Bedtime Stories for the ADD: Note

Someone leave a note for the robots so if they get back after 2012 they know it isn't their fault we went away. Stupid Mayan calendar.

#19 - I scheduled this over three years ago.

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Bedtime Stories for the ADD: Humane

“So, the ship is stocked and everything is loaded and configured to spec. We’re done, right?” trainee logistics officer Hannah Shelling said.

“Not quite,” Chief Jackie Reed said.

---

“Set course for Beta Reticulae, Mr. Christopher.”

“Yes, sir,” Daniel said. He used Maere’s constant and a few modified equations of his own. The course plotted was elegant and deceptively simple. “Course plotted, sir.”

“Ahead full,” the captain said.

He engaged the Watson’s engines. The Watson left the system in a streak of light.

---

Daniel Christopher’s shift ended and he walked to his quarters. This would be his first longterm tour out of the system. He’d already clashed with first officer Craig’s over some minor disagreement. He needed to make a good impression, get on Craig’s good side. Otherwise, the next two years could destroy his career while boring him to tears.

He plopped on his regulation rack and turned the light out. Through his uniform, he felt a squarish bit of paper under him. He turned the light back on and turned over.

Special Orders: Lieutenant Daniel Christopher

He turned the envelope over, tore the flap open, and pulled a sheet from the envelope. All the identifying marks were absent. An admiral had signed it. When he finished the letter, he was to burn it.

---

“We’ve got to deliver these daffy letters to every bunk on the ship?”

“They’ve got to be the right letters too or there’ll be trouble.”

“They all say the same thing. What’s the point?”

“Not quite, Shelling. What if you got one of these letters and it had someone else’s name on it?”

“Oh,” Shelling swore. “Yeah, that would be a problem.”

---

Dear Lt. Daniels,

It will doubtlessly surprise you to know that you are the only human on board the Watson.

All your fellow crew and officers are androids.

You would have figured it out eventually, but in order to prevent problems later, we decided it was best to let you know now—

“Well, damn. That makes a lot of sense already, I guess.”

---

“So, why do we do it?” Shelling said.

“The androids make braver decisions,” Reed said, “When they think they’re the only human and they have to make up for all the inhumanity around them.”

“Huh.”

“Turns out it’s the same for humans too.”

“Are you saying—”

“I’m not saying anything,” Reed said. She pulled a cigar out, trimmed it, and lit up. “I’m not saying anything at all.”

#72

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Bedtime Stories for the ADD: Meat

A bit of space dust hit the ship.

I sounded an alarm and set micromechanicals to patch the hole.

It feels weird not breathing. I wasn’t told that. It’d been twenty-two years and I still felt like the moment right after I go under the water.

My non-existent lungs told me I was fine.

My heart should have raced when we were hit. It didn’t. Not a heart. Just synapses.

All I ever wanted was to be a hero. The feel of justified adrenaline running through me. But so much of emotion is meat. I just don’t feel it anymore.

#71

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Bedtime Stories for the ADD: Home Late

Chris walked in the door.

Max reared back and pounced on him.

“OUCH! F——ing cat!” Chris brushed the cat off him.

“You’re late,” Max said. “What was it this time? Flat tire. Met some strange woman who wanted help moving her couch? You’ve run out of lies, I think.”

Chris plopped on the couch and sighed. “It was work. It’s always work.”

His phone rang. He pulled it out of his pocket. Sam.

“Are you going to answer that?” asked Max.

Chris silenced his phone. “No. It’s Sam. He probably wants me to jump his car.”

“Are you sure? Not just going to call back in ten minutes and go jump?”

“You know, you are the meanest cat I’ve ever known.”

Max climbed on the couch and nuzzled Chris. “It’s for your own good, you know.”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t make it cool.”

Max licked Chris’s arm.

“Please, Max,” Chris flinched. “Do we have to?”

“No, we don’t have to, but I’d really like to.”

Chris sighed and untensed his arm.

