The Critic

by E. Scripsi

Herbert North, the most feared and reviled critic in the world, stopped by a newstand to leaf through the new issue of Criticism Today magazine, in which he was featured. His well-cared-for face glowed from the cover, critical acumen glistening behind his glasses. Late for a conference where he planned to delivery a devastating critique, he leafed quickly. There, before the newsstand, the world-reknowned, feared and reviled critic collapsed, weeping. Passers by looked away in embarrassment as they stepped over his prostrate and sobbing figure. Phrases like “Human fire hydrant spewing watery pabulum,” and “In short, a bloviating hack,” bounced around the tinny echo chamber of his mind until a voice broke in.

“You cry on it, buddy, you buy it.

THE END

The Man Who Moved Around Using His Legs

by Norm De Plume

An immediate hush fell when Brance Jansen walked into the restaurant.  The only sound was the whisper of 50 motor chairs, as the diners all rotated a few degrees toward the door to get a better look.

Everyone wanted to catch a glimpse of The Man Who Moved Around Using His Legs.

Ducking through the door, Brance flashed a cockeyed grin and acknowledged the attention with a slight wave.  The maitre d’, his motor chair purring, escorted him to a table in the back.

“Jesus,” said Ralf, once conversation resumed.  “Take a look at that… freak.”

“Yeah,” said TonE. “I never knew people looked like such freaks when they’re not in a motor chair.”

“I hear,” said En1d, leaning in and whispering conspiratorially, “that his dad was an eccentric industrialist trillionaire, who raised him to move around using his legs instead of a motor chair.”

“Ugh, that’s just sick,” said Ralf.  “It’s child abuse.  God, it must be so painful to support your weight on your legs all day.  Anyway, I could probably move around like that too, if my legs were thick like his.”  He glanced down at his own withered, useless, lower limbs.

“Yeah, but those thick legs look so freaking weird.  Must be a birth defect,” said Ton E.

“I think his legs are big because he uses them all the time,” said En1d.

“Ooh, I wonder if he has any other body parts like that!” giggled J8ne.

“J8ne! You can’t be serious!” said Ralf.

“What?  He’s rich, he’s handsome… so what if doesn’t use a motor chair?”

“God, you are so disgusting.  I can’t believe you’d even consider… with that… freak,”  Ralf threw his napkin on the table and angrily revved away from the table and out the door.

“Oh, Ralf… I was only joking,” J8ne, aware she’d gone too far, followed quickly behind.

Ton E and En1d finished their meal in awkward silence, paid the bill, and left.

Six months later, only a year after coming to town, Brance Jansen was dead.  The official cause of death was listed as trauma to the heart caused by overuse of the legs.  A rumor on the street claimed that he’d actually been murdered by a jealous husband.  The true cause of death, however, was an acute infection of the big toe, caused by its repeatedly having been run over by motor chairs over the past twelve months.

Soon, The Man Who Moved Around Using His Legs, was largely forgotten.  However, his name still lives on in lingo used by paramedics: a “Jansen Call” is one where an ambulance is dispatched to aid a man who has fallen after taking leave of his senses and attempting to impress a woman by getting out of his motor chair and walking.

THE END

Now Dawns a Glorious New Era

by Norm De Plume

The assembled world dignitaries and members of the press fell into a breathless silence as the tall, robed alien cleared his throat and prepared to speak telepathically.

“PEOPLE OF EARTH, IN ORDER TO DEMONSTRATE OUR PEACEFUL INTENTIONS, WE HAVE DECIDED TO SHARE WITH YOU SOME OF OUR ADVANCED TECHNOLOGIES.  BEHOLD, A PUMP WHICH DRAWS THE AIR OUT OF FOOD STORAGE BAGS, ALLOWING LEFTOVERS TO REMAIN EDIBLE FOR WEEKS ON END!”

Noticing a pronounced lack of enthusiasm  amongst the audience members, the alien being did a quick telepathic scan.

“HUH.  OKAY, I SEE YOU’VE GOT THAT ONE ALREADY.  NO BIG DEAL.  UH… HERE.  THESE CLOTHS CAN ABSORB UP TO 10 TIMES THE LIQUID YOUR STANDARD EARTH PAPER TOWELS CAN. NOW DAWNS A GLORIOUS NEW ERA OF PEACE AND…”

He paused and scanned again.

“DAMN.  OKAY, UH… HOW ABOUT A DEVICE FOR SHOOTING SALAD COMPONENTS INTO A BOWL? NO? A SOUND ACTIVATED ON/OFF SWITCH FOR LIGHT SOURCES?”

“A WATCH WITH A BUILT IN CALCULATOR?”

“REALLY?”

“SHIT.  OKAY, FINE.  YOU WIN.  YOU CAN HAVE THE INTERPLANETARY DEATH RAY…”

THE END

A Subtle Distinction

by Norm De Plume

“Moron?” she said sweetly, smiling, making the word into a question. “Moron?”

Patrick remained seated, saying nothing, as the plastic object laying beside him on the padded bench buzzed to life.

“Moron?”

He fumed silently.

“Moron, anyone?  Moron?  Going once…”

He rose quickly, furious, and slammed the blinking, vibrating pager onto the Applebee’s hostess station.

