Archive for the ‘David Kopaska-Merkel’ Category
What Do I Win?
Tuesday, July 17th, 2007
Ron showed the lid to the cashier at Quickie Mart.
“Win?”
“The contest!” He clicked the lid down on the counter and pushed it an inch or two towards the man.
The cashier picked it up, walked to the window, and stared at it for a long time. He put it back down in front of Ron. “It says ‘all-expenses-paid worlds tour.'”
That was right, Ron knew, typo and all.
“But how do I get the world tour? Do I go to a website?”
The clerk pointed at some tiny print on the bottle cap. “You call that number.” He gave the lid back and turned away.
*
“Hello.” A pleasant contralto.
“I, um, I’m calling about,”
“The worlds tour! I’ll set you up right now. When do you want to go?”
“Well, I, er, any time,” Ron finished weakly.
“Fantastic! Thank you so much for calling, and have a great trip.” She hung up.
*
That was the most surreal conversation he’d ever had, even stoned out of his mind. He turned, and was overwhelmed with the sensation of jamais vu, the unexpected feeling of unfamiliarity amid the familiar. Had the apartment been this untidy when he left this morning? He stepped over a pile of clothes and looked out the window. Holy shit! The lake was gone. No, it was covered with floating condos. But when had the condos been put in? His stomach was starting to feel a little queasy.
Someone walked out of the bathroom. He was short, paunchy, middle-aged, and wearing a towel.
“Hey…” Ron began.
“Gaah!” The man dropped his towel.
Ron stared at the man’s forked penis, then stammered: “Are you a weresnake*.”
“Funny, Zero. You’re still trespassing. What you doing in my zÅn?” Then he slapped his forehead.
“Oh, right, ‘the worlds tour.’ Look, I don’t need this today. Get out.” He nodded toward the door.
“But…”
“Go!”
Ron opened the door and stepped out.
From the apartment behind him he heard the fat man with the Y-shaped penis say “Oh yeah, watch that first one.”
The end
*Not making this up: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Snakes#Reproduction.
Kutter Wields the Knife
Friday, July 13th, 2007
He acted tough, but I knew he was a cream puff.
“So,” I drawled, “what brings you here?”
“I heard Cook E. Kutter was the man to see for making cookies.”
I inclined my head slightly.
“Word’s been getting around,” he continued, “that you’ve gone soft. That you let the Doughboy get away with murder.”
“That’s a damn lie!” I burst out, then struggled to regain control. “P. F. never touched that dame. Besides, he’s a ticklish one to deal with. Yeah, I let him go … he’d risen as far as he could. What’s it to ya?” I leaned back with a creak and parked my feet on the desk, between last week’s coffee and some bootleg recipes off the Internet.
All of a sudden he seemed a little nervous. He cleared his throat: “Well…”
“Cream gone sour?” I asked sympathetically, and poured us both glasses of whiskey. “Have a pick-me-up.”
He waved it away. “No thanks,” he said, “I’m trying to cut back. Listen. I want to make a batch of chocolate chip. Can you help?”
“Maybe. Do you have what it takes? Raw courage? Unyielding persistence? Butter? Flour? Chocolate chips?”
Oh, he had it all, but he was holding out on me. I could tell. Still, I played it cool.
“You want to know? I’ll tell you.
“You’ll need ingredients: butter, sugar, egg, vanilla, flour, salt, baking soda, and the chips. You need to mix them, and you’ve got to do it right.
“First the wet stuff, then the dry. The chips come last.”
Oh, I told him sure enough. I gave him the whole story.
“Now it’s your turn,” I said, “give!”
“What do you mean?” He was all innocence, up to the elbows in creamed butter, sugar, egg, and vanilla. But I wasn’t having it this time.
“You know what I mean.” He wouldn’t talk. I pounded on the desk, threatened, I admit it, but he simply stirred flour, salt, and soda into his creamed mixture. Finally I had had enough.
*
There was something on my face. I licked it off. Cream filling. Delicately, I parted his severed hemispheres, and there, nestled in the cream, I saw it. I KNEW he’d been holding out on me! I reached in and picked it up. I reverently wiped off the cream with my handkerchief, and popped it in my mouth. I love cherries.