Posted on: August 22nd, 2009 My Phrasebook Is Useless

by Caleb Wilson

April.  My phrasebook is useless.  They speak in dialect here and the words all sound corrupted.  Months of study wasted!  At cultural training we’d practice by ordering korckru at the restaurant across from the office.  The waiter would bring a plate of savory wedges with golden sauce seeping into the rice, then dazzling Jenny and I, sitting opposite across the red paper tablecloth, would offer each other every old toast we could remember.  Here when I buy korckru from a street vendor I receive a foam clamshell, melted at the bottom from the heat of beige chunks with the caustic flavor of gland meat.  My flat is filled with such packages.  The food residue attracts nizemboil, who swarm from the drainpipes each night, and who have nibbled the clothing in my closet till it looks like lace.  I would buy new clothes, but through some fluke of the bank, my money supply dwindled oddly when I exchanged travelers’ checks for 10 olarck notes.  All I can afford is rent and one meager meal per day.  I have sent a telegram to head office to request more funds but haven’t yet receieved a response.  I wonder if gorgeous Jenny, across the Wdanied Chasm in Vorsklizpl, fares any better?

May.  Money problems solved.  Have been volunteering as test subject at the Unzlesniack Memorial Hospital.  Desperate for human contact, and the medical students’ probes are better than nothing.  Each test puts 20 olarckl in my wallet.  I’ve restocked my closet with drab, tough fabrics that are impervious to the hungriest nizemboi.  Eating better.  Have learned difference in local dialect between korzckru (food of the gods) and korckru (food of the dogs).  Could use a date.  Still unable to raise lovely Jenny by telephone; despite proximity the phone connection with Vorsklizpl is flaky.  Last week I went to the lip of the Wdanied and looked across to the gleaming skyscrapers, the boulevards thick with flowering trees, the citizens with their cheery parasols.  Did not see Jenny of course.  On the way back to the Riltprzian District, walking between the green brick buildings and clouds of earthy exhalations from the charnel cysts, a prostitute approached me.  “Jrlzickth ydurckzeel?”  Looking for a girl?  I was, but didn’t suppose she’d be able to help me find ravishing Jenny.  Desperation in her voice as I walked away and she offered to rub me down with fermented gifnozd oil.  A not entirely unwelcome prospect, but declined for now.

June.  Again destitute.  Hospital condemned (szkrulni plague) so working the assembly line in holashirckl factory.  The blood gutters in the floor are choked with bones, beaks, and clots of zwershluny.  Will never eat another holashirck as long as I live!  Have downgraded from 20 olarck girls to 5.  Cleanliness factor becoming a problem.  My flat reeks like a bindzuyck nest.  Afraid I do too.  Still no word from flawless Jenny!  Have determined to travel to Vorsklizpl to find her.  My neighbor Hovartsh has lent me a wiplozna for crossing the Wdanied.  Must go now to chuztrapnikol ritual.  Deacon Gimzled is sponsoring me as an orburgistor.  After the surgery I will be allowed to urndip the chuztratl.

July.  Durckfixniadz!  Olarcklzeel still proving difficult.  Durcklingl durckfuylinginzia!  Every waking moment I frmzithlrd the unforgettable Jenny, though odds of impressing her durck erdoli after my disfigurement from botched orburgizdian procedure.  Must hop everywhere, and harugrizl very painfully distended.  Durcklly all back-alley surgeons!  Oh no, alarms ringing.  Have the chuztratl escaped?  Again!?

August.  Zerckzu bitten off by rogue chuztrat.  Blood everywhere.  Evicted.  Still hopping.  Gone to find the fluyzniadniaz Jenny.

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Posted on: August 16th, 2009 Our Whale We Call Home

by Michael Landis

Years of brine and spume have made us salty and unpalatable men. Should we ever return to civilization, it should spit us out. While we fishermen may feel ill-placed under this canopy of ribs and blubber, the fish schools speed and the hermit crabs scuttle, carrying out the functions of life unconcerned that their sea sloshes in the belly of an interoceanic whale. I fear one day it may be our whale we call home.

Nothing sates the whale. The stomach’s inventory ranges diatoms to dreadnoughts, restocked hourly. We have been privy to many fortunes (within the greater misfortune of being ingested) that we as petty fishermen would otherwise never taste. Scavenging from wreckages, we live luxurious lives: an elaborate costume set from Tartuffe; casks upon casks upon casks (only once have we intoxicated the whale, leading her to perform terrifying barrel rolls); a herd of milk-cows, while an astonishing bounty, were sadly unaccompanied any bulls; arbitrary billions in unspendable bullion.

