Monday, September 19, 2011
Sunday, November 28, 2010
"They found another on last night," Fred whispered. "I'm scared."
Allan knew what he was talking about; it was all the town had been talking about the last two months. Every other night another dead body was found, freshly killed, drained of blood. They were calling them the Vampire Killings in the news. There were those in town who took it literally; the stores were always out of garlic these days. It was also all Fred talked about and, frankly, Allan was sick of hearing it so, when Fred began, "But Al..." Allan cut in, his voice dripping with scorn, "Don't be stupid, Fred. A vampire? This isn't Transylvania. Hell, it's some nut poking hole's into peoples necks. It's a sick world out there but a vampire? Get the wings, Fred, we're too old to be playing bogeyman."
His voice almost a whine, Fred began again, "But, Al, you don't get it. The victim's picture was in the paper today..."
Allan dropped into a seat and pulled a pack of blood-stained cards from his bloody apron, "Don't be such a sissy; it's time to play a man's game. You've got fifty bucks of mine and I plan..."
"Allan!" Fred broke in hysterically, "The victims are steady customers of mine! What if the police suspect me?"
Allan reached over and gripped Fred's shoulder, "You didn't do it, Fred, and you have the perfect alibi. All the killings were done at night an I stare at your ugly mug every night from across the street while I get your daily order ready. You got nothing to worry about, Fred, so drop it."
Fred sighed and moved behind the counter to get their snack. "Alright, Al, I guess I let my imagination run away from me."
Their customary hour passed as usual, wings, beer, and poker. Allan scooped the blood-stained cards up and stuck them back in his blooody apron pocket. "I'll get you yet, Fred," he said with a grin. "In the meantime, take good care of my money." Fred laughed but Allan still heard the fear in his voice and he was very quick to lock the door after Allan stepped out into the night.
The butcher shop was nearly dark whe he stepped inside. He froze when he heard a rustle in the back. His eyes darted around the moonlit store but nothing looked out of place. "Geez, Fred, now you've got me going," he whispered to himself. He began to walk into the cutting room when he heard the rustle again. His heart skipped a beat as he reached for a cleaver. The finely-honed blade was raised high as he burst into the bloody room with a loud yell. He slammed the cleaver down, sticking it into the chopping block, and reached for one of the live chickens fluttering in its pen. "Well," he laughed, "we'll make short work of you..."
Allan jumped at the sound of a knock at his shop door. He stood for a moment, wringing his bloody apron, as the knocking continued then laughed nervously. "Hold your horses, Fred!" he called out as he opened the door. "What did you forg..." He froze with the door halway open, his face pale with fear. He saw death in its eyes and he screamed in terror as the bloody-fanged chicken flew at his neck.
Monday, October 11, 2010
Tuesday, October 05, 2010
Wednesday, August 04, 2010
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Have you, or those you know, ever been the target of, or have ever used racial, cultural, or some such other targeted slurs? Of course, there are slurs for everyone or anything imaginable; somewhere, sometime, someone is going to piss us off enough to make us say, or shout, something. I'm just writing about one subset of targeted slurs, one defined in the above quote.
This "crazy, crazy world" has enough problems without all the unrest and violence stirred up by poorly aimed declarations of anger and frustration. Why yell something that usually rolls off the backs of most people that get on our very last nerve? When we shoot poorly-aimed slurs people get hit we never intended to hit and the people we do want to hit just get mad whout knowing the real reason why we yelled at them.
I look to Team America for the answer. Let's drop the slurs that offend the innocent and call ducks, ducks, or, based on Team America's defintion, assholes, assholes.