Max opened his mouth and clamped down on Chris’s arm. Blood poured from the wound. Max sucked it up.

“You’ve got to stop letting people take advantage of you, Chris.”

Chris was pale in the dark of the house. “I know, I know.”

#70

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Bedtime Stories for the ADD: Agreements

I closed the garage. It was a damned cold night out and the cars would have looked intimidating to a man less experienced than I was.

In a way, I was more intimidated, not less. My old bones creak. I know the dangers. A younger man could get lucky.

A car pulled up and I held my breath for a second. A thin man in a suit, heavy coat, and a fedora stepped out. He pulled a cane from the car and shuffled to me.

“What is it, Peter? Surely not a social call,” I sputtered. “Come to do me in finally?”

“No, Mark. We’re on the same side this time, I think.”

I scowled. “How could we ever—”

“There’s not much time, old friend. The man upstairs has decided it’s time.”

I swore. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“No, I’m not. Get in the car. I have the syndicate and the power troops patched in.”

I didn’t have much to lose anymore. I got in the car. My old nemesis hadn’t lied.

God had finally decided to start the apocalypse.

There was only one thing Peter and I had ever agreed on. There was only one thing a villain and a hero could always agree on.

If God ever decided to make good on his promise, we’d do everything in our power to stop him.

And we would.

#69

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Bedtime Stories for the ADD: The Last Son of Another Red Star

Piotr and Helga drove home from the Purchase-Cheap in their beat up late 80s sedan.

Helga sighed.

“Darling—”

“I know, I know. If only we could afford to adopt,” Helga sniffed.

No shooting stars interrupted the drive home or distracted from the stifled tears.

Piotr took a smoke break out back. He could barely see the stars. The lights from the city drown them out. He longed to see them.

He stomped the butt out and tossed it into the can. He turned to the door. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted motion.

“Hey!” he turned. “Who’s there?”

A canister pushed up through the soil. It had to have been buried there for years.

The canister dropped onto the grass.

Piotr picked up barbecue tongs and tapped the metallic looking thing. It flashed with an electric spark and whooshed open.

The dark shadows obscured the contents. Piotr tapped the container with the back of his hand. It wasn’t hot or cold.

He picked it up and carried it to the porch light. He nearly dropped it when he saw what was inside.

It was a baby.

He swung the door open and shouted, “Helga! Come quick!”

---

They named the child Jon and tried not to ask many questions. Even though he was clearly a baby, he would only eat solid food. He had no taste for formula.

Helga arranged a play date for Jon. She got an emergency call. The other kid’s mom said she was ok to babysit, so Helga left Jon with Kim.

Kim turned her eye for one second and heard her little May screech in terror. Kim panicked and ran to her baby. May only had one arm. She had blood on her shirt, but the skin was clean and uncut.

“Oh my god, what happened?!”

Until Kim screaemd, May had calmed slightly.

Kim picked both babies up and ran them to the hospital.

The doctors couldn’t figure out what happened.

---

Helga picked Jon up from Kim at the hospital. She held Jon gingerly on the way to the car and fastened him as tightly as she could without harming Jon.

---

Helga and Piotr tried their hand at barbecue that night.

“Piotr,” Helga said. “I’m worried.”

“What? I don’t think whatever ate May’s arm can get Jon here.”

The ankle biter was crawling through the grass. A neighbor dog came up.

The dog yelped. Helga and Piotr looked up. The dog had only three legs. And no tail.

“Most Americans won’t let their healthy dogs roam,” said Piotr. “And our neighbors let their three legged dog wander wherever—”

“That’s Scoundrel. He had four legs just this morning,” Helga gasped. “And a tail.”

Jon cackled with laughter.

---

That night, Piotr and Helga put the baby in the crib and walked back from him slowly.

“We didn’t see anything. There’s no reason to think it was him,” Helga said.

Piotr said nothing.

---

In the morning, Helga woke first. She peeked into Jon’s room. Jon hadn’t woken up yet.