Whales eat plankton, not riches. Thus, our opulence remains inseparable from the miasma produced by mountains decaying animal matter. The rancid stench first caused my eyes to water. Now I weep knowing I have been here so long as to no longer detect its smell.

She must be nursing; we are awakened at every hour to the reciprocal croons between her and her calf. A calf means there must be other whales. In fact, we have seen our whale swallow lesser whales like tadpoles. We wonder if lesser whales contain lesser men dwelling in their innards. And though none of us has verbalized this, we all tacitly acknowledge that we ourselves may be lesser men in a lesser whale. To dispel this solemn consideration, one fisherman joked that perhaps lesser men contain greater whales to which some laughed and some did not. I sleep as unsoundly were I sailing the Baltic or moored in the belly of a whale.

Our only celestial body, the blowhole, does not keep months as the moon does so we do not know how long we’ve been here. Some of the fishermen have invented whale-days to live in accordance to the aperture. Others use the portal for divine communion with the Lord, praying to negotiate an escape from purgatory. The galleons have been torn plank-from-plank and rebuilt into shacks, some going so far as to pen deeds. Between the milk, silk, and rum, most fishermen prefer this life of unaccountable excess to their responsibilities back in Helsinki. One fisherman claims it would be a veritable utopia “if only there were womenfolk for [procreation].”

None of us can estimate how many years have passed except by ridiculous whale-time. Every function of our lives revolves around this infernal whale’s habits. What she eats, we eat. What she breathes, we breathe. And now we’re civilizing in this microcosm. To think, an existence dictated by the whims of a whale.

I’ve constructed a ladder from baleen and seaweed. None of the other fishermen wish to leave, but I must escape. I am leaving through the blowhole come this whale-Saturday, be I delivered to the surface of the Baltic Sea, to the depths of the Atlantic, or to the prison of a greater whale.

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Posted on: August 9th, 2009 Shatter Shatter

by Sean Markey

My real name is Cherie, but you can call me Cherry or I might just rake your face. My nails are epic weapons, like napalm or dynamite. You already know about glass hearts, but I bet you’ve never seen one, not even your own.

Me and my boyfriend, Chuck Masser at the time, we’d given up on graduating, so we spent most our time at the beach, each trying to get the other to show their glass heart. Chuck wouldn’t.

“But I wanna see one,” I said.

I don’t remember whose idea it was, but we schemed a plan to do just that.

Floyd Anders tried to be careless like us, pierced ear and shaved head. All bullshit. But I knew how much he liked me; you can’t hide something like that. I started sitting beside him at school, when I went, and invited him to hang out.

After I got expelled from school for beating the lipstick and eye-liner off this cocky bitch, Floyd came to my house. Chuck knew about this, but he didn’t care. He knew I was his, and we would run away together to Vegas or L.A., somewhere bright and more glamorous than me. Cities can be like that, you know.

I tried to act sweet and interested in Floyd, but it made me wanna puke. He got the idea to kiss me, but I rejected him. I could almost hear his stupid heart break, and I knew he was all mine. I could use him up. I let him kiss me. It was clumsy, his tongue slipping all around, so I bit his lip until it bled and told him to leave. He left happy, and I almost felt bad for him, but instead I called Chuck and told him, “tonight.”

At the pier, the waves were loud, but the wind was soft. Chuck was there too, hiding behind a fish-cleaning station. I let Floyd kiss me again, and tried not to cringe when his hand slipped down my back. Clumsy freshman. I moaned into his mouth a little, then whispered into his ear.

“I wanna see your heart.” Softer than the wind and the dead things beneath the waves.

That stopped him. When he looked at me I touched his face all nice. He swallowed and looked around.


He would have jumped into the ocean, anchors first, and stayed there until his breath ran out. And still he hesitated in showing me his heart.

Finally, he turned away and lifted his shirt. When he turned around again, he held his glass heart in his wet hands, chest heaving. He almost dropped it when he saw Chuck standing beside me.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

“Put your heart on the table,” Chuck said, pointing.

