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Running Out of Flashy Titles

18 Jul
Running Out of Flashy Titles

Hungry

WOWEEEEEE POPSSS!

Honeydew Holiday! Green Explosion! Brown Jungle! Volcano Crunches and Southside Strawberrybombs!

WOWEEEEEE POPSSS!

October Orangewhistles and Chocothunders! Pineapplicious Thunks and Cocoboom Contraptions!

WOWEEEEEE POPSSS!

The rainbow light that pinned him to the vending machine smelled like Diggable Lemon and as his Volcano Crunch flopped through the chute, Rogik thought, maybe, he might have a problem with finding someone to get him inside the WOWEEPOPSSS factory, because that stupid cow Tenille said she knew some knuckledriver, but she flaked and he knew, as he tore into the Crunch, as the soursweet burn of it flipped all his totally greased-up switches, that unless he did find a way to get inside, he was going to Lep-out, and probably today, and as he jammed another Five Red Bux into the machine, smashing the Volcano Crunch button again, he could feel the twich starting to ride him now, all his perception amping up, all his rage flowing away, all his time slowing down and that second Crunch just fueled the burn, letting him ride the jittery intensity in a long, restless tremor from Boonie Heights down through Scat and the Ultra Ave Estates, until he had to stop and Crunch again, and when the sun found him passed out on the rim of East Continual, by the chicken shack, he had already started to change.

The smell started to rise from him. Sour and Sweet. Most passersby gave him a wide-berth. Some took photos and whispered and pointed. Some lingered in shadow. Some fled.

The day waned, and the smell from him was now enough to sting eyes and drive animals away. As the sun died, a multicolored spotlight snapped into existence, hard-focused on his prone body. It played back and forth, as if there were a soundtrack playing and the jaunty light was only doing its part to liven up the festivities.

The birds fell silent. The wind stilled.
Rogik stirred. He made a sound in his throat that he would not have recognized.

The spotlight stopped screwing around and narrowed to a tight cone, shifting to a bright orange color, nailed on Rogik’s now rising form, and a very faint sound could be heard on the wind, screams perhaps, or music, and as he stood, he howled with a voice no longer human, and bounded into the dark city streets, raw with hunger.The spotlight kept up, jumping and jerking as once-Rogik, now just another Lep, hunted the city.

Volcano Crunch – Feel the Rush™ VC4LIF!!!^$^%!!!!!!!!

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Jenkins & Hesperly

“What is that thing?”

“A moth I think.”

“A moth!? That big? Can’t be. Must be some kinda…..I dunno, but that ain’t no moth.”

“Well, yeah actually it is. See the antennae and the fuzzy little mouth thing…that’s a moth, dude.”

“But what the hell is it doing in here?”

“Dunno. Maybe it got lost.”

“Lost? Pfftt…yeah, ya think?”

“Well how do YOU think it got in here?”

“I think someone brought in here and put it there for a joke.”

“A joke. Bro, its 8 feet long!”

“Yeah? So?”

“So?! How is that a jok—”

“WHATS GOING ON IN HERE?”

“Uh..n-nothing sir, nothing at all.”

“WHAT IN GODS NAME IS THAT?”

“We think its a….a moth sir.”

“A MOTH?”

“Yes, yes sir.”

“CANT BE. MOTHS AREN’T THAT BIG. MUST BE SOME KIND OF …. I DONT KNOW BUT
THAT IS NO MOTH.”

“Yes sir, something else, not a moth. Understood. Well, back to work.”

“GOOD IDEA JENKINS, GOOD MAN.”

“Yes sir, thank you sir.”

“GODDAMN BIG ASS MOTH. LOOK AT THE BASTARD. MUST BE A JOKE.”

“Yes sir, going to go now sir.”

“YES ON YOUR WAY GENTS, LOTS TO DO, BUSINESS AND ALL.”

“Yes sir. Sorry sir.”

“SORRY? WHAT ARE YOU SORRY FOR HESPERLY?”

“Well, sir, for… for looking at the moth I guess.”

“NOTHING TO BE SORRY ABOUT. BIG DAMN MOTH. WAS LOOKING AT IT MYSELF.”

“Yes sir.”

“DAMNEDEST THING IVE EVER SEEN. DIDNT KNOW THEY GOT THAT BIG”

“Yes sir”

“EVER SEE A TREE FROG? THOSE SUCKERS ARE TINY. MINISCULE EVEN”

“Tree frogs? No sir, cant say as I have had the pleasure.”

“PLEASURE? GOOD GOD JENKINS, ITS NO PLEASURE. LITTLE BASTARDS NEVER SHUT UP.
DRIVES MY WIFE CRAZY”

“You’re married sir?”

“MARRIED 42 YEARS THIS AUGUST. GOOD WOMAN, BUT TINY. NOT LIKE THIS GREAT BIG
BASTARD.”

“Yes sir, if you say so sir.”

“I DO, JENKINS I DO. ALRIGHT. BACK TO WORK!”

……

“Afternoon sir, on your way back to your office?”

“YES I AM, HENDERSON. HAVE A GOOD AFTERNOON.”

“Yes sir, you too.”

“Holy crap, what is that?”

“Is that a moth?”

“Can’t be a moth, its too goddamn big!”

OPs note: I have no way to end this. Its a Seinfeld episode circling the drain. Pretend it was taken behind the woodshed and given a quiet bullet to the head.


Unchained

Ghosts.

I hate them.

No really, I hate the motherfuckers.

Weak. Impotent. Full of rattle and chain. And always with those sad faces? So fucking pathetic.

I stare at the ceiling, hearing the god awful tick-tick-tick of that fucking cuckoo clock.

And then I hear it. The slithery slink of spectral chain, wending its way towards me. Like goddamn always.

With a sliding slip sideways the fucker materializes.

A new one this time.

I remember him. Face slashed into ribbons, one arm dangling uselessly by his side.

Wrapped in ethereal chain. His burden. Not mine.

His face is torn and bloody. And somehow still finds a way to frown. His guts gape like spools of purple ribbon.

He works his jaw furiously, no doubt haranguing me with foul curses and promises of revenge.

I laugh.

“Didn’t I kill you last summer, you fuck?”

He stops his jawing and stares.

“Yeah that’s right, I remember you, you useless fuck.”

He rattles his chain silently, looking rather comical and sad.

“Fuck off. Go haunt someone else. Leave me be.”

He tries to return through the wall, but his arm, the one I nearly severed, gets stuck.

I laugh again.

What a moron.

After five ridiculous minutes, he finally pulls his arm through. He disappears without so much as a whiff of sulfur or brimstone.

I hate ghosts.

The cuckoo clock and the keen of the wind are all that’s left to me now.

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Posted by on July 18, 2017 in Flash fiction

 

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