Somebody showed me “Band In A Box.” Just set up a looping track, set the key and the beat, and you're ready to play or sing along.

It really works.

Until this morning, that is. I pushed the button and nothing happened.

My virtual bassist caught a nasty virus from a digital stripper, then he wrecked his car in a racing game.

No backups, either. The funeral's tomorrow.

The guitarist looked up Yoko Ono on Wikipedia, fell in love with her, uploaded himself to India, and vanished.

The drummer became a Pastafarian - Flying Spaghetti Monsters.

So, anyone for Guitar Hero?

Welcome to the Ninety-Eighth Weekly Challenge, where I post a topic and then challenge you to come up with a 100 word story based on that topic.

The topic this week was selected by Tom from Footnote.

It's At My Funeral.

The excellent theme music is by Guy David

VOTING

Go ahead and listen to them and then vote for your favorites (multiple selections are allowed):

PHISH FRYE

Overslept. No idea how tired I was. As I try to put on my slippers, my feet just keep passing through. I really must have overdone it last night.

Downstairs to the kitchen. Not even a note taped to the fridge. She's really not coming back this time.

Staring, blurry-eyed, at the cofee maker, trying to remember the night before.

"My sister?", she asked.

"Yes", I replied.

"But why?"

"Because she swallows."

I probably shouldn't have rolled over and gone to sleep at that point.

Or bought that over-sized pillow.

Gave up on the coffee. Late to my own funeral. Interred ten minutes ago.

I guess mother was right.

ANIMA

I am transitioning into the grey realm of "Adult". Where do I fit? I am too young to be old, but too old to be young; I must embrace middle age.

The passing of youth shall not go unnoticed. At my own funeral, I will have black horses with feathered plumes draw the hearse; followed by a Dixieland jazz band. I shall bury the fears and vagaries of inexperience in a box six feet under, and joyfully don the wings of maturity.

I wear tattoos as memento mori, etched in earlier years, to remind me of
the temporality of youth.

CRAIG

Hunched in the locked confessional booth fearful of discovery, holding my breath I squint through the cracked stained glass.

Sitting directly in front of me wearing a black floppy Hedi Lamar hat
was Delilah. Animated as always her head bobbing to and fro blocking my
view of the mourners.

Sure, I wasn’t dead but I felt like I was. That damn Delilah was causing
me as much grief at my funeral as when we lived together.

I whispered pleadingly “please Delilah take off your hat.”

Mourners came and left my funeral. Tell me, how can I ask who they were.

STORM

The ratings are astronomical. And the wave of condemnations only draws more watchers. It's all that raw humanity, framed and outlined by the horrifically inhumane context. It's a pricey show to make, right up there with "Bridezilla!" its only real competitor, but the advertisers flock to it. The fans love the show - laughter, tears, raw truths revealed, heartbreaking stories, secret lovers and previously unknown children, the episode where the guy ended up in the emergency room when his wife found out he was fine...

Truly, "At My Own Funeral" is the most devastating example of reality TV ever made.

TERRY

Day what, I don't know, I've lost track of how long it has been since the crash.

I have just spent the last several days working with the communications equipment and have partially repaired the Vid-Comm. I now can at least receive transmissions from Earth but still unable to let Space Command know I am alive.

The first transmission I have received was ICN anchor Dan Quayle discussing the explosion of the landing module on descent and how the Phoenix, the main ship, is still in orbit around the planet. He said that Space Command will be remotely using the Phoenix to survey the planet for wreckage but there was no hope for survivors.

This evening, Dan narrated during the memorial service as President Clinton and the First Husband placed wreaths for each of the crew members next to a stone replica of the Phoenix. I never thought that there would be a day where I could watch and be at my own funeral.
This is Josh Jones, survivor, signing off.

TOM

Ellie Arroway bedded Cervantes on day one. "You said I would have to take the initiative." As Arnesto caught his breath he noticed an ancient manila folder at the night stand. The label on the edge read "At My Own Funeral" a pencil scrawled signature read: A. Cervantes. "A man should not know his fate," he protested. "Don’t get all Doc Brown on me. Look at the photo." Arnesto saw himself at 80 laidout and himself at 40 standing next the Queen, a young girl on her lap. "That’s Herminie Arroway the great great great grandmother of your grandchild Marie.

GUY

A crow spread his wings and flew away. The men carrying the coffin looked up and smiled at their black feathered friend. A clown in a business suit juggled cats. Everyone cheered and threw colored confetti. The four men put the coffin on the ground. A man and a woman jumped right on it and made love. “A life ending, a life beginning” proclaimed someone from the crowd, I couldn't see who it was, was too busy being dead, but I know my friends where going to remind me how wonderful life is, and that's the way I wanted it.

DAPHNE

I stood in the back watching the mourners. The closed casket with a photo on it... a photo of me. They said the only way I would be able to escape her was to produce a body. So I went to the morgue, claimed a Jane Doe and paid for a proper funeral. They said after years of living two lives it would kill me, I guess they are right. She was trying to take over, saying I needed her to live. Well I'm alive and she's heading off to cremation. Before I leave I'll sign the guest book "My deepest sympathies on your loss, Daphne".

JOSH

The enemy vessel returned fire; apparently their feelings were mutual. Dead and dying men littered the deck, but the Captain stood fast with determination. He watched as the ship surgeon and priest moved through plumes of smoke, like angels of mercy amidst thudding musket-balls and cannon-fire. Untouched by any, they reached a hopeless young man ravaged by shrapnel, and the priest knelt to read his last rights.

"...Amen," the priest finished and stood up just as a musket-ball splattered the sailor's face.

The Captain returned his attention to the battle. His funeral, a traitor's funeral, would not be as distinguished.

JD

They came over the palisade by the hundreds. Our only weapons, sharpened sticks and rocks. Afterwards, nothing was left to bury.

They found us hiding in a cave. Our mutilated bodies were tossed into the canyon below.

In the deep woods the legionary put us to the sword. Our bodies left to feed the wild dogs.

They sank the ship and left. We floated for days without water, before the sharks came.

The jungle erupted with automatic weapons fire. We tried to run. They left us to rot where we died.

Death is always near. Not so a decent funeral.

LAIEANNA

Proportions are wrong. I see myself, bigger than life. Crying is happening all around. I'm staring at family and friends through a kaleidoscope view. It's nauseating. I tolerate by concentrating on the why they're here. So many from my past. Some deeply ingrained in my memory and yet others a fleeting face I can't quite place. What am I doing outside myself? Oh. I'm dead, but still seeing myself in all the massiveness I had become.