Floyd knew he’d lost, holding his heart in his hands like that, so vulnerable. He walked over to the table and set it down. The heart rocked gently and sparked the moonlight through it like a diamond.

“Touch it,” Chuck said.

“No. You,” I said back.

Chuck touched it. “Hard,” he reported. “Wonder what happens if you break it.”

Floyd made a noise, a kind of whine. Chuck pulled a hammer from his pocket, and suddenly it had gone too far.

“No,” I said, but Chuck just grinned.

He brought the hammer down on Floyd’s heart, but it bounced back and flew from his hand. He cursed. Floyd almost passed out in relief.

“Enough,” I said. I’d seen what I wanted. The adventure was over. I reached out to pick up Floyd’s glass heart, to hand it back. The moment my finger grazed the smooth curve, it shattered. I shielded my face and Floyd screamed and collapsed. Oh God, I killed him, I thought.

But he wasn’t dead. Just broken. Chuck said “wegottago,” like that, but I couldn’t move.

I watched Floyd walk away that night. Empty. Contagiously empty, because I’ve never been able to not feel empty again. Just like that, and everything’s changed.

I never said goodbye to Chuck, or anyone else. I ran away to Ohio and serve coffee to tired truckers at a shitty restaurant. I don’t deserve L.A., or the happy stories where couples say “I do,” and trade glass hearts forever.

I’m not sure what’s happened to Floyd, but I’d take it back. I TAKE IT BACK. You can’t break your own glass heart, did you know? I tried. I tried I tried, but it just won’t shatter.

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Posted on: August 2nd, 2009 We Have an Objective

by KJ Kabza

On April 7, 2003, we took the Slip ’n Slide into Baghdad. I’m proud to say I led the way, sailing smooth and clean like a puck across a shuffleboard court. My buddies behind me whooped and screamed and crashed into each other, the hot sun and cold water in roiling chaos over their bodies, but they didn’t care. As long as they got wet.

Baghdad was a mess of carnival barkers and acrobats, water balloons and cotton candy, everyone shouting and running beneath spinning Ferris wheel lights. For a minute, we stalled–Johnny stared at unfamiliar girls, Micky saw the size of the crowd and froze, Sanchez started to laugh–but I pulled them together. We have an objective, I said. The Fun House.

To get to it, we crossed the midway. We nearly lost Javier to the mindless lure of the shooting gallery, but Sanchez fired his Super Soaker into the air to snap him out of it.

The beaming man at the Fun House gate, bow-tied and pinstriped, gave us free bags of popcorn and invited us in with a flourish. “Prepare to be turned… upside-down!”

The mirrors made us into delightful monsters: one-eyed, legless, rail-thin.

We threw popcorn at everything and laughed at the mess.

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Posted on: July 26th, 2009 The Recovery Room

by Tait McKenzie Johnson

By the time Rosita and I got to the Recovery Room the Pandemic had already begun: all the hip young bods dancing in their tightlegged latex, the girls sporting the new antimicrobial kid gloves, in varying shades of neon like floral radiation warnings, clapping and waving in the sterile blue lights. DJ Grippe was spinning the latest off N1H1 Records, Afro-Iberian dance beats that’d make your heart skip, the club the perfect vessel to blend all the strains of young international health into one rollicking party. You can see it in the eyes, every one of us still living, not like the alleys full of victims we had to pass on our ride here, choking and swelling in the endless dry winter, spreading the disease molecules with even one careless breath.

We got drinks–thin-necked bottles sipped through straws like delicate proboscises–and found a table with an empty table on either side of it so we could breathe freely within the current World Health Organization regulations. Rosita made sure to swipe each surface with a sanitary napkin before she sat down. Without actually touching anything I gave the appearance of leaning against the wallpaper, velvety winged pigs this month, the design sported by all the bartenders. It would all be burnt tomorrow and decontaminated for next month anyway. The owners of the Recovery Room tried to keep up with the latest fashions, since the first club to host the Pandemic fell into quarantine for hosting what would have been an ironic barbecue, except everyone fell sick. You couldn’t get kicked out of here for anything faster than an errant cough or sneeze. And everyone was watching, because the latest fashions were swathed around our faces.