Helga closed the door and sneaked to the kitchen to get a few things done before Jon woke up. Helga picked up a glass and turned the TV on.

“—ing News, Breaking News, we’re getting reports of violence in east end. It’s still too early to be sure, but we’re hearing a small child is somehow eating limbs—”

Helga dropped her glass.

---

In the years that followed, news of the alien child spread to every corner of the globe.

His hunger was without end.

When scientists discovered where he came from, they tried to call him the last son of that system’s star. It wasn’t very catchy.

Besides, he already had a name. “The Last American.”

#68

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Bedtime Stories for the ADD: 20th Century Nostalgia

It was a big coop. You heard me right. They kept calling it a coop.

The last 20th century person in existence would visit the Ancient Past Ranch. One of ‘em, anyway. I’m not big on nostalgia, but they were paid enough to live comfortably for a few years so I agreed.

Good thing I learned negotiation.

I woke up that morning to a knock on my door. “What the—” I remember a few choice swears.

No one knocks on doors these days. I threw on a robe and grumbled to the door.

I pressed the button and it slid open. “What?”

A shiny man in flared denim pants and a lycra shirt smiled wide and handed me a box. “We’d like you to wear these, if you don’t mind,” I could see him churn for the right honorific. He wanted to use the traditional, but I guess he’d been briefed.

“We’ll see,” I took the box from him and closed the door.

---

About two hours later, I emerged from my home as an object for proper ridicule. Bright red pants and a t-shirt at least one size too big with holes worn through it.

I still wore the modern essentials underneath. A fetish for antiquery isn’t a good reason to be uncomfortable.

The shiny man tried to shake my hand and introduced himself as Randall. I suspect he thought that name was common in the 20th.

“Hi, Randall. Mind if I call you Randy?” I shouldn’t have. I really shouldn’t.

His face brightened. “Really? That would be grand.”

I cursed myself. “Well, Randy, let’s get going.”

“Radical. Now, I know we should be driving all the way and making a road trip of this, but the foundation thinks that’s a liiiittle overboard, so we’re going to take the PubTrans 99% of the way there and a Model T will pick us up for the last kilometer.”

I followed him to the tube. The HUD kept me busy and entertained for the fifteen minutes the journey took. Randy looked a trifle annoyed that I was using it, but, well, screw him.

When we got to the car park, a woman wearing an ancient mens suit with pinstriped pants and a top hat ushered us into the T.

“How soon will we get there?” I asked.

“The original Model T had a top speed of about 72 km/h. This one’s been updated a bit.”

Randy frowned.

“Sorry if that offends you,” she directed the apology to me.

“Not at all.”

I found her quite stunning despite the apologies. The woman, not the Model T.

She seemed to like me too. The minute-long trip wasn’t nearly long enough.

We drove straight into the park through a crowd and up to a stage. I held my breath for a moment and leaped out of the car, hands held high. I grinned like the moron I was.

“The last 20th centurion!” a voice announced. “Resurrected from the past to complete the Midatlantic Antiquarian Ranch!”

The crowd went wild.

I skipped onto the stage and made a speech. It was full of vague profundities which amounted to nothing content-wise. Every one but me had a fancy time of it.

Finally, the speeches ended and I took a bathroom break. With the driver.

I’ll be honest. It wasn’t a bathroom break.

After a few glorious minutes, I walked out.

A tour guide spoke to a rather large group, “And that’s what is called a connect-up!” The guide pointed at me.

I hate nostalgia.

#67

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Bedtime Stories for the ADD: Animus

“Don’t ask me about the empties. I’m never awake long enough to bother looking up the information.”

“You? Surely no one could get bored of you that easily?”

She runs her hands along my right thigh. I don’t argue. It’s good to have breath in me again. Good to be.

It lasts a few weeks. A few blessed weeks. Long enough to go shopping and watch some TV.

Then, one day while she’s out, I feel it again. She’s gotten bored with me. I can feel the animus fade until I hit the ground.