“It’s Moran, you idiot.  MorAN.  It’s a very common name.”  He grabbed his protesting wife by the arm and dragged her out the front door.

Such rudeness!  The hostess took a few seconds to compose herself, made a brisk tick on her clipboard, and moved on to the next name the list.

“Asswipe?”

“Right here.”  Roger Asswipe couldn’t wait to get to his table, as he’d been dreaming about Applebee’s Chicken Parmesan Tanglers all day long.

THE END

The Invisible Hand

by Norm De Plume

Deep in a secret cave, many miles below the surface, The Invisible Hand’s young ward burst through the laboratory doors.

“Sir!”

“What is it, Kid Gipper?”

“I’ve just spoken to Commissioner O’Leary.  It’s Cyborg Cardinal Richelieu.  He’s taken a busload of orphans hostage and is demanding an enormous ransom for their return!”

“We must act quickly.  Mobilize the Sons of Liberty.  I want a massive anti-tax rally outside City Hall within the hour.”

“A rally?  Shouldn’t we do something to help the orphans?”

“Giving those orphans a handout won’t help them at all.  How will they ever learn free market principals if we just swoop in and save them?  No, Kid Gipper, better to let the market handle this one.”

“But Cyborg Richelieu has suspended the bus over Sharks River Gorge!  He’s promised to drop them in exactly one hour if his demands aren’t met!”

“All the more reason to act quickly.  You see, by lowering the corporate tax rate, we free capital to fund new, more lucrative ways to deal with the mutant cyborg situation.”

“But how can we be sure corporations won’t take the extra money as profit?”

“Kid Gipper, if I’d known you were a freedom hating Socialist Fascist, I never would have given you access to the Laffer Cave.  Why, there’s nothing more American than a corporation taking a profit!  Besides, those orphans must want to be hostages.  If they didn’t, why wouldn’t they just disable Cyborg Richelieu with an Electro Magnetic Pulse from their utility belts?”

“Sir, I don’t think those orphans have the resources to purchase utility belts…”

“Oh, and suddenly that’s my problem?  Kid Gipper, I worked hard to inherit the resources that paid for this cave, all of the high-tech equipment, my creationist sculpture garden…”

Suddenly, the Hotline chirped three times.  Invisible Hand picked up the receiver.

“Yes?  Great Goldwater’s Ghost!  Where?  I’m on my way.”

He sprang to his feet.

“Quickly, Kid Gipper!  Fuel the Rush Mobile.  Two men are trying to get married in another state.”

“But…”

“Quickly, before they cheapen every marriage in Real America with their unholy vows!  I only pray we’re not too late…”

THE END

Whispers

by Mr. W

He drifted into the realization that he was awake; the red numbers on the bedside clock glowed 3:23 in the dark. He wrapped the satin sheets tighter to himself. He could overhear a quiet conversation.

From overhead: “You know I’m his biggest fan.”

From the window: “He doesn’t care how big a fan you are. He cares how useful you can be to him.”

From overhead: “You make him sound selfish.”

From the window: “Don’t let your jealousy over my position color what I say.”

The mattress springs creaked as he sat up. “Guys,” he said, “I’m trying to sleep here.”

“Sorry,” the ceiling and box fans said in unison.

THE END

The Cost of Shame

by Mr. W

He glanced at the clerk at the only open register as she tucked her choppy brown hair behind her ears. She turned her head and they briefly made eye contact; her eyes were wide and clear and beautiful. The shopping basket he clutched to his chest contained a toilet plunger, a fiber additive, and a laxative, and he knew he couldn’t go through with this transaction.

“If only the register was staffed by a grizzled sea captain,” he surprised himself by saying out loud.

“I can wear a mask if you like,” the clerk said. “Aisle seven, toward the back, by the batteries.”

He had no choice but to ramble down the aisle until he found the sea captain masks (by the stationery, not the batteries). They were $200 a pop.

That’s how they get you, he thought as he picked a sea captain mask with a particularly jaunty hat and dropped it in the basket.

THE END

A Decisive Announcement

By Mr. W

“Fuck you, hiccups,” said the president, who had been elected with a rare 100% vote. “Fuck you to hell.”

THE END

Cause for Alarm

by Mr. W

She woke up groggy, thinking she was in her bed in her parents’ old house, realizing she was on an unfamiliar leather sofa. The room was dim; some dull light seeped through the closed blinds and reflected off a flat-panel television in the corner. She didn’t know what time it was.

She untangled herself from the scratchy blanket and ran her hands through her short hair. She could taste cigarettes and blood. No need to panic, not yet, she thought as she felt around the carpet for her flip flops.

Wait a second. This doesn’t taste like my blood.

THE END

Step Two

by Mr. W

He checked his pockets and satchel against the crumpled list. Seventy-five feet of parachute line: Good. Folding ceramic knives, one clipped to his belt, one stashed in his boot holster: Good. Wireless earpiece linked to a police scanner: Good. Lock pick gun: Good. Five cannisters of colored smoke, four yellow, one blue: Good. He was ready.

Now all he needed was a plan, and an objective.

THE END