Flash and Weird Drabble, a Humor fanfic

Flash and Weird Drabble
copyright Audita Sum 2008

He was beautiful. Slow, sinewy, smiling. Steph pulled herself up onto the shore, and the mud sucked at her clothes. The alligator lurched forward, his short legs moving with unnatural alacrity.

The gun was in its comfortable place in her palm. She shot him in the face.

It was over.

It was also the latest sighting of a Chinese Alligator in years, and she would have hell to pay when she got back to the States.

"The Poking Stick"(not an innuendo)

It was a walking stick, lacquered to a dark liquid brown and sharpened at the end into a dangerous point. My sister Cathy and I used it to poke out the eyes of dead animals we found in the woods behind our house. It was a morbid activity to grow up doing, I admit, but it seemed normal at the time.

Until... the accident.

There were always a few dead squirrels in the woods at any given time. I had the sharper eyes, so it was my job to find them. Cathy always carried the Poking Stick, though, and I never personally gored any animals. I'd like to say that she cut those suckers open from a 'pure science' standpoint, but she enjoyed it in a way that I couldn't understand.

Fate was in my favor that day. Or shall I say, the Electoral College! Ahahahaha! No, minion. That was a laugh of hilarity. This is a laugh of death: AHAHAHAHA! So, I turned the Oval Office into a nightclub. Turned the green room into a brothel. Bought some nice drapes. That sort of thing. Oh, and I annihilated Florida, because it was pissing me off. All those swamps and... gators... um...

If I were sailing around the world, my travel partner would be a robot named Geoffrey. There are three main reasons. Robots won't eat your flesh when rations have been depleted, they won't rape you, and the altruistic ones will throw themselves overboard if their weight is too much for the boat.

Robots won't eat your flesh when rations have been depleted. This argument stands on its own, for it is common knowledge that robots need nothing but electricity to stay alive. Assuming that Geoffrey has a large solar panel fixed to his forehead, he will be just fine. Robots won't rape you.

As far as my knowledge extends, robots do not even have a sex drive. This is the part of the essay where I'd make a lewd joke about hard drives or floppy disks, but I can't figure out how that would work.

So Eragon, Frodo, and Allah walk into a... tavern. The serving wench asks them what they want to drink.

Eragon says, boyishly, "Ale, please."

"We're out of ale, sweety," the wench says, tweaking his boyish cheeks. The ones on his boyish face.

"Some mead, then?" Eragon asks, his boyish face flushed with lusty, boyish hope.

"Out of that, too," she says.

Eragon breaks into a boyish cold sweat. "I... I can't think of any more medieval drinks. I guess I'll just have some ice water."

Frodo looks up. "I'll have a Shirley Temple."

"Alright," says the barwench with ominous finality, marking something down on her pad of parchment.

The table lapses into silence. "Sir?" says the wench after a moment, looking at Allah. "What do you want?"

"Sex On the Beach," he says, "with twenty virgins."

Now I can see the surface. I break it with a loud ripping sound.

People look at you funny when you shed your skin in a supermarket.

One woman drops her baby. Another screams and turns to run, her high heels sending her skidding into a pyramid of beet juice cans. A man throws himself into the vegetable freezer and hides his face under a packet of generic peas.

"What?" I ask.

"You're a-- a--" says the woman, nearing tears. "Monster!"

I catch my reflection in the freshly waxed tiles. She's right.

My soul is the shape of Carlos Mencia.

"The Beginning of Shit"

In the beginning, there was only formless chaos—pens, notebooks, and an understanding of rudimentary English grammar. From thence the Author formed characters in her own image; in fact, they were blatant rip-offs. And she saw that it was good, for she was herself a narcissist.

Then she saw that it was shitty.

These characters did not have a setting, so the Author dove into worldbuilding. She shaped with her own calloused hands a land magical and mundane in turns, and she separated water from water and all that shit. It was a utopia of sorts, only less happy and with more curse words. And she saw that it was good, for her house in the process of being remodeled paled in comparison to the awesome richness of this otherworld.