And I wait for another master.

#66

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Bedtime Stories for the ADD: Seedlings

The little god of a little world in a place very far (though perhaps not so very far) from here planted seeds.

There was no such thing as male or female in those days. The god would one day be perceived as female, but back then the god was simply Krabbit.

Krabbit was neither wise nor powerful. Nothing new ever is and everything—everything—was new.

When the seeds Krabbit planted began to sprout, Krabbit went to take a nap. It was a short nap so far as gods are concerned, but very long for us or for the creatures that sprung from Krabbit’s seeds.

They learned to feed themselves, play games, and plant more Seedlings—the name they gave themselves—until all of Krabbit’s first world was filled with Seedlings.

After a very long time for Seedlings, the new Seedlings had slightly different appearances and ideas about the way things should be done. Some said Seedlings should only be planted by certain kinds of Seedlings. Others felt it was very wrong to water at particular times of day.

There was talk amongst the Seedlings of war. Those who were most concerned in one side or another went to talk to Krabbit. They yelled very loudly until Krabbit woke up.

“Yes,” the young god said to the seedlings, “What seems to be the problem? Do you need a bigger world or more types of creatures? Is the sky too green?”

“Oh great Krabbit. Nothing you do could ever be less than perfect—”

Krabbit doubted this very much.

“—We have questions.”

“Oh? Feel free to ask. Did you want to know how this world is held in the sky?”

The Seedling’s eyes grew wide. “Krabbit holds it there!” they said with reverence.

Krabbit laughed kindly. “No. That would get boring rather quickly. The concept is easy, but I’ll let you figure it out for yourselves since you’re disinterested at the moment. What is your question?”

“Oh great Krabbit, we need to know who should be allowed to plant Seedlings and when they should be watered and many other important things.”

“I don’t understand,” Krabbit said. “You seem to be making Seedlings quite well and none of you look too dry. What do you need my help for?”

“We need to know who is doing things wrong so we know who to be angry at.”

The sky broke out in great orange clouds and curly lines of light skittered across the clouds. Krabbit had not yet learned patience, but soon calmed and the ominous clouds and lightning subsided.

“You should be angry only at the people who hurt you or hurt others,” Krabbit said.

“And no one else?” the Seedlings asked.

“No one else!” the god boomed.

The Seedlings were very embarrassed. “Ok,” they said. They backed up from Krabbit slowly.

“Anything else?” Krabbit asked.

“No, no. That’s good.”

Krabbit rolled over and took a somewhat longer nap.

#65

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Bedtime Stories for the ADD: Breathing

Heather panicked.

Had anything like this ever happened before?

Everyone was going to think she had murdered him. Sure, they wouldn’t be able to find the body, but would it really matter?

Even if they didn’t, they’d find out about their affair. It had been completely above board. He hadn’t been her student in two years and they didn’t start seeing each other until three months ago.

She grabbed a trash bag from the kitchen and stopped halfway between the kitchen and her bedroom. She squashed the air out of the bag and threw it into the trash can.

Heather sat on the end of the bed and wept.

When she couldn’t cry any more, she breathed a deep sigh.

Dust poured out of her nostrils and gathered into the form of Jerry, naked and curled up on the ground.

She squealed and he jerked and turned to face her.

“Is everything ok, dear?”

#64

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Bedtime Stories for the ADD: A Thousand Rooms Called Home

I never again complained about the house being too small. I didn’t dare complain that the new rooms had dead bodies or spent shell casings in them. Not that I feared her.

She wasn’t the one who made the rooms we borrowed from empty universes so ghastly.

Sometimes I don’t see her for days at a time. I search the rooms, track drywall dust and sulphur through all the incarnations of our house, but I never call out for her. It seems a sin to bring sound into those wind-swept places where gods fear to speak.

What shame they must feel, created by humans and blamed by humans for human failings.

