Jeff the Eye-Patch Guy

Another few minutes and they’d be out of teleporting and firing range. Jeff and his crew were already barely able to hit the enemy spacecraft.
Jeff wondered if the gain of taking down the GalaxyPlatapus was worth all the cargo they had lost. Also the people he added as an afterthought.
The crew of the SpaceGopher had been chasing the other ship for weeks. Across galaxies, universes, and dimensions they had raced. Together they had flown through the Milky Way, the Butterfinger and the Snicker galaxies. They’d been through our realities and others. They’d had fuel runs on planets full of rabbit kings and plants of sentient immobile rocks. All for one purpose; to warn the Clearwater Republic of the impending invasion of Space Liechenstein. They both wanted the glory and were willing to do anything to win it.
The two scouting ships had been at odds ever sense a dodgeball match gone wrong. The captain of the SpaceGopher, Jeff, lost his eye. This caused two thing to happen. First off a bitter rivalry was formed because after the eye incident the SpaceGopher left the crew of the GalaxyPlatapus stranded on a planet full of the Irish with no way off. The second effect was that Jeff thought he was a lot cooler because of the eyepatch. The crew couldn’t tell which was worse.
“I! The Magnificent Jeff command you to teleport me over there to wup some GalaxyPlatapus buttocks!” Jeff said.
“We’re not in range Captain!” His first mate Steve said. Before the Eyepatch (The crew called it B.E.) Steve had been an attractive young man, but as Jeff’s ego grew the inverse happened to Steve’s hair. Any hair left over was thin and green from all the radiation they’d been exposed to.
“That’s Sir Magnificent Captain to you!” Jeff yelled, shooting Steve in the leg. “And if we’re not close enough bring me close enough!”
“With all due respect Sir Magnificent Captian,” Steve said through gritted teeth. His eyes moved to the diamoter on the control panel with was alight with blinking buttons. Actually the ship functioned completely telepathically with Steve but Steve kept the flashing lights and buttons to impress the navigator Amanda.
“Any faster and we risk disintegration!” Steve finished.
“I’m willing to risk it!” Jeff proclaimed. With that he slapped Steve and pressed as many buttons as he could. This left Steve with the dilemma of either making something happen or looking like a complete fool in front of Amanda.
Steve made the quick decision to lose the part of the ship carrying Super Baby Project #2,391.
“Sir, you’ve dropped project Super Baby into space,” Steve said feigning suprised (‘Look whose Drama lessons were useless now Dad!’ Steve thought), “but now we’ve lost enough wait to increase our speed to get into teleporting range!”
“All right! Another great adventure of the most amazing hero of all… Jeff! Let’s do this!”

When Exterminators Attack

Tom’s hand was stretched to it’s full capacity to grab the axe lodged in his friend Steve’s brain. Tom had told him not to get that surgery revealing his brain stating,
“It’ll be REALLY easy to die!”
“Naa,” his companion said, “it’ll be fine! Also the chicks will completely dig it!”
Tom never had the heart to tell him that it was probably the revealed brain, as will as it’s small size, that lead to Steve’s life of eternal bachelorhood.
As Tom’s attacker was strangling Tom to death he contemplated how he would probably die in the midst of one of the lamest conspiracy’s in human history.
It had all started out that morning when Tom tried to buy a bagel. Then, in a series of escalating bargains Tom ended up getting a bagel, 4 Labradors, and a lifetime supply of pizza in exchange for a backrub and military grade secrets.
Then, about three hours later and 4 separate calls to the pound, a group of people wearing ‘swat’ uniforms came in. Tom tried to tell them they hadn’t ordered an exterminator but when one of them pulled a gun on him he may or may not have shot him in the head. Well, it was definitely a may/yes because that exterminator was definitely dead. The exterminator’s friends apparently were not very happy about that as they pulled out their exterminator rays which looked quite a bit like semi-automatic’s, probably to much for an extermination company.
“Code 97-b” Tom yelled which meant that exterminator are attempting to kill us all because of something Tom did.
Then one of the exterminators pulled out an axe and threw it at Tom’s friend Steve. It hit Steve straight in the exposed brain. Then as more of Tom’s compatriots arrived one of the exterminators tackled Tom and began to strangle him, which brings us back to the moment.
As Tom was being strangled by this man he tried to reach for the axe. As his fingers gripped the axe he began to lose consciousness. He used his last ounce of strength to throw the axe. It sailed in an arc and hit absolutely no one. Tom’s eyes followed the axe until they moved to the doorway where someone unexpected was standing.
Using even his laster ounces of strength he put together the puzzle of the conspiracy in his mind.
“Wait… Mom?” And then he died.