I pointed them out to Rosita: the Japanese folkpunks in their austere Kabuki and Kami prints, several clowns and mock-stars (famous politicians, actors, etc…the Barack wasn’t so popular this season after a failure to provide national healthcare), it seemed the abstract contingent had done away with representing the mouth altogether in favor of Mandrian-like lines. There was even some old rocker sporting the Rolling Stones lips over his own, everyone with their projected desires plastered like smiles across their plastic faces. Rosita sipped discreetly through the side of her mask while I explained how the first international influenza pandemic wasn’t nearly so colorful, at least, you didn’t get your vaccine in a shot glass at the door. It’s all a big blast, don’t you think? Not as contagious like the Red Death, now that would be some gala!

What about her? Rosita asked, pointing a violet trembling glove across the room. Wandering through the crowd, stumbling as if actually ill, and leaving a wide empty void around her as she moved, was a girl clearly breaking some taboo or illusion of sanitary. We could hear it in the whispers behind the masks around us. Look at that shaved head, so last century, so chemo-chic. And those eyes, gaunt, horrific, what does she think she’s carrying? And then she turned our way and we saw what was causing the stir. Of everyone in the Recovery Room, this girl alone was not wearing a protective facemask. But no, it was something else, a thick scar running along the exposed collarbone as if some vital gland had been removed, and there, at the base of her thin-necked throat, a growth like a rotting blossom, dead set on consuming the otherwise unblemished skin from within.

Does she want to catch the flu? Rosita asked as the girl moved away, her delicate ungloved hands trailing on every dirty countertop, a pariah in this land of hermetically sealed emotions and collisions. She couldn’t go home like the rest of us and wash away the germs and be well again. I couldn’t get my mind off that tumescent flesh, so real, so malignant. I’ve never seen a neck so smooth and sorrowful. A reminder of the anarchy trembling at the cell walls of each of us, an endemic that can’t be hidden or held off by any pretty face. No, I sighed, that’s cancer. Don’t worry, it’s not contagious. Ugh, Rosita shuddered, I wish they’d kick her out anyway. You ready to dance yet? Hold on, I said, and then brazenly pulled off my mask to drain the rest of the bottle, even though people stared at my own naked uplifted cheeks, pallid from months without sunlight or fresh air.

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Posted on: July 18th, 2009 Revision

by Daniel Powell

He had become very peculiar in the last year.

“I apologize in advance for my odor,” he said on the first day of class. “I’ve altered my diet. It’s had some…well, some drastic effects on me. I take no offense if you keep your distance while we discuss your writing.”

Within a week we learned that he subsisted only on fish and clams. His scent never bothered me; he smelled like the ocean on a cool autumn day.

I had enjoyed his Composition I course when I was a freshman. He was kind and sincere, and he stayed after class to help those of us who cared about our writing.

Of course, back then he’d been much larger; he actually had muscles. Now, he was just a series of strings and cords beneath a canvas of pale skin.

His hair had been longer also. Now, he kept what was left up there cropped close to the scalp. When he leaned over his podium you could see little flakes of skin there, like a tiny collection of scales.

The third difference was that he was very sad. This was quite a change; I’d never pegged him for the type.

A few weeks in, the news had made the rounds on campus. He’d lost his wife and little girl. There had been an accident.

Now it all made a little more sense. He taught the minimum workload necessary to maintain his status at the university. He stacked his office hours on Friday afternoons, knowing he wouldn’t be bothered.

I chose one of those afternoons to visit him, just prior to the Thanksgiving holiday. I brought an essay with me as a cover story, but mostly I was curious about how he was holding up.

The English Department was deserted. I walked down the dim hallway to his office and stopped when I heard him weeping. I craned my neck, concentrating.

His words were awash in grief, but I understood a few of them all the same. Changing. Growing.


I felt a little guilty, but I listened for a few minutes. I was just about to leave when I let go with an involuntary cough. It was a small one, just the last of an old chest cold, but he heard me. The weeping ceased immediately.

“Who’s there?”

I stepped into his doorway. “Hi. I’m sorry to bother you…”

He stood, swiped the tears from his eyes and offered a little smile. “Oh, no trouble. Please, come in, Ann. It’s nice to see you. Don’t mind the smell.”

His office smelled like cod.

I sat and he turned away from me and covered something on his desk. It looked like a stack of charts. Old nautical charts. “What can I do for you?”

“I was wondering…” I considered giving him the essay and decided instead just to come out with it. “I was wondering how you’re doing.”

He sat up in his chair, like I’d reached out and slapped him. He stared at me. “Revision,” he said after a lengthy pause. “I’m undergoing extensive revision.”

