The Catching of the Wolf.
By jon | January 30, 2009
Detective Josh Wolfcatcher grimaced at the dart’s board and through.
A dart flew threw the air like Owen Wilson in a fighter jet. ‘Cross the smoke filled detective office. Through the window, moon shined on the moonshine. On the table were Detective Wolfcatcher’s three favorite types of shots: Vodka, Burbon, and Mug.
Wolfcatcher stared at the mug shot. “Im going to haul you to wear no wear can hear you scream. That is: Jail Street.”
He through a second dart. Nine of spades. The dart board rittled and rattled against the wall like Yo La Tango.
Much like darts, Wolfcatcher’s eyes darted from the dart board back to the mug shot. He knew nearly a name, but he knew the face. The face was everywear you look in this crap drenched city. He was known only as the Vicinity Killer.
The Vicinitiy Killer had killed score’s of tax payers. Salts of the Earth. Guys driving Nissans. Ladies buying Swiffers. Small children grossly eating there Dunkaroos. To the Vicinty Killer, they did not matter. They Anti-Mattered.
Detective Wolfcatchers eyes thwarted with frustration. He remembered the note posted on the last victim:
So pardon me while I burst
into flames.
I’ve had enough of the world
and its people’s mindless games.
So pardon me while I burn
and rise above the flame.
Pardon me, pardon me…
I’ll never be the same!
- The Vicinity Killer
“Their has to be a pattern,” said Wolfcatcher to the butt-empty office. He turned. He throughout another dart.
Bullseye.
And it was then that Detective Wolfcatcher saw the pattern. Three darts, stuck into the board like impossible to get out ice cubes in the ice tray because your parents are too poor to get an ice maker like Brandons dad. The darts made a triangle; in the Abstract sense, that is. Wolfcatcher fumbled for his map that said VICINITY KILLER KILLINGS. Three killings. One triangle.
Wolfcatcher had Cracked the Case. “I’ve got you know, Vicity Killer.” He put on his Hilfigers and ran out of the door like a door store out of door’s.
———————–
Detective Wolfcatcher found the Vicicinity Killer in a house across town, quietly doing Hobbies. “The gag is up. Ive found you, Vincent Killer.”
Vincent Killer took off his sky mask. “Crap.”
“Why did you do it. You killed Olden Polynice. He was old and probly nice.”
“Well now hes dead and probly dead.”
Wolfcatcher cuffed the cuffs on Vincent. “Have fun in Jail House Alley, buttmunch.”
Vincent smiled. He said some weird thing from the beginning of the story.
Topics: By: Jon | 2 Comments »
Rise of the Machines
By kyle | December 23, 2008
Jhon Jhonson skittered in his Toyota jette across the night sky. He flew passed a builging that looked like a Gillette Venus ladie’s razor. A hologram of a babe with a bowlcut bid him good morrow. That’s right, ladies in germs: it was the Future.
No time to think about the future, however, now; Jhon had to concentrate on the throttles as he expertly landed his jette onto his bachelor’s pad. He stepped down lightly onto the pad, future-Lycra pant’s gripping his calfs as tight as a dog’s jaws on a vermit’s headbone. Jhon put his eye on a red thing. The red thing shot a laser into aforementioned eye and the door opened to Jhon’s house. To the untrained eye, the inside looked like a chicken coop for a herd of chicken; notwithstanding, to Jhon’s futureye, he instently recognized it as furniture. In the future, furniture looks like big freaking eggs. Don’t ask me why.
Jhon popped a CD into a hole. A voice came waddling out, and it sounded like the wheelchair scientist. But in the future, this music is the music that is good. Go figure. Jhon bombed his head to the beat, jungle rythymhs shaking out of his hairs.