Then she saw that it was altogether much too shitty.

These characters and this setting were in a continual state of immobility, for there was no plot. So the mighty first-person omniscient Author gave the characters free will, just to see what sort of funny shit they’d get up to.

Alas, the sinful humans drank from the forbidden but temptingly situated Fountain of Obvious Plot Devices and the Author punished them, though it was surely her own doing. And the Author said, “What the hell! Can I leave you guys alone for five seconds?” And the Author saw that it was good, for she was secretly pleased.

But then she fully grasped how immensely shitty the whole thing was.

In a fit of anger and despair she sent a quashing flood unto her Word documents, destroying all offending shits. She saved only a boatload of characters, along with two of each subplot that walked along the ground, for they amused her and she cared far too much about them.

The story retraced loosely its former, shitty path, but this time the Author was too lazy to resist its relentless course. “Let it be shitty,” she murmured, “For I have initiated the Beginning of Shit. If I don’t complete this, I’ll never be able to finish a novel.”

And the shittiness persisted, but the Author resolved to go on hiatus and eventually come back only to be bitchslapped once more with the story’s inherent shittiness. The characters, the Author found, were all contrived wish-fulfilling versions of herself, and she resolved to create new ones.

“Be fruitful,” the Author decreed, “for you are dull and I’d like some new characters to work with.” And the population grew and flourished like orange mold on a shower curtain.

And the Author lamented, for the characters had come to replace her with a vague deity, but once and a while someone would remark that life suspiciously resembled a bad fantasy novel.

"Hindsight"

She didn't always know whether a thing was inside her eyes or was there in real life. She'd watch a building, and see the image flicker and change. The sky became dark, or clouded, or water rose past the first story windows, only for a fraction of a second. Then she'd hear the roar abruptly cut itself off, and all would be normal again.

Things clicked into view in her eyes. She saw people. Right in front of her sometimes, which made her jump. Once and a while, it was as if a person looked directly at her, though she was reasonably sure that they couldn't really see her. She'd hear a brief laugh, or a scream. Once, alone in a room, she saw death. Only snatches of it. A gun poised in position, a choked cry.

But all this was only inside her ears, and only inside her eyes.

So I was IMing Jen and I was like, "LOL."

And she was like, "did u realy lol?"

And I was like, "lol yah."

...

I guess you just had to be there.

That sodding sodass was sodding around again.

I sod to him, "Help me sod the sod, you sodding sod."

He sod, "You sodding sod, go sod yourself so your pants are all sodden. Sod the sodding sod, sodmunch."

I sod, "We need to go sod the sod with sods. To sod the sodding sod, soddass."

He sod, "Soddle out to the sod by yourself, you sodding sod. Sod your own sodding sod, don't make me sod it for your soddy ass."

"Damn it," she said.

I was all, "Excuse me? It's not my job to damn things, bitch."

"The horses went this way," said Kathy, drool pooling at the base of her chin. "I bet you 100 that they did. See the hoof prints? Linn. Linn! You're not looking! Look at the hoof prints!"

"Sure, yeah," I said, but I was looking at my sister, the ream of monopoly money stuffed into her back pocket, her crazed blue eyes, her ratty hair.

A bird cawed somewhere. I squinted at the setting sun.

I didn't know how far into the woods we were, and we had lost the horses. No; Kathy had lost the horses, while I was hiding behind a tree and pissing, because a ladybug had landed on her arm. Naturally, she had had a spaz attack, and scared the horses off. I grimaced.

There's nothing worse than being lost in the woods with a retard.

"Oy, lookee 'ere," I said to me dog, O'Fuckery. "I 'ave a package, I do. Not va' kind," I added, seein' 'er addled face. "Smells ruddy rank, dunni'?" I asked. I was talkin' about me box. It smelled like rubbish, it did.