Casket door closes and I'm alone with myself in the dark. The air
won't last. I had such a short time in this reincarnation.

PLANET Z

Dr. Odd fired up the time machine and ordered it to send him ahead a thousand years into the future.

Instead, something jumped out of a rift in the fabric of spacetime and the machine crashed.

Bruised and battered, Dr. Odd climbed out of the wreckage to discover that he'd collided with a duplicate of his from another dimension.

The investors would be pissed about this project's failure, so he killed his mirror-twin and ran.

There were a lot of questions raised at his funeral. Thankfully, he didn't have to answer them from his new hollowed out volcano headquarters.

(Ending music "At My Funeral" by Crash Test Dummies)

The 100 word stories weekly challenge is where I post a topic and then you write and record a story based on that topic.

Sounds, simple, doesn't it?

Topics are selected by the winner of the previous weekly challenge. This week it's a clear win by Elisson of Blog d'Elisson, and he selected the happy topic of Hemorrhage.

You have until midnight on Friday March 7th to get the following in my hot little hands:

• The text of your story so I can post it on the site. Just post the text of the story in the body of your email message. Do not put it in Word, Word Perfect, Sun Office, or any other document format. Just copy-paste the text into the body of the message. This will save me the hassle of firing off another program to read it and it will reduce the chances that gmail will flag your message as Spam.

• If you have a blog, podcast, or other site that people can go to so they can learn more about your handiwork, the URL would be appreciated.

• What you would like the topic of Weekly Challenge #100 to be. Failure to send in a topic with your selection will mean that if you win, whoever is in second place will be considered for the topic, and so on.

• A recording of your story in .mp3 format.

If you do not feel like recording a story for the podcast, well, go ahead and send the story in anyway. I'll include it in the show notes, but it won't be eligible for choosing the topic or winning the magnets.

Send the stories to isfullofcrap (at) gmail.com and then add a comment here saying you've sent it in.

Once all the stories are in, I'll assemble them into a single podcast collection for your enjoyment.

Good luck, and feel free to e-mail me with any questions you have.

Hear y'all in a week, and as always, keep it brief.

I get my best ideas in the bathroom.

You too?

Yeah.

So, I like to keep a notepad in there.

But today, I totally forgot a pen.

No, I wasn't going to write anything using something... gross. Ewwwwww.

I tried to repeat my great idea over and over so I wouldn't forget.

But Nardo came into the room, meowing for attention, so I pet him.

By the time I was done in there, I had forgotten my idea.

So, I put a box of pens in a drawer in the bathroom, took 5 Ex-Lax, hoping for inspiration to return.

Y'all may have been wondering why there wasn't a story from Elisson this past Weekly challenge.

You know, looking back, the first person I called when Edloe died was Steve.

I wanted to let him know that the cat he'd gone on pilgrimage for to visit was…

It was amusing to watch Edloe's reaction to a reverent stranger.

Food helped.

Never did get a chance to get to Atlanta to visit Matata.

Time's about windows. They only look wide open for what feels like forever.

When they close, it’s too damn fast. That slamming shut jars me to the soul.

Jackie keeps a little bit of fog in a jar on her kitchen shelf, and she watches it swirl around from time to time.

How she captured it in there, I don't know, but I'm sure it wants out from the way it lashes against the glass.

“Don't let it go,” she says. “It brings me good luck in here.”

She's never burned anything in the oven, nor has any of her pots ever boiled over.

Without even trying, her pasta is perfect.

Still, I watch the fog, and wonder if it is suffering.

Oh well. It's time for dinner.

They say Westchester's a cursed town. I wouldn't know.

I was sent here to computerize the county's record-keeping. Getting all those stacks of marriages, births, and deaths from the old ledgers to my laptop for processing down in Albany.

Three days in, The Town Hall burnt to the ground.

Here's the weird part – everyone ever born in Westchester vanished like smoke. As if they'd never existed.

And everyone who ever died and got buried here, well, they weren't dead anymore.

Not a problem for those not born. But the rest, well...

Zombies make you wish you'd never been born.

I'm watching a spider climb up the side of this fence.

This is fascinating.

It extends each leg, one by one, and pulls itself along.

It's graceful, smooth – like walking your fingers up the board.

But with a spider. More legs.

For five minutes, I watch it, but it feels like an eternity. Like watching the sand run out of a gigantic hourglass kind of eternity.

When the spider reaches the top of the board, it slips around the edge and stands in the sun.

A bird swoops down and eats it.

For a moment, I stand there, just staring.

Before he made monsters, Dr. Frankenstein started with trying to bring salads to life.

At first, he thought that he needed different varieties of lettuce, but in the end he was thoroughly convinced that sliced radishes were the secret.

Time and time again, Igor would throw the switches, sending millions of volts of electricity through a tangled maze of wires and into the salad bowl.

Aside from an impressive shower of sparks, the salad never did come to life.

Today, salad dressing makers try to convince us they have the secret.

No, folks. It's just a salad. Nothing fancy here.

Welcome to the Ninety-Ninth Weekly Challenge, where I post a topic and then challenge you to come up with a 100 word story based on that topic.

The topic this week was selected by Elisson of Blog d'Elisson.

It's Hemorrhage.

The excellent theme music is by Guy David

VOTING

Go ahead and listen to them and then vote for your favorites (multiple selections are allowed):

BYRAN

It was a hemorrhage. Red ink filled up the balance sheet, there was no end in sight. He stared and stared at it, somehow hoping that by sheer force of will he could make the numbers rise, but there was no hope.

There was nothing left to be done. He was ruined, his family would be picking up the pieces for years to come, and he was to blame.

There was his insurance, but it wouldn't pay for suicide. He had to figure out how he could salvage something of his existence, but it HAD to look like an accident.

SOUGENT

So the other day, I'm crossing the street minding my own damned business when this motorcycle appears out of nowhere and knocks me flat on my ass.

I'm lookin' around, wonderin' what the hell just happened, when I notice
that I'm hemorrhaging large quantities of blood from the mangled stump
that used to be my elbow.

As I start to pass out due to the loss of blood, my life starts to flash
before my eyes and boy, is it strange.

What's a midget butler and a giant robot doing in my flashback?

Jeez, I shoulda just took the bus.

ANIMA

Billy

(look at that scabby blonde girl,
thinks she knows everything,
'cause she spelled "omniscient"
hope i get an easy one like that.)