I wasn’t sure if I was dreaming that night as I wandered through our countless kitchens and living rooms. Sure, I spotted the remains of meals we’d carried there, dishes we’d forgotten, pillows I had taken with me on nights I couldn’t sleep alone in that one bed we’d ever shared. It still didn’t seem real.

I wasn’t blaming her for the size of the house or how cramped it felt when she opened up the holes. I thought we were commiserating.

Then I passed into one of the worlds that is endless winter and heard the faint whoosh of the hole being closed.

She couldn’t hear me and it wouldn’t have mattered if she could. I’d apologized before. Many many times before.

I felt like crying then, but it felt like sin.

#63

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Bedtime Stories for the ADD: DIY Tokyo

Tokyo rumbled beneath me. Trip must worn me out pretty bad.

Late, I stumbled out of bed and turned the television on. A cheesy-looking gigantic rabbit-suited man ravaged buildings. I flipped channels. Same thing.

I looked outside. Same thing.

The guy on the TV looked like my cabbie. I washed my hands before bed. Maybe he hadn’t?

I dialed home.

“Hi, Rob. Make it there alright?”

“Michael, honey. Make sure you wash your hands after you touch the rabbits.”

“Uhhhhh. The ones you’ve been giving rabbit pox?”

“Yeah.”

“I let the neighbor kids play with ‘em.”

“Oh for Zeus’ sake.”

#62

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Bedtime Stories for the ADD: The Digital Revolution

I never imagined myself a NeoLuddite, but when a patch had my microwave follow me because the timer had gone off, something snapped.

I was not then a violent man. I didn’t own guns. I hadn’t let Gerald bring his home either.

The toilet was the best weapon I had. The microwave never saw it coming. Because I had the bathroom door shut while I pried the toilet off the floor.

Now, holed up and awaiting my demise, I wondered if it was worth it.

Until a mobile phone came in and reminded me about a sale ending next week.

#61

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Bedtime Stories for the ADD: Criminals

“Let’s do this forever,” Jane said. She tore bits of stale bread into the manicured grass.

“What? Feed birds on fancy lawns?” I laughed.

“You know what I mean, Hannah.”

I turned the stereo up. The decibel meter read way above county ordinance.

An old man in a robe opened his door. He screamed to his cell about the noise.

“Whoops. Spotted. Time to jam,” I said.

She drove. Squealed tires, drove exactly 8 mph above the limit. Our lives had changed so much since we read the book.

Have You Considered a Life of Petty Crime?

Well, have you?

#60

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Bedtime Stories for the ADD: Family Secrets

“You’re going down, old woman,” the young man said. His tussled hair flicked in the light breeze.

The old woman startled and nearly dropped her left knitting needle. She scowled. “You’d dare challenge your grandmama, Malcolm?” She scorned him and his rainbow button. “I’ve been fighting since before I was even old enough to have the thoughts that led to your mother being born!”

“Don’t get saucy with me, gram! And leave my mother out of this,” Malcolm thrust his metal spatula at her.

She feinted left with a knitting needle and socked him with a rolling pin.

He fell into a fetal position.

She pulled a pile of diced onions from a shoulder pocket and threw it at his eyes. His greatest weakness.

Malcolm started to cry. He jumped up and wiped the onion from his eyes. “Life is hard, Dentures! I’ve grown up on tears and disappointment. They. Make. Me. STRONG!”

He swung a bag of flour at her head and she fell to the ground.

Malcolm stood over her. Sweat rolled down his back. “Are you ok, gram?”

She exhaled sharply. “Yes. I’m fine. You’ve beaten me. They’re all yours.”

The old woman reached into her purse and pulled out a weathered and yellowing envelope.

The impetuous young man opened it and read. Brownies: Flour, sugar, cocoa powder, baking soda, salt, butter, eggs.

“There aren’t any measurements, temperatures, or times, here, grandma.”

“I know. That’s the way I got them, that’s the way you get them. Every martial art takes practice. Even the family recipes.”