"Oy!" I shou'ed, after I opened it. "Issa blender, all full o' me dead aunty, Beatrice. Va's gross, inni'? Be'ah clean it up. A nice vough', though, a bloody nice vough'. My favorite gift, va' is. An' me auntie's scalp is soft, inni', O'Fuckery? Aye, you love t' nuzzle vem scalps, like vey was ya own puppy." Tears came to the corner o' me eyes. 'Oo would send such a vough'ful gift? Surely not Beatrice, 'cos she was dead or severely wounded, likely.

1. Kill the Ayatollah Khomeini. Again, I mean. In hell.

2. Get rid of any theocracies going on.

3. Establish a democratic system of government in any country that doesn't have one.

4. Legalize and implement gay rights everywhere.

5. Legalize and implement womens' rights everywhere, while you're at it.

6. Impeach Prezy Bush.

7. Open up all the borders, bitch.

8. Send aid to Mexico so that it stops sucking so much. And make it so that the Native American Mexicans are the same class as the damn Spaniards.

9. Abolish fast food and freezer dinners.

10. Ban the show "Sweet Sixteen" for being retarded.

11. Burn all known copies of High School Musical and its forthcoming sequel.

12. Figure out something effective to do to help those in poverty, other than welfare.

13. Illegalize tanning beds, and the sale of fake tans. Just because they look horrible.

14. Establish freedom of speech, freedom of religion, and right to privacy laws everywhere.

15. Everyone must do a silly little dance.

The satanic high priest eyed the man on the right’s preacher collar with distaste. “Satan will defeat God in the end, you know.”

“Lies!” shouted the atheist.

But the Baptist shot both of them with his crossbow, so it was alright in the end.

The boy was concave in every way, his torso bent forward like a sapling in high winds. His mouth hung open behind cracked, dry lips, and his stomach jutted inward under his ribcage. His chest rose and fell slowly, rattling and rhythmic.

When I walked by, he looked up at me. "Water," he said. Not a question, but a command.

I patted my pockets. "Not on me. Oops. Sorry."

I giggled.

"We're soulmates," Raoul said, clasping her hands in his. "I love you."

"Oh," she said, "Well, there's something I should tell you, then."

Raoul nodded. "We should be honest with each other. I, for instance," he continued, gesturing toward his symmetrical and muscular breast, "have never shown my sensitive side to you, because I feared... I feared..." Raoul stopped abruptly, going into convulsions. "Oh God!"

"Yeeaah," said Cindy. "About that... I kind of laced your champaign with arsenic last night. I have this problem with commitment. Just can't do it."

Raoul stopped thrashing at last. Before reposing in the calm peacefulness of death, he croaked, "Bitch."

Tommy has cool trucks! Sally the hooker likes Tommy's trucks. When she isn't with her latest customer, Sally likes to push Tommy's trucks.

Gary is a part-time cop. Watch Gary arrest Sally for having sex for money. Good job, Gary! But now who will Tommy play trucks with?

Daryl the crack dealer is Tommy's new best friend. When he isn't pushing drugs, Daryl likes to push Tommy's trucks. Oh no! Don't let Gary see Daryl, or else Tommy won't see him for 10 to 40!

"My Muse"

So he's usually kind of pissed off at me when I start writing, because he pretty much just wants to sleep all the time. But after a long, sullen silence, he becomes one crazy bastard. Running into walls and breaking everything. Usually wakes up around eight PM, or twelve, or never.

Sneezes a lot. Consumes a hell of a lot of soda. Seriously, it's like I'm drinking for two people.

He's not particularly cruel, but he doesn't have any sense of self-control. Runs some of my characters on so hard that they die, and kills the ones that are left on purpose. He's kind of stupid. Keeps trying to sneak in romantic subplots when I'm not looking, which means I have to smack him.

Comes out with some brilliant stuff every once and a while, but it's usually surrounded by complete shit. He's erratic like that. Luckily, my inner critic can sometimes refine his crude ramblings it into something more presentable, even though she's a cold, heartless bitch.

He gets stuck on phrases that he thinks are awesome, and keeps wanting to use them. It's 'red earth' right now. He really wants to mention the 'red earth' for some reason, all the time. I keep telling him to stop.

I'll name him... Emmet... I guess. Sure.

