys myself, could be all a ghost story far as I know. But let me tell you, I don’t hang around with no twins no more.
The Case of the Totally Unnecessary and Gratuitous “Dick” Puns
I’m a dick. A private dick. The best damn dick in this whole town, if I do say so myself. I’m the one who put Vito Romana behind bars. Didn’t make many friends by doing that, neither. But a man’s gotta do what he’s good at. And I’m so good, people even call me Dick, though that’s probably because my name’s Richard. It might also be because when I’m on the case I can be a real…well…you get the picture. I tell ya what, the jokers never stop laughing.
One Thursday morning this dame walked into my office with legs that went all the way up and a dress that didn’t quite go all the way down. I could tell right away she was trouble. Dames like that always are.
“I’m looking for a dick,” she said, the words floating on her sweet breath like the bloated, week-old bodies of mob victims bobbing to the surface of the river.
“I can see that,” I said. I glanced out the window. The rain-slicked street outside was bustling, as usual. Not even rain can stop a city. It just keeps on going, like a train bearing down on the broad strapped to the tracks.
“Is that some kind of joke?” she asked, raising an eyebrow — an eyebrow as perfectly sculpted as the Venus de Milo. It was the kind of eyebrow you only see in the movies, and not even then.
“Well sweetheart,” I said, lighting a cigarette, “maybe I’m jumping the gun, but since my door says ‘Private Detective’ and you came in, I guessed you ain’t lookin’ for a massage therapist. Simple detective work.” I smiled and exhaled a lungful of smoke, the taste of ashes in my mouth.
“Enough dicking around,” she said (I grimaced), “My husband’s been murdered.”
That got my attention — but I was cautious. Half the time some dame came in with a murdered husband, she was the one who did it and was just trying to divert attention. And she wouldn’t think twice about offing you, too, if you got too close to the truth.
“Sounds serious,” I agreed, “How’d it happen?”
“Poison,” she said, one perfect tear — too perfect if you ask me — dripping and falling to the floor impossibly slowly, only to shatter like a window shatters when it’s blasted with a tommy gun.
“Go on,” I told her.
She took a deep breath. Deep like the ocean, seemed to me. Deeper than a woman’s heart, for sure. “It had to be poison,” she said, “One minute he was eating his favorite dessert, spotted dick…”
It was gonna be one of those days.
How Terminator: Salvation Should Have Been
(Author’s Note: I have to give credit to my friend Emmett for this too, because this is based on a conversation we had.)
Terminator: Salvation was a pretty cool movie, but I think it would have been a lot better if John Connor didn’t know that Kyle Reese was his father. Mainly because they could have included this scene:
After destroying one of Skynet’s major factories, JOHN CONNOR and a group of soldiers — including KYLE REESE — are celebrating by getting completely wasted. While babbling about being the chosen one and gesturing furiously, John accidentally drops a picture of his mother on the table. A soldier picks it up.
Soldier: Hey, who’s this?
John: Nothing, that’s no one, give it back.
Soldier: She’s kinda hot, dude. Do we need to tell your girlfriend about this?
John: That’s my mom, you assholes, now give it back.
Soldier: Whoa! That’s your mom? Lucky!
Kyle Reese takes the picture and looks at it for a long while. He then looks up at John with all seriousness.
Kyle: I’m gonna fuck your mom, John.
John: Dude, shut up.
Kyle: No, seriously.
John: She’s been dead for more than 10 years, dickhead.
Kyle: No man, you know that time machine we found in Skynet’s lab? I’m totally gonna use that to go back in time and bone your mom.
John: Seriously. Shut up.
Kyle: I’m gonna go back in time and you know what I’m gonna say to her?
John: Oh God no. Kyle, don’t say it.
Kyle: “Cum with me if you want to live.”
Three Sixteen
The LORD will watch over your coming and going both now and forevermore. - Psalm 121:8
That was written in chalk on the sidewalk as I left my apartment. I didn’t think too much about it at the time. It’s really not that uncommon around here for some church group to write Bible verses on the sidewalk for passers-by to see, though they usually pick more well-known ones.
On the way to lunch I passed a few more. I noticed “Make me walk in the path of Your commandments, for I delight in it. – Psalms 119:35″ on a small wall along the sidewalk and smiled at the irony of “Hast thou found honey? Eat so much as is sufficient for thee, lest thou be filled therewith, and vomit it. – Proverbs 25:16″ scrawled outside the McDonald’s I ate at. I was a little puzzled as to how they managed to write “But lift thou up thy rod, and stretch out thine hand over the sea, and divide it: and the children of Israel shall go on dry ground through the midst of the sea. – Exodus 14:16″ in the crosswalk of a busy intersection, but I had to admire their dedication. All these verses spread so wide, perhaps it was some sort of city-wide event all the churches had decided to do.
My amusement ended when I saw “Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt, and where thieves break through and steal. - Matthew 6:19″ spraypainted on the front of my office building.
“Hey, you guys see what those Jesus Freaks did?” I asked Jen and Paul as I came back to work. They looked at each other and shrugged.
“They spray painted a Bible verse on the front of the building. Strange that you didn’t see it, they must have just done it right before I got back.” We all shook our heads. The neighborhood sure was going to shit these days.
Seeing “And it came to pass, as they still went on, and talked, that, behold, there appeared a chariot of fire, and horses of fire, and parted them both asunder; and Elijah went up by a whirlwind into heaven. – 2 Kings 2:11″ painted on the hood of my car didn’t improve my mood any, especially given the heavy traffic I had to sit in on the way home and the strange looks I got.
But when I saw “And he was afraid, and said, How dreadful is this place! This is none other but the house of God, and this is the gate of heaven. – Genesis 28:17″ painted on my door, it was the last straw. Furious, I called the police. The bored attendant took my statement and said they’d send someone in the morning. Clicking on my E-mail, a message popped up — “Cease from anger, and forsake wrath: fret not thyself in any wise to do evil. – Psalms 37:8.” Unknown sender. I hit delete and went to bed, fuming.
The next morning I woke up to find that they had broken into my house overnight. Every possible surface was covered with Bible verses.
I began to go through all the rooms, marking down and noting all the verses I could find. Whoever did this was meticulous. All of the verses were there. Except one. The one that you’d most expect to find.
All the verses written except one. All the surfaces in the house written on…except one. My body.
It was clear now what had to be done. I went to the kitchen and grabbed a knife (“Jesus wept” carved in beautiful ornate script on one side, “- John 11:35″ on the other).
Walking into the bathroom, I stood in front of the mirror, shirtless, and began to write.
“For God so loved the world…”