Contestant #5: ENCEPHALITIS

E-N-C-E….

(almost my turn… i can't take this any more…
i call this fun? my brain's about to explode…
hurry up already…)

Contestant #33: PHLEGMATIC

F-L-E-M…

(ha ha he's out… oh crap, i'm next…
no freaking way will i do this again…)

… #9?

I'm sorry; may I hear the word again with a definition?

HEMORRHAGE... A PROFUSE…

(thinkthinkthink… why'd I get this bloody word?)

H-E-M…

TOM

Arnesto through the accelerator on the Cronomotive. Ellie blew him a kiss and she was gone. About the steam time machine balls of light rolled over its surface. When he arrived at 2099 a crystal structure encased the Cronomotive. Cervantes felt faint and fell forward. Hurriedly a crew extracted the St Elmo’s time hemoglobins.

When he awoke Maria was holding his hand. "You experienced a bit of time hemorrhage." "Time Bleed?" Arnesto croaked. "When you arrived last month you set up the hemarrhage collector. Here’s a message from Grandma." Cercantes read shook his head. "It seem you’re traveling with me."

CRAIG

Ellen walked straight to the back room of the old bakery joining the five of us already present. We sat hushed as the baker brought us the mythical liquid chocolate cake.

As Ellen sliced into the cake chocolate lava hemorrhaged from the center
engulfing all six layers. Off in a corner the baker smiled and a dog
barked.

Each of us was served a piece dripping with liquid chocolate. Savoring
each bite we thought how poets lived for just such a moment and
experiencing feelings boarding on rapture we all in unison smiled at
Ellen, wishing her a happy birthday.

DAPHNE

As I sat to write this story the ideas started to flow. I had a noir story about a body and a knife, but nothing congealed. I had a financial story about shopping sprees and lots of boots, but it wouldn't fit. I had an amusing tale about wind-up toys leaking oil, but it dried up. I finally figured out I could write about my ideas hemorrhaging out of my brain to fast to write them down but then I ran out of words to tell it. Darn that limit who can write something good with only 100 words?

JD

They taught me the word hemorrhage in medical school.

Such a descriptive word. I like to hear the word.

They taught me to use a scalpel to relieve human suffering.

That's what I do. Relieve suffering.

I have helped many who suffered great pain. I have helped her.
She lays in a heap on the bricks of the alley. I watch as the blood pools about her, black by the light of the gas lamp.

She had called to me from the alley and I could hear the pain in her voice.

Stepping close I said ?Just call me Jack?

TERRY

Fuel, glorious Fuel!

I started early in the morning searching the cargo wreckage.

I had just about given up finding anything worthwhile.

Then I found it,

Fuel, glorious Fuel.

With it, came Hemorrhage.

Now I can Hemorrhage in the morning,

Hemorrhage at noon,

and Hemorrhage at night

I had forgotten how I enjoyed Fuel and their Hemorrhage

No, not fuel as in gas,

Fuel, the band, and the Best of Fuel CD I brought.

There's nothing like a little Hemorrhage in the morning to get you going.

This is Josh Jones, survivor,

Signing off

LAIEANNA

The day Heaven rained down on us was a Tuesday. It wasn't harps and halos, but there was no doubt in the location. A sunny day turned suddenly dark with black clouds slithering, lightening temporarily blinding us, and thunder keeping everyone staring with hands clasped over ears. Maybe hours passed, but it seemed seconds. The sky opened up and from nowhere, Heaven began hemorrhaging beautiful angels with burnt wings. They plopped to the ground like wet towels. Turning to the man I just knew was the devil, he smiled back, saying, "Not my doing. I think someone is cleaning house."

GUY DAVID

They called him The Hemorrhage Man. He would bleed for them at the snap of a finger, the blink of an eye, and he loved it. They would circle him like vultures, thirsty for him, and he would feed them, every last one of them, and still, blood would pour, never ending streams of it, red, fresh, satisfying.

They called her pale fountain. She was a stream of water, the sun dancing between her clear shores, forever smiling, she was beauty in her eternal youthful essence.

They made a strange couple, but when they made love, blood and water united.

PLANET Z

Once upon a time, before all this crap they air now, MTV used to play these things called music videos.

Duran Duran and Weird Al and Pat Benatar and all these performers lipsyncing to crazy-ass minimovies, animations... whatever they thought would convince people to buy more of their music.

Then there was Nena and 99 Luftballons – a foreign antiwar message set to a pop beat.

Red balloons mistaken for a strange aircraft... war breaks out and cities are destroyed.

No, it never happened that way. Thanks to MTV, our culture hemorrhaged into garbage and incivility.

Shut it off. Now.

The 100 word stories weekly challenge is where I post a topic and then you write and record a story based on that topic.

Sounds, simple, doesn't it?

Topics are selected by the winner of the previous weekly challenge. This week it's a clear win by Phish Frye the rookie, and he selected the happy topic of Cake.

You have until midnight on Friday March 14th to get the following in my hot little hands:

• The text of your story so I can post it on the site. Just post the text of the story in the body of your email message. Do not put it in Word, Word Perfect, Sun Office, or any other document format. Just copy-paste the text into the body of the message. This will save me the hassle of firing off another program to read it and it will reduce the chances that gmail will flag your message as Spam.

• If you have a blog, podcast, or other site that people can go to so they can learn more about your handiwork, the URL would be appreciated.

• What you would like the topic of Weekly Challenge #101 to be. Failure to send in a topic with your selection will mean that if you win, whoever is in second place will be considered for the topic, and so on.

• A recording of your story in .mp3 format.

If you do not feel like recording a story for the podcast, well, go ahead and send the story in anyway. I'll include it in the show notes, but it won't be eligible for choosing the topic or winning the magnets.

Send the stories to isfullofcrap (at) gmail.com and then add a comment here saying you've sent it in.

Once all the stories are in, I'll assemble them into a single podcast collection for your enjoyment.

Good luck, and feel free to e-mail me with any questions you have.

Hear y'all in a week, and as always, keep it brief.

PRIZES FOR WEEKLY CHALLENGE #100:
First Place: $50 Amazon Gift Certificate
Second Place: $25 Amazon Gift Certificate
Third Place: $10 Amazon Gift Certificate
Fourth Place: $5 Amazon Gift Certificate

Wanna see something cool?

Put a five dollar bill in Fred's mouth, and he can spit out a hundred nickels.

No. Really. Try it.