"My Inner Critic"

Sometimes my inner critic drugs my muse with sleeping pills. Thinks she's a better advisor than he is. But let me tell you something: my inner critic-- let's call her Sandy-- is a fickle bitch and a nag. I keep trying to kill her, but she's a seemingly permanent part of my subconscious. I do need her, though, in a way, I guess...

Such a pain in the ass, though.

I swear; the bitch never sleeps. The minute I sit down to write, she's complaining that the few words I've gotten down aren't good enough. For a long time I cowered under her will, but lately I've been thinking about gagging her until I need her.

Sandy is pretty good at her job, though. Or, at least, the job she's supposed to do, which is editing. Knows lots of fancy words. Changes her mind a lot, too. Makes me to change things back and forth again and again. It gets tiring, but when a troublesome spot of prose needs to be fixed, Sandy can do that. Eventually.

My muse is afraid of her, and she pretty much hates him. I wish they had a better working relationship, but what can you do?

"A Trip for Biscuits"

"THE LONG-AWAITED FIRST VOLUME...
ABOUT UNEMPLOYED CLAUDIA LENG AND
HER WEIRDASS MALFORMED WEASELS..."
--my subconscious

It's been years since Claudia Leng turned into noses, and two divorces and a pixie stick addiction later, she finds herself lost and alone in a world that tastes vaguely like biscuits. When a mysterious box of mutated weasels arrives on her doorstop, Claudia must decide for herself: should she get rid of the weasels and live the normal life she never had, or go gallivanting, high and insatiable, into the depths of insanity? There's just one twist: this time, Earth's right to pioneer in biscuit technology lies in a delicate balance.

This startling collection of trippy what-the-hell-inducing vignettes and tortured, nonsensical poetry is a must-have for any self-respecting omg a weasel biscuit hahaha a biscuit a biscuit a biscuit. Will Claudia survive? Will she retaliate? Will she wake up one morning looking into the dripping maw of an angry llama? Not even the author knows.

"O HAI I CAN NOW HAZ TRIP 4 BISKITZ??"
--lolcat

"I WOULD BURN THIS BOOK, BUT I'M
AFRAID THAT THE FUMES WOULD WORK
AS A DANGEROUS STIMULANT. WAS
THIS BOOK MADE WITH HEMP PAPER?"
--William Hurst

US 7.99 / 11.99 CAN

“Say it,” demanded Amaranta, her words muffled against the plaid of his shirt.

“I...” He shivered and Amaranta pulled away, looking at him with dark, disappointed eyes.

“Loh-hove...” He swallowed reflexively. “Hhhyou.”

Amaranta’s eyes darted to the floor, and her skinny face looked even more birdlike than usual. “You love Hugh,” she said, almost laughing.

“I lllll--” his tongue was between his teeth-- “ove yhhhoooo.”

Amaranta shook her head quickly, trying not to smile. “Let me get this straight. You hate chew, you want Jew, and you love Hugh. Is there some long-buried trauma in your past involving--”

“I can’t help that that’s the way I say things!” he said, his face turning purple. “I hate how you always need to-- to control everything and everyone. I'm tired of this. We're over. Done. So get out.”

Her eyes turned opaque and immovable. She wanted to scream that he'd still be sleeping on subway benches if it hadn't been for her, and tell him that he was being an ungrateful bastard, but she didn't. Amaranta picked up her purse, put on her coat, and walked out. She knew that he would change his mind.

If humanity’s ancestor evolved into merfolk in a manner similar to dogs’ ancestor evolving into whales, dolphins, sea lions, walruses, etcetera, one would expect that there would be many and varied versions of merfolk, and they wouldn't be capable of bearing offspring across their own species or with humans. Their nostrils might be inclined to migrate higher on their heads so as to reach the surface faster. Their tails wouldn't be fishy. They would start as a kind of flattened monkey tail, probably, and they might end up with really tiny back legs or no legs at all along with a large tail thing. Their hands would gradually turn into flippers. As hair would only cause resistance to the water, it would have to be done away with completely or made sleek. Eyes might migrate to either side of the head, and would probably get larger and more sensitive to light as opposed to color. Ears would adapt to hearing underwater, which is different than in air. They would need to be able to hear low-frequency sounds. The shoulders would probably smooth down. Merfolk would move their tails up and down to move like whales, not side to side like fish.

