“This was your idea,” Davey reminds him.
“I was just going to get a wig, Davey, not ‘the most realistic chest hair money can buy,'” says Bongo. “It’s not even for my chest, it’s for an afro! Hey, that is spirit gum you’re putting on my head, right?”
“Yes,” says Davey, tossing aside the superglue. “Now try not to breathe while I shake the hairbag.”
He’s still shaking, two minutes later, when Bongo finally inhales. “ACK PTHAH MY MOUTH,” he says.
“Save the method acting for the audience,” says Davey. “This is going to be the greatest performance of your life.”
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
The giant lived, and sued, and won, and now Jack’s living the settlement: five years of indentured servitude. Â He plugs mouseholes in the castle walls, chases dust beasts, finds things under the couch. Â Once in a while he has to ride a vanishing pat of butter desperately around a hot skillet.
The giant laughs at that, spinning in his enormous motorized scooter. Â Jack understands it was the largest single Medicare expenditure in state history. Â The gantry supporting his neck was purchased used from NASA. Â Things could be worse, Jack supposes: Â he could be Mrs. Giant. Â Somebody has to change those diapers.
Terpsichore winced as her stiff neck cracked. She’d been working for hours on her newest creation, but it was nowhere near complete.
“You’ll kill yourself, slaving away at this.” RicJames82 approached and massaged her shoulders; Terpsichore closed her eyes and sighed.
“It’s important,” she replied. “A fictive exegesis of the themes of Book 5, through the lens of–“
“Shh.” He inhaled her hair-scent. “It’ll wait. Other things demand your attention.”
“Like what?”
“How did I get here?” said Draco Malfoy. “Where are my trousers?”
“You’re writing metafanfic again, aren’t you,” sighs Cal, behind her.
“Nothing!” says Jeannie, trying to switch windows.
“You have no idea how brave he is.” Dawn frowns. “Even after he’s been diagnosed with tapenade, mezzothelioma, hereditary allergy, wandering nipple and irritated vowels.”
“Hold up,” says Seth.
“It’s a serious condition, Seth,” says Dawn. Over time the gland migrates potentially anywhere on the body, causing both embarrassment and–”
“Not what I was saying ‘hold up’ about, but sure,” says Seth. “That’s not real. It is not a real thing.”
“–to his cornea. Can you imagine?”
“Apparently we both can,” says Seth.
“Look Seth just BUY THE STUPID RAFFLE TICKET,” Dawn says.
He does, and wins something he can’t pronounce.
They gave up and sewed pockets into Isaac’s pajamas after he managed the fire escape in his sleep; now at least he has a key and a bus pass when he wakes two miles from home. Spare change, too, not that pay phones exist anymore.
He undertakes strange missions at the behest of dreams. He once bought a single stick of gum from a nice drug dealer, once sought out a toll booth operator to ask “why else ginger the multiple recursion tan?” Jungian voyages. Isaac’s feet are tough, his rest exhausting, but he always wakes with a sense of accomplishment.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
I got my preraw ultraselvedge “blue” “jeans” a year ago and love them. As instructed, I wear them daily, never wash, and use a rubber chisel to knock in knee joints each morning. When can I expect my skin to begin sloughing?
Sounds like you’re doing great! Everyone’s personal denim-fusion timeline is different, but I’d expect open sores within three months.
Master, my faith is greatly tested. What if I just took a sponge–
You are impure in my sight, and shall be cast out.
Dr. Denim! NOOO
Join us next week, when we discuss deflecting small-caliber bullets with your pants.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
“Littleford’s dead, isn’t he?” says Zach. “Guess I have to find a new job.”
“Not necessarily.” She rubs her buzz cut. “I, um, inherited the business from him.”
“Oh,” says Zach, parsing that. “Oh! So, is Phalanger your mom’s last name, or–”
“It’s not anybody’s name, Zach.”
“I knew that,” he says.
“The guys at the agency, they may… object to me taking over. I could use a lieutenant. Somebody tough. Somebody like the man who killed Hidebound.”
A pause; the plane’s engines are singing.
“I just did the website,” says Zach.
“Not anymore,” she says, and kisses his unscarred cheek.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
The saltshaker skips backwards through time five minutes every time he tips it over, probably.
“How’d you establish that?” says Mahmoud.
“I wrote ‘5:30’ down on a piece of paper,” says Waylon, “which I remembered to do because I pulled it out at 5:25.”
“Why not stick your watch in there?”
“It won’t fit.”
“Well, remember to put the Powerball numbers in tonight and take them out now!” says Mahmoud.
“It’s already 6:45, and that only works in Bill & Ted–”
“Do it!”
Waylon sighs, but when the duplicate shaker phases into being, he unscrews the top.
“6:50,” says the paper inside.
Monday, September 27, 2010
Etruscan haruspices divined omens from the entrails of animals, so under the principle of symmetry, fucking with bird livers should let you change the future. Desiree spikes the doves’ water bowl but it’s hard to tell whether it’s the right dosage. Aside from a few off-key chirps, they mostly just get sleepy.
Sheep should be easier, but here’s the problem: sheep hate you and are dumb. Desiree’s vocal attempts to corner Mrs. Sheepington in the petting zoo with a bottle of Heaven Hill attract a certain notoriety, but, to be fair, that’s what she wanted out of the future anyway.
Friday, September 24, 2010
They talk up the steaks, at Chopchurch, and with a name like that they have to. Ives would go just for the atmosphere, though: candles and stained glass, hostesses costumed at the edge of fetish-nunnery, extra-tall doors to accommodate the manager’s hat. When your table’s ready they ring a solemn bell. The wine tastes like guilty summers.
Ives drops his card in the collection plate and leans back, achingly sated. “Not bad, right?”
His date rearranges salad. “Eh. I associate all this with fasting.”
“The whole point is to subvert your associations!”
“No,” says his date, looking around, “I got that.”
Thursday, September 23, 2010