And that’s about the gist of it, really. We talked for a little while longer. He touched briefly on the accident and the nature of his grief. When I saw him in our next class session, he never mentioned our meeting.

And then, a week later, he was gone.

We sat there on a cold Tuesday morning and the dean told us that our writing teacher had simply walked into the ocean. Vanished. There was a palpable sense of loss in the room that day, and everyone left quietly.

I was home for Christmas when the thought finally occurred to me. It came unbidden, like a moment of perfect clarity. I logged onto the internet and found the article in no time. The Google search had flagged his wife’s name, and his daughter’s was there as well. They were two among many that had perished on a ferry that capsized in the waters near Amelia Island. Their bodies were never recovered

They never found him either. There was just a brief note on top of a set of clothing, weighted down with a rock.

I sometimes wonder about that note. I think about it in the quiet times, when I have a moment to myself. I’m pretty sure, though, that he’d confessed his plans that night in his office. Revision, he’d said, I’m undergoing extensive revision.

And I often wonder if he made it.

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Posted on: July 11th, 2009 Better

by Luc Reid

“My god, no; that was pitiful,” he said. “Why do you come to me here, if you are only going to sing like this? Perhaps I will go be sick now.”

There must have been a reason that Master Grenarde taught all of the greatest singers. But maybe the reason was that because he was such a conceited ass, nobody could believe he didn’t actually have something to be conceited about.

My back still ached from where Master Grenarde had whacked it with his cane to keep my posture straight. I glared at him.

“You don’t like me, Mademoiselle, is that it?” said Master Grenarde. “That doesn’t matter. I don’t like you either. You stay, you go, what does it matter to me? Some other churlish, self-absorbed child will take your place. Do you want to be liked? Then you should go to the city and become a prostitute. Everyone likes them, the prostitutes. They provide a public service and are easy to make friends with.”

I pressed my lips shut to keep from responding. He was like this often. I didn’t care. Once I got through his school, his certification would get me anywhere I wanted to go, and I would never have to see him again.

“Like your mother, eh? A prostitute, and everyone liked her, eh? Surely your father did, whoever he might be.”

I clenched my fist so hard, my nails drew blood. If I hit him, I would be out of the school. Oh, but how I wanted to hit him. He wasn’t just taunting; he knew about my family.

He bent down to my ear, his ridiculous, loopy white hair shifting on his head. “You feel that? The anger? Let it go. You must be nothing. Thoughts are nothing. Anger is nothing. Feeling comes, it goes, but there can be emptiness. You feel it? Get rid of it.”

I fought with myself, but obeying Master Grenarde was something I’d been forced to learn to do immediately, without thinking. It was the only way to achieve what he demanded we achieve. So I tried to let the anger go, to separate it from me like letting a balloon drift away, and suddenly I felt dizzy, like I was teetering on the edge of a bottomless pit.

“Now, sing the note again,” he whispered, and I sang it. I brought it up from the bottom of my chest and relaxed my throat and stretched my mouth to let it out. Something seemed to break in the pit of my stomach, and then the note was not coming from the bottom of my chest, but from someplace much, much deeper, someplace outside of me. The note rose through me and resonated through the room, through the tower, through the entire city. Around me the walls burst out in shifting, colored light, the roof burst apart, and power roared through me like water through a broken dam. I had let little trickles through before, but nothing like this. Nothing like this.

I held it as long as I could, until it faded. I was shaking, and my body was drenched with sweat. Pieces of the smashed roof lay where they had fallen around me and the Master. Scorch marks radiated out from where I stood on the floor. The Master pushed a piece of the roof aside with his cane.

“Better,” he said grudgingly.

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Posted on: July 4th, 2009 Too Quiet on the Carpet

by Ben White

So my father turned into a crab, big fucking deal. Shit happens, and it happens to grown men who sit on their vintage/hideous 1970s shit-brown corduroy couch while watching the Price is Right like an overweight stay-at-home Mrs. Cleans-a-Lot, such as my mother, who incidentally is pissed, I assume because their sex life–which I hope at their age was a joke–is most definitely in the gutter. I’ve seen the pinch marks. It can’t be worth it.

As if he didn’t lounge around the house enough since he got disability, now he just watches the game shows all day long, hogging an entire couch cushion (like he needs it) and staring at the screen with those creepy little crab eyes. I know, he’s my father, he can’t help it–but yeech.