Short Shorts (Who likes ‘Em?)

The Deep

Carl was in to deep. It had started out with the simple lie “I like trucks”, and now he was about to box Jesus and Gandhi for the championship.
Carl wondered how he had gotten here, the triumphs and tribulations, the dinners with the stars, the battles with the ghosts. In fact I the writer wondered how Carl got here… huh… well, It seems as if we’ll never know.

The Pen is Mightier Than the Sword

Jake joined formation with his legion as they marched towards the Pit of Doom where thousands of orcs awaited them. The glow of Mt. Doom’s lava illuminated the dark evening air.
“Formations! Weapons!” Someone ahead yelled. The clicks of pens filled the air. You see Jake had missed all of the training sessions and briefing, he’d had a REALLY bad case of diarrhea, so he was very poorly informed for the wave of pens that emerged.
“Wait? What the hell guys?! Why did you bring pens? Where are your swords?” Jake questioned his marching ally to his left.
“Dude! Didn’t you hear? We’re taking the term poetry slam to a whole new level!” Jake’s ally said.
Speaking of taking things to a whole new level, Jake felt a whole new level of being out of place. You’ve never felt being a black sheep tell you bring a sword to a poetry slam.


Jake had had enough of this! He pivoted around, kicked down the door and yelled,
“Who took my sandwich?”
Jake had in-fact eaten that sandwich himself, but he wouldn’t let that get in the way of him achieving Justice.
Jake stared at the room, sitting in the middle of it was what appeared to be a nursery of disabled children.
“Ooh sorry my fault…” inside though he knew he had achieved Justice. He stalked away looking for somewhere else for Justice to be achieved.


His cape, slicing through the air.  His eyes scanning his surroundings.  His hand subtly itching his buttocks.  This is our hero.  The famous world-wide recognized protector of the universe: Sandwichman.”
This was the opening line of of Marvel’s new hit superhero’s first comic. Sandwichman was the first member of the Incredible New Avengfull Re-Avenging Avenge-Max Avengers.  A new league of heroes for a new generation of humans (and animal people, we don’t segregate those anymore).
People were tired of the boring 3 dimensional super heroes who fought battles on the inside and the out. Heck they didn’t want fights or battles at all:
“It’s too difficult to follow!” the new generation said.
So Marvel, not willing to stop making uninspired movies like everyone wanted to do, (Their slogan: ‘With great power comes great profitability) decided to combine two of the worst things out there: No, not house music and meeting your girlfriends parents, super hero films and reality television.
Each film about Sandwichman would include a 30 minute segment on him making a sandwich and whether or not his butler would enjoy it. Fans were shocked when the butler gave an ‘ehh’ to one of Sandwichman’s signature steak sandwich.  It may have been that that was all that could be deciphered from the butler’s cardiac arrest (The secret ingredient, 1/2 tablespoons of salt, may have been a contributor to the attack).  But by the end of the film, with the help of Accountant Girl (The tagline to her film was: Who knew accounting could be this intense!!!”) he would figure out a mystery, feed his butler a thumbs up (The thumbs up may have been part of a seizure, Sandwichman forgot how epileptic the butler was when he invited him to his hideout at the disco. In fact some fans speculate as to whether Sandwichman put the sandwich in his mouth to stop him from biting his tongue off. Other nerdier fans claim that that would not allow for universe 134 to happen because of- yeah we don’t get it either) and still manage to out food his nemesis, Doctor Dorrito.