The guy's got a magical mouth or something.

Same goes for a dollar bill. He'll spit out a hundred pennies.

What about a ten-spot? Sure, give it a try. He'll spit out a hundred dimes.

If you need a hundred Susan B. Anthonies, put in a C-note.

Out some the shiny silver little dollars. Not that you can use them anywhere.

Don't try it with a twenty, though. Don't try it with a twenty.

Back in the day, Batman would be all over the place, battling villains, busting capers, and solving crimes.

Then, one day, instead of coming up with an elaborate way to kill Batman that he could escape from, The Joker stabbed him in the heart with a knife.

After that, all the fun of being a bad guy just went away. They had nobody to match wits against anymore.

Most retired. But others, well...

Sad, really, watching The Riddler going around, taunting passers-by with “What have I got in my pockets?”

Oh well. Fun while it lasted, right, Mr. Kent?

When Matata took ill, Hakuna went into mourning, calling out and searching vainly for her
sister. I thought of the familiar passage from Jeremiah:

A voice is heard on high, wailing, bitter weeping; Rachel weeps for her children, she
refuses to be consoled…

Thus Hakuna grieved in her own, quiet way.

We became concerned when she didn’t touch her food without Matata there to give
permission. Yet the morning Matata died, she cleaned her bowl.

We’re convinced Matata spoke to her. “It’s okay to eat, Sister. Be strong. Be strong for
them, because they need you more than ever now.”

Electro the Magnificent ran everything for almost a thousand years.

Every decision was made by this amazing and powerful electronic brain.

Even Electro's critics found it to be perfectly capable of responding to all problems with a fair solution.

Over the centuries, humans tried to revere Electro as a god, but Electro guided people away from treating it like a cult figure.

At the end of a thousand years, there was peace, prosperity, and unity not only on Earth, but all human worlds.

Researchers stopped the model at that point.

“So, should we turn it on?” one asked.

Would you?

It took just one tranquilizer dart to knock it down. She wrestled its slick, wet body back to the car, hoping she could get the job done before it woke up.

She would use the laundry room sink, she decided. The bathroom sink was too small.

It was a struggle to get it into the house. Still unconscious: good. Those teeth looked dangerous, and that broad, flat tail looked like it could deliver a mean slap.

She applied the shaving cream and got to work, snapping a fresh blade into the razor.

“Sometimes men make the strangest requests,” she thought.

She’s been buying a lot of bread lately.

Two, three loaves a week.

Then, this week, ten. And the week’s not over yet.

Know what I think? I think she’s having an affair with the toaster.

Not that I blame her. It’s a really, really nice toaster.

Shiny, too.

It’s got a lifetime warranty, but with all the bread she’s running through the poor thing, she’s burning it up.

I watch her pull out the crumb catcher tray and pour it out in the trash.

The way she puts it back in…slowly…

At least it’s not the smoke alarm anymore.

Inspired by Mikeypod.

My friend Mikey is one of those political vegans. He orders what he calls non-violent foods, made from healthy ingredients that don’t come from exploiting farm animals.

Today, he’s at a bistro ordering a “non-violent pizza” with garlic, tomatoes, broccoli, and soy cheese.

But the chef has other, sinister plans. He puts on his rubber gloves, reaches for the glowing tubs of shredded meat, and constructs... The Violent Pizza!

In a matter of minutes, a horrifying, angry pizza-creature will burst from the brick oven.

Terrified patrons will scatter and flee.

Mikey, however, will smile and calmly ask for a salad.

The elegantly-attired stranger strode to the counter and smiled at the receptionist, his
cape swirling about his shoulders.

“Welcome to Hammer Ridge Blood Bank, sir. How may we assist you?”

“I vhould like to make... a withdrawal.”

“Certainly, sir. How much?”

The stranger handed the girl a withdrawal slip. Her eyes grew wide.

Within minutes, burly workmen had wheeled several palletloads of bluish-red blood bags to
the curb, where the stranger’s refrigerated van awaited.

As he began to drive away, the receptionist chased him down. She pointed, breathlessly,
toward a drum of lymph.

“Sir! Wait! You almost forgot your interest!”

I watch from my twisted prison, two birds soaring over the water, free to ride the breezes.

They are the craftsman, Daedalus, and his son, Icarus. Escaping Knossos on wings of feathers, wood and wax.

They are abandoning me, and I howl with rage.

In our youth, Icarus and I were brothers. Royal blood may flow through me, but Daedalus taught me, and we struggled against my monstrous nature.

More of a father than the tyrant who sends the children of his enemies for me to devour.

A flash of flame on the horizon. Icarus is falling.

My brother! No!

Welcome to the One Hundredth Weekly Challenge, where I post a topic and then challenge you to come up with a 100 word story based on that topic.

(If you're curious, this is episode #1,402 of this podcast. 1,514 - 96 - 16 - 1 = 1,402)

The topic this week was selected by Phish Frye of Purple Stripe.

It's Cake.

The excellent theme music is by Guy David

VOTING

This is important, because there's prizes on the line.

Go ahead and listen to them and then vote for your favorites (multiple selections are allowed):

JD

The cake floats before us, made buoyant by the 100 candles adorning its upper surface.

100.

The century mark.

A sign of longevity, wisdom, and occasionally intelligence.

The cake descends slowly coming to rest on the brightly decorated table cloth.

Many paper plates of various colors are spread around the table.

Forks and cups of clear plastic are nearby.

A green plastic cake knife cuts through the wonderful white icing, biting into the rich brown interior releasing words that spill out and then float upward until they swirl around the guest.

100 words for each.

Happy birthday 100 word podcast.

STEVEN

The recipe amused her: "As this homey dessert bakes..." It was appropriate, in an overdone kind of way. He had been gone for just over a year. He would appreciate a little care package.

The scoop whuffed a small puff of flour onto her mother's old
cookbook. When she cooked, her mother's memory was close. She could
almost hear her voice.

"Sissy, get all the ingredients together before you start cooking," it chided.

Fine.

Sugar. Eggs. Baking powder. Metal file. Chocolate. Vanilla.

Her son called from the other room. "Mommy, when will Daddy come home?"

"Soon, baby. Real soon."

KEEME

Tossing and turning in bed, I wondered, will it start again, the sweet whisper of temptation?

As sleep drew me under, the aroma of this magnificent, cruel pastry dragged me back!

"STOP IT" I yelled out. "You're wrong, I don't want you or your lies!"

But it was relentless.

