|The Story||The Authors|
|"I just autopsied Mr. Martin. He won't be in."|
|"But will you be in Mr. Martin?"|
|Sure I'll be in Mr. Martin, he's having a colonic tomorrow.|
"Why are you giving a dead guy a Colonic?" she asked
"That's for me to know and you to find out" he replied
|"Is this some sort of fetish for you?" she asked.|
|Paul and the toothless woman were flirting up a storm in a manner that even Mr Tickles found a bit shameless. He prepared to make an attempt to cut in anyway. He pulled himself up to his full height (4'3" to be precise) and adjusted his pants just so to emphasize his prodigious package and sidled over to an adjacent barstool.|
|In a salacious tone he whispered, "You have a beautiful mouth."|
|Oh, thanks. And you´ve a cute nose, my dear Kati.|
|That's why I don't understand what you are doing here.|
|You walked out and I closed the door and that's it. You weren't supposed to come back. Who are you to think that I want you back? Take your smile and your hands somewhere else because I hate you. You're just a parasite that can't find a host, so you squirmed your way back to me. Well, I don't want you anymore.|
|But you didn't hear my viscious thoughts, or the things I had wanted to say. How I wished you had.|
|But you just picked the cotton of your boxer shorts out of your ass and gave me a vacant stare.|
"But who am I to you," I asked. "Just a grocer? Just a mad,
politically-insensitive, gardening grocer? Well I may be all of those things,
but love you, damn it!"
With that, I walked away, knowing I would never see you again. You were my everything-- my declaration of independence, my revolutionary war, my constitution and all three branches of government woven into one. And now you're gone.
|So I sit. And wait. For what, I don't know. Maybe your voice or the touch of your gaze. I pass the time cleaning the gerdening fertilizer from underneath my fingernails with a matchbook bearing presidental portraits. This one is of Grant, the old drunkard. I figure I'll take a bill with his face and see how far I'll get in forgetting you in Sam's Tavern.|
|After ten G&Ts ,I still see your face. will you go home already!|
|This corner of the cage is mine. The cobwebs are mine. Even the damn spider is mine. Go!|
|there is no room for another king in this kingdom.find your own!|
|With that the young prince decided to try his luck in the next kingdom, two fields over. Everyone knew the King there was not picky. Plus he needed a nice, young man to fulfill his daughter's wish and complete the prophecy. If only she weren't so smart, thought the knight as he plucked a hair from his nose.|
Distracted by olfactory pleasures, the knight didn't notice the appearance of
the little fellow dressed in orange tights and a green silk hat.
"Good day, brave knight," the little man said as he doffed his funny hat, revealing a bald and rather pointed head.
"Right," replied the knight as he continued his olfactory pleasures, "What do
you want of me, funny man?"
Because this bald fellow had been derived from a culture quite unlike that of the noble knight's, he was thouroughly insulted by this remark.
"Well, I never! I try to be polite, and you, stranger, make a it point to offend me!" cried the little man.
"What did I say?" inquired the perplexed knight.
"It's not what you said," the little man replied, "but what you did not say."
"Damn it." The knight had discovered a particularly stubborn hair, and his eyes began to water. "Get to the point, funny man."
"You think I'm funny? Do I amuse you? Am I some kind of friggin clown??"
Bang goes the gun.
The smoke clears. There is blood everywhere. The man that went down is still laughing. He takes aim and pulls the trigger again, but the bullet does not kill the laughter. It may have killed the body, but it didn't kill the mouth.
For lo and behold, there upon the gorebesmirched ground clacked and
chat-chat-chattered a set of wind-up teeth, replete with oversized clown
tennis-shoes, hop-hop-hopping around and emit a series of horsey guffaws. "Har!
Har! Har! Har! Har!" laughs the plastic mouth, seemingly choking on its own
The man with the gun feels a chill run up his spine, and in his mind, the upper half of a coffin creaks open, a white-tuxedo'd Criswell rises up from it, arms crossed over his chest, countenance the pale ghoulish hue of cave fungus or sweating havarti cheese -- "SOMEONE," intones Criswell, "WALKED OVER... MY GRAVE... AWAKENING ME."