Jhon, by the way, was a detective who hunted robots because robots did bad stuff. Robots were bullys and creeps, like Hannonball Lecture meets O’Jay. They had the cunning of a Mugsy Bogues with the sheer power of a Kevin McHale. Only problem? Robots looked like people. The only way to know a robot was if it punched a windsheild and didn’t get hurt. Or if it had metal bones and wire brain. It was time for Jhon to start his Beat. He got his gun and his devise, which could tell a robot by pointing at it and beeping. He timetraveled to work.
“Freeze, metalhead! Your not going to be listening to any Quiet Riot where your going: to the junkyard.” Jhon bellowed to a robot he saw on the Beat. He killed the robot by shoting him out of the airlock into space. The robot screamed like Frampton Comes Alive as it exploded into a firey mess. Jhon smiled like Mr. Bean.
Suddenly Jhon realized he was a robot. He had always been a robot. A bad man made him and now he was going to die. He saw a warship on the wing of O’Ryan. Time to die. He died.
Topics: By: Kyle | 1 Comment »
Possession. Obsession. Recession.
By jon | December 21, 2008
Craig Ehlo stared into his glass and confiscated his future. Half full? Half empty? Or just Totally Messed Up? For as long as he could remember he had been rattling around these cruddy streets like a nickel in a piggy bank’s butt.
Craig was a Made Man. He knew the Wall Street Game like a woodland creature somehow knows not to eat it’s own poop. Buy high, sell high, loosen the knot thing on you’re tie, and wait for the domino’s to fall. While all those other jokers on Wall Street were playing hop scotch, Craig was playing Domino Rally. And thusly he had made his fortune; a fortune so big that if I told you how big it was, you would flop around on the floor and have a Caesar.
But their were things that money could not buy. A wife. A family. Ruddy, rubbernecked children playing their Gameboys by the flaccid warmpth of the fire place. Electronic silverware. These were appliances that none man dare beholden, only bequeath.
“Theirs no answer at the bottom of this glass of this thing which I’m drinking,” Craig realized. He looked up. The club was extemporaneous. Suits, ties, fancy dresses. People laughing and eating cheeses. A scene straight out of “Blank Check.” And yet, Craig felt instead like Kurt Russell in “Breakdown.” He was Furious. He messed up his hair. He looked like a Beatle.
He stood up, gave his glass to the waiter’d, and spilled out into the street like a Big Gulp in the tiny hands of a clumsy child. “Taxi!” he screamed. “Hailcab!” He climbed into the waiting taxi and road home. The Manhatten lights echoed through the window and across his face. He looked like a Paula Abdul record. His only solaces were the firm, artrock strains of Papa Roach flowing through the stereo:
Theres no money theres no possession only
Obsession I dont need that shit
Take my money take my possession take my obsession
I dont need that shit
Because everything is nothing
And emptiness isnt everything
This reality is really just a fucked up dream
With the flesh and the blood that you call your soul
Flip it inside out its a big black hole
Take your money burn it up like an asteroid
Possession though youre never gonna feel the void
Take it away and learn your best lesson
The heart the soul the life the passion
And before he knew it, this Wall Street Warrior was home. He got out, handed his coat and tie to the Maitre’Door, and took the Penthouse elevator to his Penthouse.
His Penthouse was as elegant as Leandor Barbosa in a dinner jacket. From the walls hung pictures and paintings and Japanese stuff. “Look at this. Possession, obsession. Big black hole sun, won’t you come, and wash away the rain.” The song was stuck in his gut like a Spear of Destiny.
He sat down at his computer and checked the Stocks. Up, as always. He looked at the charts. Vertical as the snowboarding monkey from Most Valuable Primate 2: Most Vertical Primate.
Craig Ehlo grinned a grin of Menace. He picked up the phone. “Yes. I would like to sell one billion shares of Googlecom. Outsider trading? No. I would like to insider trade it this time. I know it’s against protocol! Just sell those freaking Googlecoms or your fired.”
And with that, he blew the economy into Kingdom Kong.
Topics: By: Jon | No Comments »