Damned dirty cake!

It saw through me, watched me as I thrashed about, fighting the urge, wanting, mercilessly luring me closer.

I KNOW! I'll throw you out!

As I slowly made my way to this delicious adversary, I reached out and grabbed an apple.

Not as satisfying, sure, but still sweet.

EVAMOON

Alma bent her legs first one way and then another, trying to find the right fit. In the end, she discovered if she curled up on her side and tucked her right foot tightly behind her left ankle there was just room to snug her hips inside the rim of the round pan. She leaned forward, pressing her breasts against her thighs; left arm beneath her cheek and right snaked into the small space above her feet. It wasn¹t easy, but wasn¹t her family worth a little sacrifice?

After dinner the kids all begged for an extra slice.

HOPE

Cake, soft and squishy, and fluffy, and sugary or tart and sweet and everything complete! What can I say about cake? It is my favorite food. I crave it in all forms. I crave it in Chocolate. I crave it in Vanilla, I crave it in Carrot. I crave it in Red Velvet the most!

Because Cake is my favorite word I use it to describe people as well. The word cake is used to describe people who make me feel sexy, bring no drama, and always make me laugh! Because I can have my cake and eat it, too?

KA-KLICK

He rose from his desk. Alone in the building, it was that quiet time, before the cleaning crew came but after even the most dedicated employee packed it in.

His legs quivered as he rose. Would he have the nerve to go through with it? This was going to take planning but he had to get it done before things hit the fan.

He stepped through the doors of his corner office, to make his way through cube land, confronted by the remains of Charley's cake.

Poor guy, wasn't going to enjoy retirement as much as he'd thought this afternoon.

TERRY

Bizroc looked at the recipe once again as he prepared the ingredients,

1 cup of ground malni root
1 teaspoon of fugg powder
1 torful egg, divided
1 tablespoon of groggy grease
2 cups of briz flour

Yup, he had all of them set aside.
Now all he had to do is find the main ingredient.
He had seen the two legged earthling a couple of times,
that would be more than enough meat,
maybe too much, he hated to be wasteful.
Ah, but that four legged earthling he saw running round the last few days
would be just right size for the recipe.
How to catch it, that was a problem, it was so quick.

Well, Bizrocca better appreciate her special birthday cake this year,
with all the trouble he was going through to make it for her.

ANIMA

Baby Shower: White and pink. Games played, chablis drunk. Sweet 16: White and yellow. Ritual passage into adulthood; Stolen kisses playing "Spin the Bottle". Graduation: A purple scroll on a field of white: 6 years tedium commemorated by eggs and sugar. Cake ignored. Keg well attended. Marriage: All white pastillage and fondant. Top layer lasts longer in the freezer than the vows do. Funeral: A final slice to a white life. Still trying to scrape the frosting off. Marmalade tiers between dry white crumb layers: first kiss, first car, first child, first marriage, first million... the sweetness of life...

GUY DAVID

They wanted to bake a cake to be remembered. They wanted to break the world record. What they came up with was huge. 100 yards long, 100 yards tall and 100 yard wide, strawberry, vanilla cream and lime. It was a masterpiece. Then, the cake came to life and started eating people. They had to call in the army. It was messy. Now, I'm left to clean up the mess. I think I just found the cake's heart. It's still beating. I wonder...

“colonel Jackson, look at that giant matza marching in the street. I think we have a problem”.

TOM

An alarm wailed through the infirmary of the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen. Maria released Cervante’s fingers and ran into the hall. Cervantes continued reading Ellie’s message. He stop at the words: Easy Bake Oven. "How in Zeus will I fit two adults and an oven onto the Kronomotive?"

Suddenly a screen on the wall illuminated. Cervantes still wasn’t comfortable with the concept of images flying through space, but of course he was flying through time. "There was a brench in the hemorrhage collector. We grabbed the first contain we could find." She held up a toy oven and a cupcake.

ELISSON

Gary Gateau was a uranium miner.

Every morning he would don lead-fiber coveralls and facemask and descend
into the bowels of the Athabasca Pit. Every evening he would shamble
home exhausted, encrusted with triuranium octoxide.

Caked with yellowcake.

Gary hated the yellowcake. It got in his nostrils, his ears, his eyes.
He knew that eventually it would kill him. But he had to make a
living. Ironic, that, he thought.

Today, however, was his birthday. He rushed to his shack, eager to
celebrate.

His face fell when he saw that his wife had baked a cake.

A fucking yellow cake.

SOUGENT

Lord Farnsworth reached over to the side table and rang the little bell which would summon his diminutive robotic butler, Rett.

Wheezing, mechanical sounds drifted down the hallway, "You rang sir?",
Rett asked.

"Yes, you bumbling fool", Farnsworth exclaimed with a thump of his
cane, "I want some cake, right now!".

"Yes sir", Rett said with a mechanical wheeze that sounded almost like
a sigh. He departed for the kitchen to retrieve the cake.

Once in the kitchen, the robots demeanor changes. "It is cake you
want? Then cake you shall have old man, enjoy it while you can."

CRAIG

The invitation was waiting when Sally turned on her computer. Reading the email she thought “I need more then cake to chase away this mood”. Still, it was Saturday and a few sweet bites just might help.

Fork in hand Sally went to the bakery, headed to the sample table and
went from one end to the other. With each bite her feelings of not
belonging desolved just a bit more.

Leaving the bakery Sally walked six or seven miles assuaging her guilt,
then hailed a taxi for home.

The bakery’s computer waited to send Sally a new sweet invitation.

CALEB

When he saw the size of the cake, Laurence Simon thought he knew what was coming; but from whom? Ellison might jump out of the cake with a crummy story, or Tom with something bittersweet that lingered on the minds tongue like the memory of espresso. Laieanna would pop out with something deliciously on topic. Guy or Caleb would predictably do the unexpected and throw pies if in that cake. But when tentacles like steel cables wrapped around his throat and pulled him into the cake’s slavering maw Laurence thought, “Oh boy! Andrew Ian Dodge is back, welcome back Andrew!”

STUART

The old man sat in his chair not thinking or expecting much for his birthday.

Then again at the age of 85 you have so many old friends who have passed away and it seems like nobody wants to even be with you. He longed for cake. Even now it was something he could not really have. He can't even walk up the street to get his own cake these days.

That's when it happened...

The whole family flood in to the tiny terraced house bearing gifts and cakes. He couldn't even describe how happy he was to eat cake.

