“Sir! We’ve decoded the message from deep space!” The captain jumped to his feet and rushed to the side of his subordinate, who sat before a panel that had come alive with blinking lights.
“Well, what are you waiting for?! Patch it through!”
The air in the control room was thick with anticipation. After what seemed like an eternity, the message crawled across the main viewscreen.
“I…AM…A…FART.”
The job interviewer shifted in his seat slightly, cleared his throat, and addressed the well-dressed woman sitting across from him.
“Ms. Hoskins, what exactly do you think you have to offer this company?”
“I kill and take money!”
“If you ever want to see your wife alive again, you’d better give us the password, Dr. Hysterico.”
The doctor lowered his gaze in contemplation and sighed. The terrorists had him by the short hairs, that much was certain.
“Fine. What choice do I have? It’s ‘ballboob’.”
“Did you ever see that movie Boogie Nights?” said Rick to Fred.
“No,” Fred replied. The sun was slowly setting; the air grew crisp and cool.
“Oh.” said Rick. “Well anyway, I fucked your mom.”
Amanda was so happy to be dating Jacob. Especially on warm summer nights like this, walking around the city holding hands. Sometimes she would catch her breath, wishing these times would never end.
“Hold the knife real close to her throat, Mandy,” Jacob whispered. Amanda smiled. It was her very first carjacking.
Don Llewellyn reclined patiently as the slender, attractive woman interviewing him for People magazine sharpened her pencil. Though he was the CEO of a Fortune 500 company, he still made time for such things. Finally she looked up and asked him, “Mr. Llewellyn, to what do you primarily attribute your phenomenal success?”
Don leaned back, sipped pensively on his expensive latte, and paused in thought before replying;
“Every night, just before I go to sleep, I tell God to suck my fucking hairy balls in hell.”
Alan could hear the slamming of police car doors and cocking of pistols as the authorities closed in. The airport vestibule in which he’d found solace was now to become his tomb. He slid the barrel of the weapon that had ended forty-seven innocent lives that day into his mouth, and as his tongue learned the bitter tang of gunmetal, he thought back to the one solitary person responsible for his fate.
“Rot in hell, Joey Fatone,” Alan whimpered, and pulled the trigger.
Todd’s head spun gently that night on the beach, as he stared deep into Amber’s brown eyes. The smell of the pounding surf was intoxication incarnate. As the full, pale moon glinted in Amber’s eyes, Todd’s mind reeled. Could this really be true love, the kind they write about in romance novels?
“You smell like candy. Touch my butthole,” Amber said.
Maybe the guys in the locker room were right, Todd wondered. Maybe Amber is retarded.
Originally published on Mike the Pod, 2004
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