Some witch’s hour.
By Daniel | January 31, 2009
The Muscle The Bone The Heart
The seen was set and the seen was thus: ice sculpturs in the shapes of well-bread K9s, lady’s with dimon earings, shandlears like Antartic glacers hanged in the air like Conan-hairs. Pure Hichcockian. Old men dressed in the nines bandied about there conversations of golf swinging, annie-lock breaks, and small sanwitches with they’re crusts cut off and throne to the garbage like so many young starlett’s hearts of yesteryore. Where they digniterys? Criminal lawyers? Or wear they mearly wolfs whereing a pure-coated sheeps’ cloths? Shape-dressed men, all in a row. Tom Cruisian.
The double-breast’d doors opened and in-stepped a man above all othre men. Laqured shoes of the finest Italian leathers? Check. A toothpick hanged nonshlantly from too chapstuck lips? Check. A snotwrag folded like orgami and placed in a chest pocket. Check? This man was a capitol M kindof a man. A Mman. His hairs were perfectly queefed; gelled up into a rapturous U-shape much like the arms of a football umpire indicating a touchdown. The femails all stood on the hairs on the backs of there necks stood in nervus attention. He was chisled like aformentioned ice sculpturs but he hath noth a skeleten of the coldst ice; no, his bones were rapped in the most strongest of all the basic metalic elements found of this God-Green earth: Admantum. You herd it right, folk. Admantum bones.
He was a killing mashine with cough-links. A true enegma. Red-roafer, red-roafer, we send Wolferine over.
—
He hubbubed amongst the mosh posh of uppities like a cobrasnake crawling thru a earthwarms’ whole in the Earth. He was collecing evidense. Licking his proverbial thum and seeng whenst the wind blow. He saddled up to the bar and dialoged with the bartend. “Give me something frothy and sprite-like.” The barhand took his order and questened how he wished for its mixing. Wolferine lowered his Ray-Bands aviation sunglass’ and intoned, “Shaken, not turd.”
He snifed at the airs. Something was afoul at this; some witch’s hour. Villins were amongst them. Wolferine smiled a smirk of endemnity and reglassed himself. Let the good times role.
—
Goldjaw was his name and pane was his gaim. Wolferine had done his homewark and new how to get into Goldjaws’ secrait lare of solace. In the librery there where books of all kinds; first-addition Hemways, Mad Magazenes, leatherbound fishing manuels. To axxess the lare you move a bookshelve and voolah you are secreted into the lions den. The walls, all aglo in victims’ teeth; shimmer shimmering like brass booties of babys passed. Wolferine had scene some things in his dase, but never a site of such magatude. The mind realed.
Goldjaw steped into his oboed and asked alowed, “Whom’s their? Could it be the Big Bad Wolv come to huffpuff and blow my housing down?” Wolferine stood up strait as bow and arrows and Snicked out his claws. “Mine what big claws you have.”
“The better to kill you with, you crazybutt.” And with that he lept into the air like a sideburned torpete-o and scizzor-clawed thru the jaws of Goldjaw. Goldjaw was shocked and odd. His jaws slid to the carpets and sparkled in the glint of the lite.
Wolferine put his Nike loafers on the blooded throte of Goldenjaw. “All that shivers may be gold but your dead.” Goldjaw was dead.
Topics: By: Daniel, Wolferine | 3 Comments »
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 »