Archive for April, 2010
Everyone’s a Carnivore
Tuesday, April 20th, 2010
Sabertooth boy is dating a dental hygienist. He likes to surprise her. His smooth cold curves tickling the side of her neck make Carla shiver from head to toe. She likes to floss, gets DOWN with the unwaxed string, has plenty of uses for those big big teeth. Genetic Modifdication doesn’t bother her. In college she lived with a phytosaur, captain of the GM rugby team, now a personal trainer, lots of big teeth. A whole forest jutting out of that girl’s mouth. Lately, STB has been getting pangs of jealousy, can’t stop thinking about Carla and that rugby player.
STB is not an athlete. As an ambush predator, he played chess, a little scholar bowl in high school. But it’s not the sweaty locker-room thing that bothers him. It’s the teeth.
—
STB walks into the consultation room. Dr. Holden is some kind of human-dinosaur blend, probably a tyrannosaur. He’s seated in an tan upholstered armchair. STB sizes him up, one predator to another. “I could take him,” he thinks. The shrink smiles slightly, keeping his teeth hidden. STB looks around the room. No couch, just a brown recliner facing the doctor’s chair at an angle.
“Have a seat.”
STB sits. He’s not comfortable talking to anyone about his problems. Holden puts him at ease with a little chit chat, eventually getting around to STB’s feeling that he’s not satisfying Carla.
“In the bedroom. She likes teeth.”
The Doc smiles slightly. He recovers quickly; but STB notices.
“I’ve only got two, Doc. Sure, they have some size on ’em, But Gladys had a mouthful. And Carla’s always talking about them, even when she’s flossing mine.” He shudders.
“And my neighbor, Poison-ivy boy. He’s dating the beagle twins. Everyone knows when it’s their night to howl. Carla doesn’t ever make that much noise.”
Holden tries to reassure him, but when STB leaves, he’s more worked up than ever.
“She’ll see,” he shouts over his shoulder, “these babies have some action left in ’em!” He flicks his thumb off the right one.
—
About a half hour later, Holden tries to call STB on his cell, but it’s turned off. He calls Carla, but she doesn’t sound worried, says he’ll calm down. As she heads home, sweat-stained exercise outfit in her gym bag and family-size floss dispenser in her pocket, she starts to wonder. Is he in the apartment, waiting, teeth bared?
end
God Is Not Screwing Around
Monday, April 19th, 2010
“This came for you, Martin,” said Sue at reception as Martin was sneaking out of work early one Tuesday. He sheepishly took the envelope and retreated to the break room. The fluorescent lights hummed tirelessly, and Martin, who was 39, felt old and useless. He opened the envelope. It burst into flame.
illustration by Ethan Reid
Martin shrieked and threw the envelope down on the table, where it continued to flame brightly without burning up.
“MARTIN, THIS IS GOD,” said a voice from the burning envelope. “I’D LIKE TO GET TOGETHER WITH YOU UP HERE THE DAY AFTER TOMORROW AT THREE. SEE YOU THEN.”
The flames guttered, and Martin reached tentatively for the envelope. It flared again.
“AND MARTIN,” said God. “LET’S KEEP THIS BETWEEN US.”
The envelope suddenly burned away to fine ash that drifted off the table and settled invisibly over the dun-colored, industrial carpeting.
Martin didn’t sleep well that night. He began by worrying about what God could possibly want with him, but by 2:00 AM he had shifted his fretful attention to logistics. How was he supposed to get to the meeting? Would he just be lifted up bodily? If so, what if he was indoors? And so on.
The next day he would have called in sick, but God was probably watching. At work, he managed to utterly bork the financial projections he’d been working on for two weeks.
Martin was wigging out: he had to talk to someone, even though God had said not to. There seemed a real possibility he was going insane. He went down to see Sue at reception.
“You look awful,” she said. “Are you OK?”
“Actually,” Martin said in a rough voice. “I’ve been a little stressed out. I have this appointment with–”
#
The next thing Martin knew, he was waking up naked and badly hung over in an empty warehouse that smelled like beer and piss. Something sharp was jabbing his back. When he got up, he discovered he’d been sleeping on a Barbie bed.
“God is not screwing around,” Martin said.
Work that next day passed in disoriented tedium. At 2:52 he wandered into the hallway and out the back door. In a store window across the street the sun gleamed like gold. Martin squinted. Could that be–? He stepped off the curb toward the light, right into the path of a speeding Ford F-150.
Martin actually ended up being a couple of minutes early.