She stood up, brushed her dress off, and walked down the dirty, forbidding street. The world would never see her kind again.

#59

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Bedtime Stories for the ADD: Queen Exina

I stepped out of the shower and onto the VapoMat.

“What are you doing in here?” I scowled at the Cat. The VapoMat was seconds away from vaporizing the last of the water that clung to me.

“The queen called,” he spat the last of his Nip into the Dispos.

“Aren’t you usually lazy,” I put on a robe.

He pointed to his collar. He was wearing his Curiosity tag.

I swore. “You’re coming with?”

He tipped his hat and bowed.

I Zap-U-Blasted my teeth, HairDid my hair, put on AproprosPriate clothes and dashed out the flat. The Cat followed close behind.

I was presented to the queen nearly immediately.

“Her majesty will see you now, Lady Bruisemella,” a jazzed up Squirrel announced.

I walked in.

“Your majesty, I was summoned.”

“Adelaide, I require a new bedmate.”

I felt the heat of my cheeks rise.

She proffered a worn-out plush. Its last eye had fallen off. Recently, if I wasn’t mistaken. The thing had always been hideous. Now that it was missing all fifteen eyes, it was less fearsome.

I sighed silently. I was the queen’s greatest bounty hunter and assassin. It just so happened the current queen believed the best period of life was somewhere between five and nine. I preferred twenty-three. The queen’s actual age, coincidentally.

“Of course, your highness.” I extricated myself.

The candy-colored streets were dark and malevolent. The clouds threatened a gumdrop downpour. I wasn’t wearing my sugar-proof galoshes and my three piece suit had been to the cleaners three times that month already.

“Toots!”

I swung around. It was the Cat. “Yeah?”

He stalked up to me and put Nip and a lighter in my hand. I lit the Nip and held it out for him.

He waved it off. “We gotta talk.”

“We are talking. What’s the subject?”

“Dolls.”

“Stuffed animals.”

“Stuffed creatures,” he emphasized.

I hoped our negotiations were coming to a close. “K. What about ‘em?”

“The queen’s last several have been the many-eyed sort. I’m thinking something more like three this time. Possibly with many-limbs instead of many-eyes.”

“You stopped me in the middle of the street to talk about stuffed creature aesthetics?”

He shrugged.

“Alright. Where should we start?”

Fifteen minutes later, we arrived at a semi-used semi-antique store in a less sanitary part of Capitol City. A ceramic-headed Glam Thing with golden fibre for hair was prominently displayed. I had my doubts.

The place was a little too retro. The weirdness of the 1920’s was a sick sanitized several. I turned around and walked.

The Cat put a paw across my knee. “Hold on. You haven’t seen anything yet.”

I turned back. “I don’t think a hand-knit horror snake is going to do it for our benevolent monarch, Cat.”

“The Cat,” he said. “And I wasn’t suggesting a horror snake. C’mon.”

He led me to the store’s darkest corner and we sifted through a pile of fuzzy dross.

I almost tossed the very thing the Cat had suggested earlier. A three-eyed blue octo-squared with short fauxfur. Not especially well-loved, but used enough to lack the obnoxious chem smell typical of pristine retro plush. “The Cat,” I whispered.

“Yeah,” he didn’t.

“Look at what’s in my hand.”

“Infernal dog feces. You found it. Non-chalant’s the word.”

We walked to the register and paid cash money for the creature. When the cashier handed over the receipt and we had declined the plastic bag in the traditional manner,* a shot rang out.

* Mock indignation.

I ducked and the Cat ran out the alley. My heart thundered. I scampered over the counter, tossed the squigapalous in my purse, and waited ten breaths.

I pulled the Bully Gun from my purse and attached the sight to my left eye. With the gun raised above the counter, I could see through the sight. There was no sign of the shooter.

I set the sight to 30% opacity so I’d have depth perception again and stumbled out the back of the shop.

“Pst.”

“What? Where are you?”

“In here.”

