The Greatest Trophy Shop Owner in His Own Sarcastic Mind

Trophies are for winners and also for people who own trophy shops. Ned was the best trophy shop owner and the runner up and everything up to the tenth best. Around the perimeter of his living room stood the gold painted pillars he admired most. Ned toasted the shiny idol in the go kart and then drank deeply of his light beer. There were four empties crumbled on the ground and five more trophies to worship.

Strangely, the eleventh place trophy was owned by Sofia Miller of Super Awnings Incorporated. That one had a little karate guy on it. She was a modest, strange and gaudy woman. If she bought anymore trophies, Ned might just be able to stop this stupid worship and go back to eating wet dog food. The dry stuff was not doing him any favors. This was a worry for later. There was worship still to be done.

He turned his attention to the figurine depicting a very small child on a camel. Taking a voracious swig, Ned mourned another lost sale. That gentleman from Qatar was never going to return for his prize. Since the advent of robot camel jockeys there was no real need to reward the poor automatic driving devices. Just another bit of bad lack for the greatest trophy shop owner. There were still four more statues to pay homage to, they were all rocketeers. He thought that sport was taking off for sure.


Ashley’s Atypically Apparent Anxiety

We’re going to die. The floor is going to buckle, The glass will crack and we will plummet to our deaths. We are going to die, because if we don’t die, I’m meeting an important person on a top floor. This doesn’t happen to guys like me, so I’m pretty sure the glass will fall out and I will be granted sweet death.

The woman next to me is probably happy with her life. I must try to stop myself from destroying the elevator with the awesome power of my anxiety. It’s hard for me because my anxiety is a weapon of mass destruction and isn’t easily controlled. I’m breathing in as deeply as I can and I’m trying to get back to my happy place. It’s my house, yeah I’m a bit of a fuddy duddy.

I get off on the third floor, right next to the pretzel place. I’m about to go to try and get work at a lingerie shop. I had forgotten that I had filled out an application and for their part they had forgotten that Ashley could be a boy’s name. The interview is conducted sheepishly and last only 5 minutes, wasting everybody’s time. I leave feeling stupid; she feels stupid too but she’s also employed so I don’t feel too bad about her.

Everyone is staring at me and I’m a bit overwhelmed. A bum just came out a lingerie shop after 5 minutes and everyone’s pretty sure he’s sniffed all the panties there. Everybody’s judging me as they walk by without even looking at me. It’s enough that I’m pretty sure that if I explode right now I’d be pretty happy in that fraction of a second. There’s a bit of spark behind me and then a big, holy hell, bit of flame.

My anxiety has crappy aim. Good news is, I’ve got another job offer. The man is tall dark and scary. I think he thinks I’m scarier. I think that may be the job I’m being offered. Oh well, work’s work.

Paranoia: Travel Edition

“This is a Police Positive.”

“And that’s a Mercedes Kompressor behind us.”

“Why do you have a revolver in your glove compartment?”

“Because sometimes there are Kompressor’s tailing me.”

“So you think you’re being chased by a mid life crisis and your plan is to shoot it?”

“My plan is to not be cornered.”

“Let me be direct, I’m not sticking my ass out of this car and shooting at some poor schmuck with hair implants.”

“How do you know know he’s got plugs?”

“I’m just painting a picture.”

“You always assume people to be the worst.”

“You’re right, sometimes I can be judgmental, but I draw the line at executioner.”

“Just point it out the back of the window and shoot. Try to scare him.”


“All you have to due is pull the trigger and he’ll go away.”

“Are you 5? Does your understanding of firearms come from something you gleamed from Starsky & Hutch while high on model glue?”

“Look I’m telling you, if he catches up to us it will be bad news.”

“I’m telling you that state police don’t take kindly to shoot… Damn it!”


“We crossed state lines with a loaded firearm.”

“Oh, yeah that. Really it’s only illegal if you get caught.”

“I’m afraid that firearm legislation doesn’t work quite like Tinker Bell. It doesn’t care if you clap your hands, it is still there.”

“Oh just give it here, I’ll do it.”

“Actually, I think he just turned off.”