DAPHNE

It was her 100th birthday, all her family and her few friends who were still alive were there. They had a party and at the end the birthday cake arrived. She was given a piece then stood up to address everyone, the room got quiet to hear what she had to say:

"What the hell? I live 100 years and you give me a sliver of cake with no frosting? Well fuck you, food police! Give me a real piece with roses, lots of them and that better be real frosting not that shitty whip cream stuff."

PHISH FRYE

The wedding was going well but I was nervous about the cake cutting.

Of course, our friends were goading us into slamming the cake into each other's faces, but it meant more to us than that. It was a symbol of our vows, our first test of trust as newlyweds. Would she keep her promise? Could I trust her with my life? I closed my eyes, waiting for her answer.

Slowly, lovingly, she placed the cake in my mouth. Promises kept. Our trust formed. Our lives, together.

In the end, divorce was the only option.

The cake was a lie.

HOUSTON

Dang it Wade, David Carr just signed with the Giants. Brad Johnson is old and feeble, sure Carr has created a suckstorm everywhere, but I think I could mold him.

What about Tony Romo?

Jessica Simpson has his loins all a quiver! We have got to do
something to get his focus back!

Jerry, I know we bombed two years in a row in the first round of the
playoffs, but I think he is coming around.

Why is that Wade?

He made you a cake, look!

Wade… That cake looks like a set of boobies. Get Romo in here!

LAIEANNA

In the frigid air, Purple Sprinkle 39 from bottle 142668 awoke in the dark. He remembered the avalanche of white frosting that sent him sliding to the platter below. One absent piece from the cake and the icing on top had become unstable. He got up and felt the layered edges of the open pastry, determined to climb it's spongy middle and make his way back to his rightful place among his brothers who called for him. He needed to return before the fridge opened and the cake was taken away again to celebrate 100 Word Story Challenge's 100th birthday.

PLANET Z

Old Gertie died last night.

One day short of a hundred.

The TV people will be here in an hour to tape her blowing out the candles.

We bought a big cake just for that.

We'll just have Fuzzy Norma sit in for Gertie.

She doesn't talk much, except to say "Yes?" and laugh.

Neither had? I mean have any family around, so I'll do all the talking.

After the party, we'll quietly ship Gertie off to Shady Springs.

Don't worry. None of the residents will blow it.

I've told them if they say anything, they won't get any cake.

The 100 word stories weekly challenge is where I post a topic and then you write and record a story based on that topic.

Sounds, simple, doesn't it?

Topics are selected by the winner of the previous weekly challenge. This week reveals the triumphant JD White bringing the topic of Life In The Sewer to the masses.

You have until midnight on Friday March 21st to get the following in my hot little hands:

• The text of your story so I can post it on the site. Just post the text of the story in the body of your email message. Do not put it in Word, Word Perfect, Sun Office, or any other document format. Just copy-paste the text into the body of the message. This will save me the hassle of firing off another program to read it and it will reduce the chances that gmail will flag your message as Spam.

• If you have a blog, podcast, or other site that people can go to so they can learn more about your handiwork, the URL would be appreciated.

• What you would like the topic of Weekly Challenge #102 to be. Failure to send in a topic with your selection will mean that if you win, whoever is in second place will be considered for the topic, and so on.

• A recording of your story in .mp3 format.

If you do not feel like recording a story for the podcast, well, go ahead and send the story in anyway. I'll include it in the show notes, but it won't be eligible for choosing the topic or winning the magnets.

Send the stories to isfullofcrap (at) gmail.com and then add a comment here saying you've sent it in.

Once all the stories are in, I'll assemble them into a single podcast collection for your enjoyment.

Good luck, and feel free to e-mail me with any questions you have.

Hear y'all in a week, and as always, keep it brief.

A reminder...

PRIZES FOR WEEKLY CHALLENGE #100:
First Place: $50 Amazon Gift Certificate
Second Place: $25 Amazon Gift Certificate
Third Place: $10 Amazon Gift Certificate
Fourth Place: $5 Amazon Gift Certificate

Milton has one of those vacuums with the clear tube that sucks all the dirt into, and you can watch it spin around like a tornado.

So, he throws things on the floor just to vacuum them up.

Yesterday, he tried to do it with popcorn, but it got all jammed in the hoses.

The motor's high-pitched whine caught his attention.

Milton tipped the vacuum over to clear out the jam, but he forgot to turn off the vacuum.

He watched in horror... and then fascination as his fingers rattled around the clear plastic tube in the vacuum cleaner.

I have the most beautiful teeth.

White, smooth, and perfectly even.

They are marvelous and precise, a wonder to behold.

My gums, however, are disgusting.

Blood and ragged, like a horrendously ugly frame around an exquisite work of art.

"How can this be?" I ask my dentist. "What kind of cruel joke is it to have such beautiful teeth held prisoner within this putrid mouth?"

This dentist is no different than the others. He has no answers.

I wish I were the Cheshire Cat.

I'd vanish from the world, along with my gums, leaving this most wondrous, precious, beautiful smile.

Normally I don't get into rants on the blog for the podcast, but Steve Ely said something so mind-numbingly ignorant on Escape Pod a few episodes back, it pissed me off.

Episode 148: "We're the last country to give up slavery."

Perhaps Steve needs to take a look at the United Nations' reports on slavery to see that it's alive, well, and practically sanctioned by the state in Saudi Arabia and other regions of indentured servitude and generational debt-laborers.

Yeah it happens in the US, too. Mexicans trucking other Mexicans here for labor, the palaces off of Miami's shore with maids always in fear of their owner's hand, drug mules, and so on.

But it's not systemic. And there's always hope for the victims to have some kind of redress to the law. Someone stumbling across it, they can do something.

Over there, well, can't exactly say the same.

Yeah, he's had some rough times as of late, and I hope he comes through it all stronger and inspired. Escape Pod and Pseudopod and his other projects are a great podcasting resource for fiction, and if I had the time, I'd dive into the forums and contests and even submit some stuff.

But Ely needs to toss out the moldy history books, toss the Idiotarian "America is Evil, Bush is Hitler" glasses, and take a fresh look around.

There. Done.

Like you give a shit, right?

He said he was a spaceman and that he'd come a long way to visit Earth.

I shook his hand and welcomed him to our planet.

He thanked me, took off his helmet, and looked around.

“It looks a lot different since the last time I was here,” he said.

“How long has it been since you were last here?” I asked.

“A while,” he said. “Too long, I guess.”