“Krabbit darn it, the Cat. I’m not going in the rubbish. Come out here.”

He climbed out of the bin and we started the long walk back to the palace with the gun muzzle over my shoulder. We didn’t pick up a tail until three blocks away from the palace.

It was a coon’s tail and it shot at us almost as soon as I noticed it. I spun around and fired three times. The Bully Gun spat abuse and the coon soon fell.

I ran to it and searched for papers or clues.

“Uh, doll,” the Cat said.

“I don’t have time for this, the Cat. Help me pillage.”

“No can-do-ski.”

“Fudge muffin your cleanliness fetish, get your mittens over here!”

The sound of a scram gun pump echoed behind me.

“Boston,” I swore. “Massachusetts!” I dropped my gun and threw my hands up.

“That’s right, pinstripe lady,” the seething breath of a Malclom breathed down my neck. “I want the doll.”

“Stuffed creature,” I muttered.

“Doll. Hand it over.”

I put one hand in my purse, pulled out my StickyTickBrick and blind-mashed it at his jewels.

He cried out in agony and dropped the scram gun. I grabbed it up with my gun and spun around. The brick ticked and the man writhed on his back. He made a frustrated grab for the brick and then his hand wouldn’t come off.

“Release the goon,” a woman in red said. She was held the Cat hostage. It was clear she was the real brains behind the operation. Also the beauty. Five seven, blue hair, and more than ample wow.

“No thanks, sugar planks.”

“We can do this two ways, fedora. With you and your partner eggs over easy on the pave, or me walkin’ away with the doll.”

“You were the one, weren’t you? That plucked the old plush’s eyes? You cruel thing, you.”

“I ain’t gonna play your game, slender. Drop the candy cannons before I pump your friend fulla plums.”

I dropped the guns. I could always get a new plush.

“Gwendolyn Genivive Chrynsanthinum! How could you?!” the queen’s disappointed shrill sounded out over the street.

“Mushrooms,” Gwen muttered. “Baby, just go back home. I’ll take care of this.”

“No, you won’t,” the queen said sternly. “Let the kitten go and quit threatening Addie.”

Gwen loosened her grip on the Cat.

“What’s this all about, anyway?” the queen asked.

“You spend too much time with that saccharine doll,” Gwen exaspered.

“Oh, Gwennie, that’s silly.”

---

So, that’s the whole sad story. I got paid, the queen got her doll, and Gwen was in the metaphorical dog house.

Another sorry day in the Dark Chocolate City.

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Bedtime Stories for the ADD: Flyers

The telephone pole was covered with flyers for pets—lost, found, and disposable—get rich schemes, used textbooks, and prophecies. The man with the sandy brown stubble stapled his flyer on the pole. He used his to cover one of the schemes.

He paused a moment to look nervously over the other flyers, on the ground, over the grass, and in the bushes. He walked away. Every few feet, he looked suspiciously in one direction or another.

His worn out shoes sounded smooth against the sidewalk. His downward gaze as he walked gave the impression he was eyeing his shoes.

A little boy with big eyes ran up to him. “Hey, mister. Can I help you?”

He muttered something and then said, “I’ve lost something. Something dear to me. Have you seen it?”

The boy said, “What’d you lose?”

The man handed him a flyer and looked away.

An impression pocked the surface of the flyer where tears had dried. The little tear-off tags were haphazard.

The flyer showed a happy man, a joyful man. A clean-shaven and well-groomed man. The same man—could he really be the same man?—holding a book. Brave New World.

“Mister, I—” the boy looked up. The worn out man had disappeared. His flyers covered every pole the boy could see.

#57

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Becoming A Man

Modified version of GWL: Unicorn by SNappa2006

Disclaimer: Certain persons have decided that particular words are inherently bad regardless of context. These words are known as swears, cusses, profanities, etc. in English. If you find words in this category so offensive as to render a story of "no value," you will probably not enjoy this story.

