Ever try to Supersize a Happy Meal?

I've tried it all around the world. Every single store they have on the face of the earth. I've been to every stinking one of them.

And they just won't do it.

It doesn't matter what language they speak there or what currency they take. They just won't do it.

It's impossible, they say.

Nothing is impossible, I reply.

They said that I couldn't go around the world, asking for a Supersized Happy Meal, but I have.

I hear three new stores open every day.

Let's hit the road and try again tomorrow.

The datacenter that my mp3 files are in has taken a major hit recently.

They will be available again soon.

Throughout the ages, the boatsman kept his fare the same: one soul, one coin.

It didn't matter what kind of coin it was or how valuable it had been in the land of the living.

He liked to collect coins.

On the weekends, he showed off his vast coin collection to his friends.

The job called for a stoic, professional demeanor, so when he was given a coin he didn't already have, he'd fight hard to keep his composure.

Nobody wants their trip across the River Styx to be performed by a giddy skeletal ferryman.

It's not like you ask for "do overs."

We locked up the bard for his own safety.

If the king heard these nonsense rhymes, he'd certainly cut off his head.

I mean, here's an example of his madness:

When an elephant coughs and sneezes.
It bends and falls to all four kneeses.
It wipes its trunk on what it pleases.
Then coughs things up in wheezes.
Bugs and germs upon the breezes.
Covered with disgusting fleases.
It's how they spread such bad diseases.
Until the cough and sneezes eases.

The king is fond of his elephant herd, and to insult them in such a manner is certain death.

The MP3 files may or may not be available at any time, since the fileserver's in a datacenter with... ambiguous power resources at the moment.

I've read every overpriced advice book there is at the bookstore.

Who Moved My Cheese? and Throwing The Elephant didn't help with my miserable job, meaningless life, and spiritual bankruptcy. I just got shit on more.

So, I decided to write my own overpriced advice book: Fistfucking The Platypus.

I put tons of bad advice between the covers, added crappy drawings that a third grader with two broken hands could doodle up, and then put a twenty-dollar price tag on the hardback.

Despite my not mentioning platypuses, PETA doesn't like it.

They can just bend over like...

You know.

Most sushi chefs won't go near a mermaid, but Kuzo will slice up any sea creature if the price is right.

He retired rich after the Loch Ness Monster went missing, but Kuzo and basketball have a love/hate relationship. Especially when Vegas was involved.

Leviathan, Sea Hag – you name it, he's carved it up for Japanese businessmen and celebrities to turn a quick buck.

Remember Charlie The Tuna? His schtick was that he wasn't good enough for Starkist, so they wouldn't take him?

When was the last time you saw him on TV?

Sorry, Charlie – Kuzo's bookie is calling.

Someone who's ready to buy something right then and there has The Look.

The salesman saw it on the customers he'd just finished demonstrating a high-end laptop to.

“So, any questions?” he asked, snapping the laptop shut.

“How rugged is it?” asked a banker.

The salesman swept the laptop off of the table and it hit the floor.

He picked it up and turned it on.

No damage.

“It's practically bulletproof,” he said.

A shot rang out, and a bullet dented the case, but the laptop stayed on.

“We'll take a thousand,” said the Army Colonel, holstering his pistol.

Welcome to the Weekly Challenge Number One Hundred And Twelve, 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, and we went with Whiskey.

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):

ARMINASX

Whiskey was not a great online player, but good enough. I'd beaten him several times. Well, once. I guess he's better than I want to admit.

I had to figure out this mysterious guy, since I can't stand a silent player who wins. That's right, Whiskey never uses voice when playing.

So I played him often. One day I caught him with his mic on. But all I heard was scratching, wimpers and an occasional "woof".

And that's when I realized who Whiskey really was. You know what they say: "on the Internet, no one knows you're a dog!"

SPARROW

She watched the golden liquid splash over the ice and breathed in the heady scent of whiskey. Her thirst ignited with a power that surprised her.

She meant to sip slowly and savor this drink, but when it touched her
tongue, she could not help but swallow greedily until the ice fell against
her lips with the last of the liquor. And though she swore she would not,
she reached for the bottle and poured again.

As she drank, tears slowly rolled down her cheeks. I never meant to, she
thought, but it feels so good.

She was only thirteen.

MICHELLE

“Rode hard and put up wet.”

She heard it very clearly, chose to ignore. What good would come of confrontation? “Hell,” she thinks to herself with a chuckle “that weekend in New Orleans, 85, rode hard and put up was exactly what we were, and damn proud of it.” Her smile fades with the expression of remembrance, that was a long time ago, so long ago.

Years of the chase made her somber, not sober, somber yes. Head in hands now, red dreadlocks brushing the table, sagging bosom heaving with sobs. Another smoke, another shot, another night. Whiskey & me.

POND

“Another”

The whiskey glass slammed on the bar in the best cheesy western fashion, predictably anguished eyes peering out from under the lank, dank, hank falling in front of them.

The bartender looked up and refilled the glass, smearing stray drops with this week's rag. His lips parted, the tip of his tongue heavy with the obligatory question. Thirty years behind this bar made the reply to that word a reflex; an occupational hazard.

Thirty years of tales of woe, of the betrayals of brothers, of failures and mistakes, of stolen sweethearts. He soaked each one up like a sponge; his heart long ago filled, the misery of his customers seeping into his muscles and into his bones.

He was full, saturated.