“Yeah, things change quickly these days,” I said. “Kinda hard to keep up.”

We sat for a while, drank a few beers, and watched the stars.

“Too long,” he said.

From SXSW: An interview with Gary Leland of Podcast Pickle.

Three angels were meditating upon a leaky faucet in God's kitchen.

The first was inspired to write a symphony based on the dripping of the water and the violence of it crashing against the basin.

The second painted a wonderful painting, capturing the essence of how the light reflected off of the droplets and the passage of each droplet through the air.

The third captured a droplet and brewed a marvelous potion, a taste that was refreshing and soothing.

They presented their creations to God, who howled in rage.

“Why didn't any of you idiots call a plumber?” He yelled.

Elroy bakes the best cakes in the city.

People would pay dearly for these works of art.

I once had the privilege to watch him in action... although it was hard to keep up with the blur of kitchen implements and cloud of ingredients whizzing around him.

What was most impressive was his mastery of icing cakes.

He showed me a bare cake, told me to try to eat it.

So, I put a fork in the side of it, and as I drew the fork to my mouth, that bit of cake was perfectly iced.

A magician, he was.

I get so afraid of the world sometimes.

The whole damn world.

When the fear gets to be too much, I crawl into bed and pull the covers up to my chin.

Then, I just lay there, not even moving my eyes.

I am as still as a statue.

The shadows close in on me, looking, and I can feel them watching for the slightest move.

I'm just sitting here, feeling my heart beat. The rise and fall of my chest as I breathe.

What will they do next?

I don't know. And that is what I find so terrifying.

Welcome to the Weekly Challenge Number One Hundred And One, where I post a topic and then challenge you to come up with a 100 word story based on that topic.

The topic this week was selected by JD White.

It's Life In The Sewer.

The excellent theme music is by Guy David

VOTING

Go ahead and listen to them and then vote for your favorites (multiple selections are allowed):

STEVEN

I rise from the manhole, from my sewer home. Rain runs down my green skin and the scratches in my shell. It has been twenty four years, and I tire easily. My brothers' weapons slew many soldiers before they fell. Only I remain.

Our enemy is in his home, now just a slumlord with antique armor. He
watches our old cartoons and laughs. All anyone remembers are pizza
eating caricatures, our innocence as youths.

The enemy eats his pizza, ignoring the irony. He forgets that our
ninja skills surpassed his. Tonight, I will remind him.

I draw my swords.

Cowabunga.

STEVEN #2

I had sent the link to my grandmother, parents - all of those people who like to see what I've written. And then - only then - do I start to listen to the podcast. He dropped the F-bomb. Before the intro music.

I am so glad I mentioned the dirty words.

I am going to be in trouble. I'm sure of it. I was going to run
away, but I would miss them. Instead, I'll go down. It's warm in
winter, and there's never any traffic jams.

Once my nose adjusts, I might get used to my exiled life in the sewer.

AINI

Life is such a great journey. We learn a lot from living which helps us to deal with different kinds of situations that we face. Living is a wonderful experience. As for me, I love my life. It is amazing and a lot of fun. In life you can do so many things that you can enjoy or learn from. In my life I have great things like money, a home, my own room, a soft bed and a lovely pillow on what I put my sleepy head every night. My life is fabulous. All these gorgeous things around me make my life perfect. However, there is just this big word ''but'' to all this. This is my life only when compared to life in the sewer.

PLANET X-RAY

Norton strolled down the tunnel looking for the valve that would drain this section. To think he had spent almost his life in the sewers and he couldn't find one lousy valve.

His mind kept going back to last night's bowling. It just wasn't the same without Ralph. Oh sure, Laurence bowled great, but he wasn't Ralph. He was just too stiff and didn't joke around like Ralph did.

Plus, Norton was still in shock from when the cops handcuffed Ralph and led him away.

Oh sure, Ralph had said it a hundred times in the last 20 years, but who though he'd actually do it.

Well, he still had his life in the sewers to look forward to, poor Ralph would be in prison and Alice, well there just wasn't any coming back from the moon.

GUY DAVID

Most of the time, only the rats and I live here. I say most of the time since every once in a while, a lonely traveler finds his way here.

This is the real underground. Got used to the smell, the crap flouting here in the sewer, you'd be surprised what people flash down their toilets. One can find all sort of strange toys down here for use on hapless lonesome travelers. Their screams can be heard for miles, but there's no one to hear.

Would you like to come visit? I'll have a special room ready, just for you.

TERRY TEE

Bizrocca strolled slowly along the walkway deep in thought

Here she was working her ass off to keep them living the life style that they were accustomed to, and what does he do.

He gives her that tasteless birthday cake with little meat in it, and she was sure he had used the neighbors pet as the main ingredient. Why she had found the toenails from seven of the beast's feet in the cake for god's sake.

And just what does he say….

"But my lumpy dumpy, I wanted to catch that 4 legged beast the earthling brought with him, but it was just too fast for me."

Too fast for him, shit, he was just too fucken lazy to get off his ass and leave their comfortable house.

Well, that was life in the sewer, it just doesn't get any better than this on Mars.

ELISSON

I row through the Underground, navigating past the Ordure Ocean, the Beeyem Bay, the Sea of Shit. I’m a regular Crap Mariner, sailing the sewers like Jason and the Cacanauts.

After all these years, I’ve gotten used to the reek. Almost.

Life was different once. You might remember me: I was the Ty-D-Bowl Man.

With my blazer and jaunty captain’s cap, I’d paddle around in toilet tanks, freaking out the housewives. You’d freak too, if you found a little dude rowing a boat in your tank. Great gig while it lasted.

Lousy defective flapper valve.

I still miss my cap.

ANIMA

After pulling on hipwaders, I slurp the last of the tea. Collecting my Browning BAR and a fistful of.338 Mag cartridges, I head down the main utilidor…

I can tell its after 8 – there's lots of brown trout nudging downstream. Sometimes, I come see the afternoon surge around 4:30, weekdays. In this sector, trout are quiet on the weekends.

CHUDs have been spotted to the north... that's where I'm headed. My job is to protect topsiders from becoming lunch, but I do it more for the fun. I hope to bring home a huge trophy mount today. Wish me luck!

TOM

It was cramped but doable. The easy bake on Maria, Maria in Arnesto’s lap. "Is the air always red here?" Ask Maria. "No last time it was green about the constancy of pudding." he said gazing out at the mists of vermilion. "Are we there yet?" laughed Arroway, the Kronomer didn’t get the reference. The mist cleared to reveal a dim dust filled room. Something was very wrong. As they stepped into the room Maria noticed the following scrawled on the wall: Life In The Sewer. On the floor was a package from the future: Book Number Three.