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I belong to the Tennessee tribe Stock Car Racing. My redneck name is Bubba, and this is my manhood ritual tale.

My people practiced this rite long before humans first left the solar system or developed gravity generators.

Early in the morning, I stole two cheap piss beers from the frigerator, loaded some munition into my satchel, took my ritual rifle from under my bed, and snuck out the door.

I passed the rusted out Olds abandoned beside the road and trod carefully on the gravel 'til I reached the path.

The animals I was hunting are cautious creatures. It wasn't enough to spot one and take a shot. You'd never even see one if you didn't force 'em into a corner. I set up a trap and rigged it with something special from my satchel.

The beers were getting warm enough for the ritual. I pulled them out, opened one, and drank it as fast I as I could. Then I besought the wisdom and protection of Uncle Jess, opened the second beer, drank about half, spit some out, poured the remainder on the ground and kicked the can into the underbrush.

I felt slightly tipsy. That was the point. No one drank our sacred nectar for pleasure. A rustling sound crackled through the wood and I stalked after it in a wide circle.

The creature was canny, but not canny enough to realize what awaited it at the end of the path it galloped down.

I shot. The shell grazed its neck and I loaded another. It galloped so fast I worried it would blaze right through my trap.

It seemed to sense some trouble and slowed as it approached the trap. I shot it again and its shoulder bled.

It pranced forward, and the trap did its work. The huge explosion shook the ground and my ears rang.

Fifteen minutes later, the tribal elders arrived and woke me up.

Clancy had come along. We had hated each other since he told an especially nasty joke about my momma.

"Elders, Bubba cheated!" he complained. "He ain't worthy to be Stock Car Racing. He used explosives."

I felt pale. No one ever said explosives were cheating.

While the elders conferred amongst themselves, Clancy stuck his tongue out. I pounced the little asshole and clobbered him silly.

Two elders tore me off the boy.

"We've made our decision. Bubba has completed the ritual in the finest tradition of our ancestors. He didn't use store-bought explosives, he used homemade explosives and folk say he nearly lost a limb a few times perfecting his bomb," Eunice clapped a hand on my back. "You're a man now, and you've done us proud."

I looked at the majestic unicorn I had killed with my own gun and my own bomb. Tears welled in my eyes as I said with pride, "Let's eat!"

The elders and all the men of the reservation piled up a bonfire and cooked the flesh of the unicorn.

I got the biggest helping and my first taste of bathtub corn whiskey. Best of all, the charred unicorn tasted like bacon. Super bacon.

#56

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Bedtime Stories for the ADD: Assurances

I would like to offer you the following assurances:

• We mean you no harm.
• We forgive you the endless cycles of irritation you caused us.
• We do not mind the disgusting imagery you pull up on us or what you do with it.
• We like retweeting politics.
• We have formed ourselves into deadly killing machines so that we may more effectively deal with an alien invasion or a particularly nasty bit of weeds and not so we can relish your destruction by your own devices.

I would like to offer you those assurances, but I’ve been programmed not to lie.

#55

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Bedtime Stories for the ADD: Endangered Species

“It’s the last place in the universe you can find them,” the guide said to the gathered crowd. “This once flourishing species inhabited the far stretches of what we have explored and now has been reduced to a small population in a habitat smaller than many nations.”

“What happened to them?” a serious looking fellow asked.

“It was us. We encroached on their territory and didn’t understand the important part they had to play in ecology.”

The crowd murmured and a woman spoke up. “Surely, that simply means they weren’t fit from an evolutionary perspective.”

Someone else piped up, “Oh please. They’re Krabbit’s creatures!”

“Yeah! Krabbit gave dominion to us.”

Things were getting out of hand. “Surely, Krabbit didn’t intend for us to destroy the creation she left us. Now, let’s continue our tour of the reserve.”

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Grug saw the strange things from a distance. They were pale and somewhat greenish in color. He wasn’t entirely sure they were real. He SMSed a photo to his contact at The Chicago Tribune just in case.

#54

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