There aren't a lot of color variations in sea mammals, so I would think that merfolk would end up grayish, brownish, or blackish as a rule. They aren't fish, so why would they look like fish? Again, this is from a scientific standpoint as opposed to a magical one. As for their diet... the ancestor of dogs was a carnivore, but monkeys tend to be fruit-eaters. Without fruit to eat in the sea, why would they take to the sea in the first place? Maybe these monkeys have developed very sharp teeth, and dive for fish. Maybe some of the merfolk end up developing those comb-like teeth some whales have and eat krill.

In any case, they wouldn't be humans with fish tails. They would be monkeys with whale tails. Maybe, they could even eventually develop human-like intelligence, making the actual humans think that the merfolk were descended from humans themselves.

Mrs. Tucker didn't understand what she was getting herself into that day when she proudly told our white, middle income, suburban seventh grade class that she wished that she had a child of every color there instead of us. Maybe she honestly thought that there were only twenty or thirty human skintones in the world.

The next morning, the smells of defecation and death radiated from her classroom on the second floor. When we opened the door, the bodies started spilling out. Bisque, almond, cornsilk skin. Ivory, leather, wheat skin. Brick, beige, ochre, umber, sienna, sepia skin. Skin white as a lily and freckled. Skin of a deep and bluish black. Skin everywhere in between, in colors we'd never seen on humans.

The ones that hadn't died already from being crushed were dying from suffocation. Standing knee-deep in a dead and dying multicultural river, we finally found Mrs. Tucker, a stick of chalk still her hand, and horror in her large green eyes.

Her body was buried under a foot of snow when my buddy unearthed her, and the only thing that made her distinct from the snow itself was the thin blue veins in her eyelids.

We'd been taking a detour through a back road, in hopes that police wouldn't spot us swerving drunkenly. I, being the more lucid of the two, spotted a boot sticking out under a drift of snow. I stopped the hummer, and we got out to investigate. Prince Charles (I'm not even kidding; that's the guy's name) moved the snow away to reveal a pale, triangular face, blinking on and off in the light of the headlights. "She's beautiful," I said, and started to sob. Prince Charles swayed, and then bent to kiss her.

She sat up and wiped away his drool, her pretty mouth mottled with disgust. "What the fuck!"

Prince Charles sprang up, then fell over again onto his side. "I was a-breakin' the spell, Snowy White. Haha."

She started shaking the snow out of a crossbow. I pulled Prince Charles into the hummer, and drove away. We didn't look back.

When he came to us the first time, we anointed his hair with lime and slicked it back, as befitted him.

When he came to us the second time, with nothing on his back but hungry flies, we made a shirt of white skins that would blind his enemies.

When he came to us the third time, with nothing on his legs but the ravages of mosquitoes, we made him trousers of tanned black leather, and a coat of the same.

When he came to us the fourth time, he brought promises. We wove a case of reeds so that he could carry them with him always.
When he came to us the fifth time, he brought treasures. We repaid him threefold, for he told us to "Wait-- there's more."

When he came to us the sixth time, poor and wounded and without more treasures, we severed his head and impaled it on our village wall, to send a message to his gods: take us off your mailing list.

When he came to us the seventh time, in the form of another man, he explained that there were only a few spots left in heaven, and that the day of judgment was drawing near. Some of us followed, but most of us went ahead to ambush him and the betrayers.

When he came to us the eight time, in the form of a young girl, he offered us poisoned cakes. We made her eat them herself, and then we shot her with darts.

When he came to us the ninth time, only his voice came. It boomed all around us: "Hello, this is Joe from Insuriped. I've got an offer I think you'll be thrilled about." But we filled our ears with moss, and eventually he gave up.

So fell the salesman, but many would take up in his footsteps and from then on, we were never at peace.

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