Morning Annoucments

Jake walked up to the podium, his black robe’s tail gliding across the darkened marble floor.
Each step reminded Jake of all the greats that had taken this exact route, all except for Tom, who had been too busy with the mutant  uprising.
“Um…” Jake spoke into the microphone.  In front of him waited 150 onlookers.  Some men, some women, some children, all clothed in  ash-gray “snowball” colored robes.
“Um guys?  Where’s Carl?” Jake asked.  With that, all formality washed away and the audience was caught ablaze with idle chatter.
“There are normally 151 of you so someone’s missing, and knowing Carl…” Jake struggled to speak over the forest fire of chatter.
“He’s dead!” someone yelled from the audience.
The news hit Jake like a sack of solid gold bricks.  In fact similarly to someone who was hit by a sack of actual golden bricks Jake threw up over the entire front row.  Their ash-gray robes now decorated with a new tinge of orange-colored flavoring.
It was at that moment that Carl walked in through the double doors.
“Sorry I’m la–” He was cut off by Jake.
“Carl, you’re supposed to be dead man!  Not cool.  That is such a jerky move man!”
“Oh–sorry!” With that Carl collapsed into a heap and died.
“Thank you, Carl.  Anyway…” Jake said, turning his body away from Carl’s corpse, which was being dragged away by the Janitor.
“Okay.  Morning announcements. Year 29 Day 252. The world didn’t end last night.” The audience groaned. “I know. I know. Disappointing, but I’ve got a good feeling about tonight!”
A tidal wave of woo’s erupted from the crowd.  Say what you will about the Clearwater Doomsday Cultists, but they really knew how to keep up the enthusiasm.  After nearly 30 years of predicting the end of the world it hadn’t happened once, well, there was that one time.
“Hm… Okay… Other news… Oh it’s someone’s birthday!”
A group of cultists began singing Happy Birthday.  They had barely gotten through the first verse when they were cut off by Jake.
“But it’s Carl.  And he’s dead.  Oh someone stop those rats from eating him, otherwise there won’t be enough for the rest of us.”
The Janitor raced over to Carl’s body to confront the rats.  He pulled out his trusty broom and began to attack the rats, who had failed to respond to his diplomacy.  For a moment the Janitor looked like he was going to win until one of the rats bit off his leg, turning the tide of the battle.  It took four cultists to subdue the giant mutated rats.
“Guys,” Jake said in that way teachers do when they’re about to explain something incredibly simple, “has someone been diverting the nuclear waste from our nursery to the rats’ nest again?  If we keep doing that,” Jake’s voice began to rise, “Project Super Baby will never work!”
The audience exchanged nervous glances.
“Ooh! From now on morning announcements will be 15 minutes earlier so we can predict the end of the world before those damn Knights of a Fallen World.  Their website now claims that they are the first to predict the end of the world.”
“Boo!” roared the audience.
“Exactly! We’ve been at this for nearly 30 years now, if anyone is going to predict the end of times it will be us!  And if anyone was thinking about moving to the Knights, must I remind you of what happened to the last group that tried to leave?  Square dancing.  For two entire week. Eight am til nine pm.  And guess what type of music was on the entire time? Country!” The audience groaned.
“And now, ladies and gents. Our pledge of allegiance.”
Everyone, even the Janitor who was bleeding profusely from his stump leg, and Carl, now resurrected as a zombie (that’s what happens when you don’t eat them quick enough), held hands and chanted:
“I pledge my allegiance to the Clearwater Doomsday Cult and to the Almighty Queen Kautauespha, I pledge my allegiance to canned food and to her husband Tsar Steve, and I pledge to never enjoy square dancing.  Ever.”
And with that everyone went back to fighting the mutant rats, who, during these announcements had taken over the nursery.