CRAIG

The dog is dead, cat living in a tree, me I’m living in a city sewer.

Everything I ever owned or dreampt of owning is out of reach

cause I’m living in a city sewer and someone has closed the grate.

Neighbors are rats and their getting fat living in the city sewer.

We all bob like apples when it rains in the city sewer.

The other day Hank drowned living in the city sewer.

We all scramble for heat when buses idle over the city sewer.

In the summer we all hold our nose living in the city sewer.

BRYAN / KA-KLICK

The elevator sank quietly into the shaft. His spirits racing ahead of it. As it came to rest at the lobby his spirits continued into the abyss. The doors slid open silently. He clicked across the sterile marble and glass space and stepped out into the street.

It was a cool night and the grates in the street billowed forth a steady cloud of steam.

It made him pause to wonder: What would life in the sewer be like?

Could he just fake a really bad accident, set up some kind of secret lair, become the phantom of Wall street?

SOUGENT

It's the smell you notice at first, when you first go in, a raw foul stench that permeates the air. It clings to you, thick and cloying, wrapping around you like a warm blanket.

Moist and steaming, it flows around you.

So strong, you can taste it, every nuance, every flavor.

After a while, you get used to it. Stay long enough and you learn to love it.

Ah, yes, close your eyes and inhale deeply, breathe in that wonderful fragrance.

Life in the sewer.
My life, my world.

It's the life of a sewer rat.

JD WHITE

I stand in a dim shaft of fading yellow light. Around my legs the black stagnant water is disturbed only when I move. Before me the curved walls of the tunnel quickly fade away into the darkness. The smell no longer turns my stomach. At the edge of my vision red pinpoints no longer blink out when I scream. Time has lost its meaning here where the only sound is the scurry of sharp claws on wet stone. For long years I fought its call until its blasphemy overcame my will. It draws near in the dark.

The Cthulhu comes.

And I love it.

DAPHNE

I moved to the sewer after it happened. I wasn't the only one there. Some people went to the subways but we found that the sewer gave us more mobility. They run all over, we were able to get to supplies we needed to live. We've managed to adapt to living down here. We can go to the surface, but only at night, it's only safe at night. The remaining surface dwellers help us out, until they get caught. Kids talk about the surface like priest talks about heaven, you might get to go there someday if you are good... and dead.

PLANET Z

Every cell in our bodies is a living thing.

Fat cells.
Muscle cells.
Nerve cells.
And blood cells.

The collective that is you may be dead, but these cells will live on for as long as they receive oxygen and nutrients.

As I watch the blood drain from your body, run down the gutter and into the sewer, I imagine that your life's journey is not quite over.

Life is taking a detour, if only briefly, into the sewer. Bon voyage, life! Pleasant journeys.

Oh, and your kidneys, packed on ice, will live on in a very wealthy businessman in Tokyo.

The 100 word stories weekly challenge is where I post a topic and then you write and record a story based on that topic.

Sounds, simple, doesn't it?

Topics are selected by the winner of the previous weekly challenge. This week reveals the triumphant Steven the Nuclear Man bringing the topic of Nightingale to the masses.

You have until midnight on Friday March 28st to get the following in my hot little hands:

• The text of your story so I can post it on the site. Just post the text of the story in the body of your email message. Do not put it in Word, Word Perfect, Sun Office, or any other document format. Just copy-paste the text into the body of the message. This will save me the hassle of firing off another program to read it and it will reduce the chances that gmail will flag your message as Spam.

• If you have a blog, podcast, or other site that people can go to so they can learn more about your handiwork, the URL would be appreciated.

• What you would like the topic of Weekly Challenge #103 to be. Failure to send in a topic with your selection will mean that if you win, whoever is in second place will be considered for the topic, and so on.

• A recording of your story in .mp3 format.

If you do not feel like recording a story for the podcast, well, go ahead and send the story in anyway. I'll include it in the show notes, but it won't be eligible for choosing the topic or winning the magnets.

Send the stories to isfullofcrap (at) gmail.com and then add a comment here saying you've sent it in.

Once all the stories are in, I'll assemble them into a single podcast collection for your enjoyment.

Good luck, and feel free to e-mail me with any questions you have.

Hear y'all in a week, and as always, keep it brief.

How fast they grow up.

My little girl, Lisa, wants neural implants.

All the kids at school have them, why can't she?

When her mother and I were kids, we had to wait until we were grown up to get them.

Now, the school system pushes the kids harder and harder. And it's so much cheaper to jack in a kid to the network than teach them the old way.

The green hair took some getting used to. The piercings. The drinking. The boyfriends. The usual signs of rebellion.

But then, I guess the third grade's been tough for her.

Matt Ryan shares 5 ways to improve your podcast.

Putting enough padding or space between your microphone and your noisy CPU or air conditioning ducts is one I always suggest.

Night Guy has posted another collection of his cool 100 word stories. If you missed them here, well, go there for the roundup and the explanations/thoughts as he was writing them.

In all the signals the aliens sent us, there was never a harsh word or a profanity uttered.

Completely friendly.

It wasn't until their delegation landed and their people walked around did we realize it was going to be an issue.

You see, in their language, many corporation names and trademarked brands were the most vile things imaginable.

“Coke” was a revolting sexual act.
“Disney” was scatological in nature.
“Ford” was akin to genocide.

And so on.

So, eventually, they gave up on our planet and went on to the next one.

While we drank our Cokes and waved goodbye.

I was pondering how Kurt Vonnegut would respond to the new LL policy on trademarks. I'd think he'd toss out a reference to a Kilgore Trout story that explained it all concisely and precisely.

Ambassador Grindmar's report to the Hive Queen was positive: the negotiations were going well, and peace would come at an insignificant price, easily made up for with future mutual trade and growth.

“Where is Grindmar now?” asked the Queen.

He bodyguards upended a preservation-cask, spilling Grindmar's butchered carcass on the throne room floor.

“That's unfortunate,” said the Queen. “But the negotiations completed, correct?”

“Yes,” said Grindmar's replacement. “The war is over.”

“Good,” said the Hive Queen. “Let us Prepare a feast in Grindmar's honor.”

That night, Grindmar was as delicious as she had been skilled in crafting peace treaties.