“Never mind then, my bad really.”

“So… next exit has an Arby’s and I am kind of hungry.”

“There’s a Cabrio two cars back and it’s been there for a while. Do you think the Germans might be spying on us?”

“Why can’t we just play roadkill bingo?”

In Response to That Kind Detective You Sent Me

There was a time when we were without rules, without even a solid ground beneath us. It was all just ether and dreamers and whatever else we had lurking in our heads. Back then there was Harry, Tina and me and we were inseparable. They’re may have been other people but it’s hard to know fiction from nonfiction when you can talk to faeries and ride centaurs.

We would spend our nights in the purple gardens where the guava grows. At the time we thought it looked somewhat like corn and it did. While Harry and Tina made love, I would sit outside the guava tree and watch for griffins. The griffins hated lovemaking and if I spotted one it was my job to crow and crow I did as the griffin came swooping down at me. Luckily, Harry had that trusty claymore he always carried, He killed the creature with a single swing and we feasted upon it’s innards while still fishing guava husks out of our teeth.

Some time after that came thorazine and the world suddenly got really gray and Harry wasn’t anywhere. I guess he wasn’t anywhere before but he seemed to be somewhere at the time. I guess Harry wasn’t anyone. It was probably just me and Tina. About eight months later, they induced your labor and our little girl (?) was born. I’m sorry I didn’t get a good look and you must admit Francis is slightly androgynous . God, I hope I didn’t name you that. Anyways to answer your question, I’m your father. Or was that Harry? Oh right, fictions, sorry my bad.

Henry Oliver


Malcolm’s Convenient Alien Abduction

All eyes were on Malcolm as he tucked his legs into the fetal position and rocked back and forth on his unadorned twin size mattress. He watched those who watched him and they never tired. It had been eight days since he had last seen his son, eight days since he was aware of sleep. All the men around him had smart suits wrapped around wide shoulders. They wore homburgs, fedoras or just product by the metric ton. They were dressing as they knew men should dress.

The Plexiglas walls that separated him from them made everything even more ominous. The light was a dying yellow with wattage than can barely be registered by the electric company. They didn’t like light very much. Their faces were lit by the red of their cigars. It would take eight bullets and one reload to kill them all with Malcolm’s deer rifle. Malcolm’s deer rifle was in his truck, along with Malcolm’s son. Actually, Malcolm’s son had been taken by the state by then..

With gnawing certainty, Malcolm knew that these were not humans but facsimiles thereof. Sometimes the right angle would betray a strange spot of purple skin. It was not a bruise, but a whole other kind of material entirely underneath human flesh. Then when they opened their mouths, a pair of giant canines could be seen. When they smiled they were positively lupine on two legs; big alien dogs in power suits.

“This is a man, see how easily he is dominated and subjugated. Through out his many empires we have nodded and slept our way to key positions just by wearing these fancy suits, these fancy hypnotic suits. We will soon own all of man and this one will be a rarity, a man found in the wild.”

This was the eighth time Malcolm had heard this speech and his patience was running out. The irritating thing was that he had undeniable proof that he was smarter than these horrid inter galactic businessmen. The proof was in the fact that he plainly still had a bowie knife tied to his leg. He had just enough sleep to do what he needed to do.

With an abrupt and prompt motion, he opened the door and walked into the well dressed men. These were the men who had held him back at his old job. These were the sycophantic mediocre people that had infested the workforce of the United States Of America. As he unsheathed his terrible swift bowie he knew his actions were righteous. All of mankind benefited from this one sided slaughter. Although no one would admit it, Malcolm had saved mankind.

The story ends differently on different days with different amounts of alcohol. He usually is able to pilot the starship back to Earth, but sometimes he has to have help from a buxom purple lady. Sometimes he ends up with up to three women fawning all over him. Every once in a while, there is a gay man in the story, a gay man who lusts after him. After mentioning the gay man, Malcolm points out that he’s into girls and girls only. It’s all and all very hard to believe but I haven’t heard a better explanation of why he rides his bicycle to the bar or why Timmy lives with his mother.

… More accurate, but not better.