The Chronicles of Dark Danger #1

“Danger. Dark Danger.  You want something stolen? I can guarantee the I will retrieve it 100%”
Dark’s eyes wandered around the room until they finally paused for a breath at a child in the middle of the room wearing a crown.
The room was filled with aristocrats, though none of them had any noble blood.
See a hundred years ago the country had had Dukes and Lords and a King, all of them said to be descended from the gods.  They were loved by the people and all was well until one day the King passed a bill supplying free healthcare.
“Communist!” His people yelled through toothless mouths.  They needed healthcare but they were to proud to take it for free.  So they marched with their broken legs and they fought with their dislocated arms to overthrow their leaders.  When they celebrated their victory they threw up their feasts but dammit they were proud to.
Their victory left a power vacuum.  No-one knew how to fill it until someone suggested a bi-yearly monopoly tournament.  And that is how the leaders have been chosen for the past hundred years.
Unfortunately no-one remembered how much children played monopoly, so a good portion of the aristocracy were children. In fact the current King was a 6 year old named Steve.
“Dark, thank you for coming. It’s an emergency!” The Duke of Boardwalk sputtered.  The Duke was a man of 32, still quite young, but his beard was already fighting a losing battle against the gray hairs.
“Unless he get’s his choo-choo, as he calls it, he’ll kill all of us!” The Lady of Mediterranean Avenue said. She was 16 and already missing a hand because she’d “stolen” one of the King’s cookies.
“Where is this choo-choo?” Dark asked
“His parents have it, but they want a get out of jail free card in return, and we’ve only got one left. We had to trade the other for a passing grade for the King’s kindergarten class.” The Duke said, sounding quite exasperated.
The King, who had been silent during this entire affair finally spoke up in the high pitched squeak he called his voice.
“Shhhhhh! Be quiet! I’m twying to sweep! I cwut off your mouth snake!”
“That’s what he calls a tongue.” The lady whispered.
“Look lady, let’s get this over with, I’ve got an entire basked of rotten tomatoes for throwing waiting at home. I told you I can most likely do this!” Dark said. Truth be told though he just really needed to pee and was to embarrassed to say so.
“Here’s the address.” The Duke handed him an envelope. Dark looked inside of it and in there was a piece of paper and a whole bunch of crumbly cookies. “He insisted. The place is guarded so be careful, but I’m sure you can figure it out. Cookie speed!”
“Cookie speed?” Dark asked.
“Yes, the King has banned the “G” word and replaced it with the word ‘Cookie’, church gets very crazy”
“Look, I don’t have time for this. I’ve got a 50-50 chance at this, I should be back in the next two hours or so.”
“Wait? 50-50? You guaranteed you could get it!” The Lady yelled.
Dark was already walking out the door when she said that. He turned around, his black cloak flowing behind him.
“Did I say that? Sorry I meant 40-60.” And with that he was out the door, ready to take on the day’s challenges.
To Be Continued

Snowball: The Darndest Cat in the Wild West

Let me make this clear: This is not a love story. Because those are normally good.  No, this is a story about someone who defied the stereotypes.
Snowball was an average kitten with the one exception being her volcanic black fur, also she could fire a pistol.  All she’d ever wanted to do with her life was to be an owner of a saloon.  But when she filed for a loan she was told that she hadn’t filled out the form correctly, probably because she was a cat and didn’t speak English.
The only option for Snowball was to turn to a life of crime, which she did. In fact she enjoyed it so much she never thought about owning saloons anymore.  All she cared about was cash and livin’ it up in the wild west.
I was just a little boy when I first heard of Snowball, but it wasn’t until I was a bit older that our worlds collided.
It was a sunny day in Clearwater, sunny that is except for all the clouds.  We townsfolk were just minding our own business when Little Timmy pointed out a figure in the distance.
I grabbed my binoculars and saw what looked to be a cat riding a horse.  As it got closer I realized it was in fact a cat riding a horse. There were only two people it could be, and considering only one of them was a cat, I knew who it was… Snowball.
When Snowball arrived in town she went straight to the cat house.  She left almost immediately looking VERY confused.
Someone ran up and got the sheriff, Tim Digglebaker, who wasn’t the brightest crayon in the drawer. Tim went up to pet Snowball. Before I could stop him, he was pumped full of lead.
“Meow! Meow! Meow!” Snowball purred from the top of Tim’s bleeding body.
“I don’ know what she be sayin’, but I sure as hell be listenin’!” Craig, our town drunk, said.
A ripple of murmurs rolled through the crowd that had gathered.  In sync the entire townsfolk bowed down to Snowball.
And that is how Snowball was elected mayor of Clearwater.