Private Eye!
“What will you say on the stand tomorrow, Dow Jones?” says the DA, pouring two shots. “Did the accused break the law or not?”
“Of course he did,” says Dow Jones, knocking them back.
“So the true perpetrator is–”
“The existence of too many laws!” growls Dow Jones.
The DA thinks hard about that. “Hmm,” he says. “Fewer laws would make my job a lot easier!”
“See how you’re acting out of rational self-interest? So would everyone else!”
“You’re right, Dow Jones,” says the DA firmly. “Case closed!”
All in a day’s work for Dow Jones–Private Eye!
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
He hasn’t gotten fat, at least, but his face has changed: smoother somehow, the once-intriguing hint of ferret in his skull now emergent and distinctly unflattering. His hairline’s only just receding, but the color has dulled and it’s cut too close to bring out his curls.
He’s got a girlfriend who’s probably never even seen him the way she did back then, kicking hard toward the tape at the end of the 800. He never made it out of Flint. She supposes maybe he could yet.
Darya closes the Facebook tab carefully, as if he might hear the button click.
Giant Nut Head does not have a giant nut for a head. Don’t worry about it.
“We can seriously get State this year, guys,” he says, leaning over the back of the bus seat with one arm between Lula and Zephram.
“Yeah, I’ve been looking forward to this trip,” says Zephram absently.
“You too?” says Lula. Her knees are up, hair twirled, eyes sparkling.
“Not for State, though.”
“No?”
“Just for the ride.”
Zephram and Lula look at each other, then, a smile shivering back and forth between them.
“I’ve been thinking about doing more push-ups,” adds Giant Nut Head.
Penanggalan Tom Hanks has been trying to steal Irina’s baby all week and she’s pretty sick of it.
“I’m planting rose bushes outside all the windows!” she announces loudly. He’s definitely listening from somewhere, so who cares if the passersby hustle their kids right along. “Yep! Thorny roses!”
“Er, no, Mom, no need for a sitter this week,” says Nazir, trying to simultaneously talk and muffle the phone. “She wants to stay home.”
“Certainly wouldn’t want my intestines caught on them!” shouts Irina.
Penanggalan Tom Hanks hisses in dismay from its trash-can lair, and sucks on a fresh dead kitten.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
“It’s not just the pilot and the copilot,” cries the flight attendant. “The federal air marshall is bleeding to death, and the only doctor on the plane is on fire!”
Cath rises to her feet.
“The wings are coming off!” shrieks the pregnant mother. “And the F-14s behind us are still firing!”
Cath strides to the cockpit door.
“It’s too much,” cries a priest, tearing off his collar. “I can’t even bring myself to pray!”
“Everyone calm down!” Cath declares. “It’s going to be okay. I’m a sysadmin.”
That turns out to be very, very little help.
(But a little!)
The tiny postapocalyptic biker gang dangles from Alejandro’s cursor as he tries to decide where in the desert to plop them down.
“You’re addicted to that game,” she says.
“It’s only addiction if my insurance covers it.”
“You don’t have insurance.”
“Shit,” he says, “I should take up smoking.”
“Anyway, this box is the last of your stuff. Unless you want the towels.”
“Nah,” he says, very lightly, “they’d smell like you.”
“Shit,” she says, “I should take up smoking.”
Alejandro drops the flailing bikers. They cheer and pop pixelated wheelies, until the one with the eyepatch dies of radiation poisoning.
Orthodontistry–like seances, witch hunts, or cattle drives–is an activity of perceived necessity (and great popularity) for a limited span of time. Davian is well aware that his profession won’t persist forever; medical technology is advancing quickly enough that some more elegant and holistic method will tame the splay-toothed frontier he surveys. But today, oh, today he is a cowboy, wrangling the wild overbite with lassos of gleaming wire.
“Yeehaw!” murmurs Davian, absorbed in his work.
“Ngh?” says his patient, lips peeled back and jaw locked by a device originally described in Malleus Maleficarum.
“Nothing, little dogie,” Davian says.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Almost four weeks since the last rain, and Haka and Jot feel anxious eyes as they mount the low steps to the altar. Around them, the wooden gods glare down, limbs fetal, teeth sharp.
“What may we offer, mighty ones?” Jot begs.
They cast carved bones for an answer. Haka carefully sets them in line.
“HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA–,” he reads.
They do it again.
“–AAAAAAAAAAAAAATS,” Haka concludes.
“SRSLY,” adds Jot, reading the littlest ones.
They get a bunch of novelty baseball caps at the tourist shop downtown and stick them on the gods. Then they cast a third time.
“FUCK YEEEEEEEAA–,” Haka reads.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009