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Month: April 2020

Slippery When Wet

This fucking thing was so damn slippery, that I couldn’t hold onto it for a damn moment before the cursed little thing would shoot up and out of my arms, flung clear across the room. I’d fumbled the first time I’d held it, shot fresh from the bosom of life itself; not even that grip could hold on to the thing tight enough. The doctor had been tossing it from one hand, into the other, desperate not to let it drop, though I recall that those floor were quite clean. He then one-handedly tossed it to me, silly grin and all, with a wink and then a nod, “careful, it’s slippery.” I’d managed to hold onto the thing steady for a solid 45 seconds before it shot out of my hands and went clear across the room. All the doctors and the nurses fleshed out across the room to catch the thing, running into each other, it was a comedic act right out of vaudeville, and might have been funny, had my wife not been such a panicked mess. An orderly had caught it that first time, cleaned it of with some club soda, sprinkled on some powder, and tossed it in
a basket, which is how we’d go about transporting it from there on out.

Still, there were times when I’d had no choice but to try and hold on to the slimy little thing; a couple times, taking it from the bath. Once at the neighbors sprinklers. There was an incident at the local water park. But my wife, thank goodness for her, was always around, ready to take a dive for her perfect little parcel.

Thankfully now, that slippery little bastard has aged out of childhood, there hasn’t been much reason left to lift it into my arms, which I’m bonusly thankful for, due in no smart part that it has grown to be quite hefty. There was this one time, however, late in the eve of its 16th birthday, the thing came home sweaty and drunk, and of course, I was the winner that night that had to carry it all the way up those stairs, which took three full hours of absolute hell.

But now, finally–fuck-it, in about 12 glorious hours, this slippery little bundle of joy will have hit its mark, aging out at now 18 years, which means, I gleam a grin as wide as Wyoming, that, come tomorrow, this thing that I’ve had such trouble wrapping my fingers around, will be someone else’s responsibility. Someone else will have to keep the thing safe from shooting out of their arms, further out into this God-forsaken world.

Sorry, I need a drink; that’s it from me.

The Candy-Lane Gumdrop Murders

Gordo’s Goodie Gumdrops had been blown to smithereens, and I was the sap got stuck right in the middle of it all. Granted, I knew who’d done it, not that I could prove anything, mind you, but there weren’t no question on who’d actually been responsible for the dirty little deed.

Why, it was Silver-foxed Mulligan, of Course. Much more of a wolf in sheep’s clothing, than an actual fox. But that was all just semantics. Whatever the heck those thing are. I’ve Just heard that mentioned in the past once in passing, and I’ll be damned if it doesn’t seem perfectly apt for the situation at hand.

Enna-who, it’s long-since common knowledge that Mulligan’s been working her way through all the local candy shops in Flaverton, MO. Old Rotten-Toothed Mulligan, as she’d been referred to down south, had started her reign of confectionary terror with Sweetie Tooth Sally’s on Blood-Sugar Blvd, burning it to the ground, then worked her way across town to Gordo’s Gumdrops at the Comfort Corner Roundabout, where she’d set explosives to ignite remotely, so, of course, to limit her proximity to the blast, as Gordo’s had been reduced to rubble.

Mulligan had been seen by multiple Morningside Park patrons, first at 8am, feeding the ducks, and then at 8:35am, feeding the ducks some more; an airtight alibi if ever there was one.

This all has been in hopes, we know now, at getting at all those little
Piggies who run the candy shops; first with our town, and then onto the world. No real idea yet as to why, other than Mulligan’s long-standing disdain for Sweats of all kinds; honestly, she’s always been, in the most simplistic of terms, a fucking sourpuss.

So then this leaves us now with only one candy shoppe left standing; The world famous, candycopia of the north-west, most traveled destination for candy and sweets in the entire breathing world, known only as Margot Smairtie’s Golden Palace. Though to be honest, I have NO idea how Mulligan plans on getting into that particular place, being that it has been fortified with wrought iron, steel and brick. However, you may all rest-assured that we will all be there waiting to arrest the suspect, once she’s inevitably exhausted herself in trying.

More to come.

An Awkwardly Placed Lump

Mr. Ricky Fitz Sr. (aka Richard Fitzpatrick Senior), had woken up one milky morning with an awkwardly placed lump at the base of his chest . At first upon inspection, the tumor had been about the size of his perfectly adequate fist, pulsating, almost in competition with his heart.