And during commercial breaks when we sit and watch Law & Order together, I’ll hear quick clicks on the kitchen and bathroom tiles–little pattering warnings as he goes about picking up snack crumbs from the floor and leaving little crab dumps on the mat my mom put down in the bathroom (don’t you dare leave any souvenirs in the kitchen, she says, you’re better than that). But on the carpet, he’s too quiet. You can’t hear him. He sneaks up on you. He just pops out, beady little eyes coming out of nowhere. Mom and I walk around the house wary like a driver changing lanes at night while looking for a motorcycle in his blind spot. I’m going to step on him one day. I just know it. I’m going to crush his little arthropod shell, destroy what’s left of my father. And what then? What kind of son will that make me?

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Posted on: June 28th, 2009 This Dog’s Life

by William T. Vandemark

My Master–Orson Wellian in girth and voice–calls me.
Stomach plump with gobbets of reactant, I waddle to him.
It’s time for our afternoon constitutional, a city block’s perambulation.
Appearances to maintain, I wag my tail at the leash.
Master thinks I’m a slave, but seconds will reveal otherwise.
In fact, no need to encrypt this, my final infosquirt.
For those of you snuffling the airwaves, here’s the scent.
A year ago, Command and Control sampled the family mutt.
Last week, I–a cybernetic, cloned prince–replaced the pauper.
Now, count down with me; I’d rather not die alone.

Jesus stayed for supper, knowing one cohort would betray.
Will I be naught more than Master’s Judas familiaris?
Granted, my cybernetic threads have been woven sans free will.
But is this all I was meant to be?
Doctor Leahy, forgive this, my ruff of animal instinct.
But I desire an attaboy! before immolation extinguishes life.
On second thought, perhaps these pangs are systemic failures.
Better I should use precious seconds to thank you.
No shaggy whelp has ever had a better creator.

My Master clips the leash to my collar.
Talk about being hoist on one’s own petard.
But a villainous arms dealer should know better.
Command and Control is nothing, if not patient.
I suspect it’ll be difficult for little Suzie.
She’ll miss our nightly snuggles and belly-scratch time.
Out of an abundance of caution, I sniff.
Girly pheromones linger, but not in notable concentrations.

As plotted, she’s safely away at kindergarten.
Wish I were back at canine school.
But not in bomb-detection class; I’d reek.
Master’s fingers smell of bacon and tomatoes.
I like bacon; I lick his hand.
His hands have killed a dozen men.
I don’t like him petting my head.

This morning I chased a squirrel.
I caught Zippy, a C&C construct.
Postprandial, my dithered pancreas secretes catalyst.
Suddenly I release pressure: a fart.
But Master is none the wiser.
I’m a bastard and nothing more.

I don’t feel so good.
Wish I could eat grass.
And roll on dead stuff.
Will someone roll on me?
Maybe the poodle next door.

My blood heats supercritical.
Fleas flee, abandoning ship.
Froth fills my mouth.
The band plays on.

I drool phosphates.
Perchance to Dream?
Panic sets in.

I howl.
Please, Doc!


the habit or action of estimating something as worthless

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Posted on: June 21st, 2009 I Like to Tease People

By Martin M. Meiss

Late one night when I was on a trip I went into a Burger King for some grub. There was a pretty girl behind the counter joking around with the kid manning the fries machine, having a good time, but when they saw me waiting the girl took my order, still grinning, and the kid put it together. I went to a table near the back wall to eat. I definitely think Burger King has better fries than MacDonald’s.

I wasn’t half done when a youngish couple came in. They ordered and when they had their stuff they came toward the back. They both said “hi” when they passed me and took the corner table.

“Nice to get in this air conditioning, isn’t it,” I said. The guy looked maybe thirty and had a droopy mustache. The woman was a little younger and I could see the top of a little rose tattooed just under her collar bone. They unpacked their order, then the woman got up and headed for the restroom.

I leaned toward the guy and said, pretty quiet, “Guess what I’m going to do.”

He grinned and said, “What?”

“I’m gonna finish my meal slow so I can watch you two eat. When you leave I’m going to follow you out of here. Then I’m going to kill you, and when I’m done fucking your girl friend, I’m going to kill her.”

I can’t tell you everything that happened after that, but I will say this: he looked like he was going to shit himself.

I like to tease people.

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