“My bloody fist,” Fitz had shouted, “locked within the confines of my already cramped-up chest!” He felt around the edges of his newly discovered friend, “It’s either that, or a perfectly plump, Golden Delicious Apple…” He’d trailed off, lost in his fancy —

“Mmmm–a delicious apple–
delicious apple–
delicious apple…”

He’d mouthed passionately, just under his breath. Then with a new-found sense of purpose, the man called Fitz stomped off to the kitchen, a mere room and a half away, where he made burnt toast, with crushed almond butter, apple slices, and granulated sugar. Fitz sat up at his counter, and he ate, trying to ignore the continuously growing lump as it THUMP-THUMP-THUMPED, rattling the bones that lined his chest.

Fitz pounded back. He was still able to make a fist of his own, after all, which now began to seem oddly inferior to his dismay, when all at once, and like a knot to his neck, he began to choke.

There was a gurgle, and then a gasp, when, beyond all belief and understanding of any sort, came two tiny hands, reaching up from the lump in his chest, to the bit that had been lodged in his wind-pipe. It yanked and it pulled, removed the obstruction, ate the mush itself, then settled back down where it had continued to pulsate and grow.

Fitz in the meantime had collapsed to the earth’s core, a trembling mass of ill-exposed nerve, then fought all urge to vomit. It had taken about an hour, but once he had regained his composure, had thanked the lump in his chest, then sat back down to finish his breakfast.

A Raspberry’s Dance in Hell

Raspberries fell fiercely from the darkened clouds above, like perspired bullets from a devil’s anxious brow. With rosy-colored welts now given a vigorous birth on the summer-soaked flesh, as dozens of vacationing beach dwellers began to scream absolute murder, with all but one giving flight to any form of shelter, most of which in their cars, while some had hid out in the local Tiki-Tempora & Saki shop off shore.

The who that hadn’t run, however, was most likely a lunatic. A young girl, who went luxuriously under the name of Rose, if not, somehow ironically, to resemble all those welts that everyone else now was so vigorously trying to nurse back to health.

Rose had come to this beach for some unspecified reason, being that she hadn’t shown dressed at all for the occasion; while most came with bathing suits and towels, it was Rose who was oddly sitting, with her bare feet in the water, and a pair of sweat pulled up to her knees, with a large’n’baggy, ‘n’horrible frayed sweater.

Sure, it was overcast, but it was one of those days that they’d all refer to as part of an Indian summer. With temperatures muggy, and uncomfortable, languishing in the mid-to-high 90s. While everyone else seemed determined to cool themselves in the ocean, it was this odd little nut alone who seemed content, dressed like an Eskimo in her lounge-ware, with her toes only, cooling-off in the water.

It was then, when the heavens had opened, and began to pelt all below with hardened berries, still frozen from the upper atmosphere, when our lovely little oddball Rose had leapt to her feet, and thus stripped off all her clothes. Just two pieces to be exact, but enough to draw the attention of all who remained safely within range, at their chosen shelter. Then, with a smile that wrapped around so tight, she could have hung herself from the rafters, had there been any rafters to be hung from, the girl began to dance. All the while, of course, these darn Raspberries had continued to Plumet, giving this girl all sorts of bruises, bloodied nicks along the head, arms and torso, or perhaps it was all just juice.

Nobody had spent too much time considering the differences.

But this girl, as single-minded as she was, kept firm as could be, along with her smile, which had only strengthened, while she danced for what felt like decades.

Until came, what most would come to refer to as the great silence; the falling raspberries had stopped, or had passed farther East, killing all sound, as everyone sucked in and gasped in disbelief.

Rose had cut her dance, just moment short of its finale, allowed her wrap-around smile to settle into a simple little grin. Then, in addressing all that still watch with tremendous astonishment, she turned, then belted out to her audience, “To be continued; perhaps next we’ll get lucky, and will have melons instead.”

This is the Start of a Story about a boy Named Floyd and his Pet Rock Sly Stacy.

At the age of 8 years old, this boy, Floyd, had been isolated from society for the first half of his life, with a particularly icky skin Condition called Icotosicky Syndrome. This was a horrid little condition where-as, with any form of human contact, the recipient of said physical connection would there-in result in the flesh boiling and then melting right from their bones.

So it had been four grueling years, for all intents and purposes, that he had raised himself; he’d bathe hisself once a month, make sandwiches out of vegetated scraps found growing around the yard, and even homeschooled hisself, with a home-set class consisting entirely of old and tattered stuffed animals.

This was, of course, on account of both his birth-given parents having left, one of them melted harshly over his crib, at an unbelievably young age. The other of his parents, the one to survive, fled shortly thereafter. Ran off to join the Peace Corps — she had hoped to join the circus, but the circus hadn’t come to town that year — had left her helpless little boy sunk deep into the belly of his favorite beanbag chair, with a plate of nachos, a juice box, and a large rock that she had gathered from the outside garden, to help weigh her boy down, so’s to prevent him from coming after her.

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