A second glass joined the first and he filled them both. He sighed before washing the question from his tongue, and the silence was broken only but the sound of the glasses on the bar.

And another.

A

This wasn't his first go round. He knew that sensation where you feel the whole world spinning while you and you alone hold fast. A roar in your ears that starts loud and gets louder. White noise. White knuckles. White Lightning memories. None of them good.

His stomach heaved up, but there was nothing in it. As empty as his head, they'd all said.

He wasn't a man who learned from his mistakes. Like Father, like Son, they'd all said.

His fall was swift and painful.

He shouldn't have tried to ride the Colt called Whiskey. Sired by White Lightning.

GUY DAVID

Old Mama Chirapa died of old age. The Chirapa live a very long life by human standards, though The Chirapa themselves, don't view this as something out of the ordinary. Chaketo Chirapa, her son, inherited leadership, as is the way of The Chirapa. He had to abandon the computer networking project, but he never forgot it. He kept his own computer and scanned the internet for a way to earn the trust of The Humans. Leadership was taking most of his time, and they where running out of gold for their machines, though they discovered whiskey was just as good.

ELISSON

The old bottle had lain in the alley for… who knows how long? For years, it had managed to escape the attentions of neighborhood dogs, children on bicycles, skateboarders, and other passersby. But when Wino Willie saw the glint of glass peeping out from beneath a mound of trash, his first thought was, “Booze!”

Willie grabbed the heavy, filth-encrusted bottle. He rubbed it on a threadbare sleeve…

…and amidst a cloud of smoke, out popped the Ty-D-Bowl Man!

“It’s been thirty years,” Ty-D explained. “I was looking for a toilet and fell into a whiskey bottle. Been there ever since.”

TOM

I met Angus in the 80s. He told me about this movie where a ship full of whiskey runs aground on this island. Well the inhabitants grab the bottles and hide them everywhere. The movie was call "Tight Little Island." When the film made it to France they changed the title to Whiskey A GO GO French ain’t got a clue what tight means. Some Parisian nightclub owner thinks the name is way cool starts to open these discothèques called Whisky a Go Go. Well Americans think discothèque pretty cool open a Whiskey A GO GO in LA. They got these dancers in cages called GO GO dancers and of course they got go go boots which are in fact the boots Nancy Sinatra is sing about In the these boot are made for walking. Well it seem the night Frank Sinatra is dyeing Nancy sneaks off to watch the last episode of Seinfeld and the chairman croaks. By the way "Nancy with the Laughing Eyes" was written for her on her fourth birthday by Phil Silvers the guy who played Sergeant Bilko. Same night Frank dies Angus dies so I take pint of Bushnell pour it on his grave.

STEVEN THE NUCLEAR MAN

"Aw, hell. Zombies."

Professor Heath laughed from across the bar.

"No, they're whiskey sours."

He drank his, then poured more gunpowder into his shotgun shells.
Nicole poured another round of whiskey, then passed out rounds for our
pistols.

"I thought," she said, "Romero's zombie movies were a commentary on
the mindless nature of modern American society."

"What, nihilism?" I snorted. "It's all mindless and will eat you in the end?"

The Professor stood and smiled.

"There is only one effective response to both nihilism and the undead."

He took aim through the boards on the window and fired.

"Decisive action."

JUSTIN

You don't need whiskey to drink away sorrows if you can't remember them. I have a hard time remembering. I wish I could drink to remember, because I have many more good memories than sorrows. My memories are fading. I'm doing my best to keep it from slowing me down as it slowly erodes my memory. I'll keep going, but it terrifies me to forget. I would rather have a cancer eating away my body before having my mind stripped away. I'll live like I'm about to die, even though Alzheimer's might take all that I've done before the end.

EVAMOON

Thunder cracked and we retreated a little farther into the the meager protection of a rocky overhang. Four days into the Yosemite back country at a high lake and it was cold. A sudden storm crowded the sun out of an autumn afternoon and now lightning stabbed granite peaks surrounding the lake continuously.

At the height of the tempest, two more hikers crawled into our sliver of
shelter. We huddled; four little bugs tucked into a crevice, waiting to warm
our wings. Then one of our new friends pulled a fifth of whiskey out of his
pack.

Let it rain.

FEMME BLEU

One New Years Eve Whiskey and Bourbon fell into bed and mixed drinks. Thus was Little Whiskey born.. Little Whiskey ran with horses, broke pool cues, lost at poker, was addicted to jazz music, dark poetry, runnin with drunks, and the pursuit of more Whiskey. Till she got to Ireland, and found the ultimate Whisky -- Green Spot. Uisce Beatha … the water of life. Little Whiskey nearly drowned@! "Whisky is the pool into which Narcissus gazed" said Little Whisky. "Whisky will get me killed" said little Whisky who lost her Dad Big Whisky to whisky a long time ago.

ANIMA

Simple, still sitting here at the Wishing Well? Some things never change…

You's Wrong!!
Lemme tell you about change… I done changed jobs, changed diapers and changed the locks on my door.
Joyce, she going thru the change, and that be changing our relationship.
I been short changed all my life, leaving me feeling mighty changeable.
I have changed my party affiliation for a man who is ready for Change.

Now, I's changing the subject. You gotten me all riled up, buy me a whisky – beer won't do.

Simple, I said, after all these years, you haven't changed a bit.

THOMAS

The sun shone through the dark amber liquid, casting lucid rays about the room. His entire life lay inside the glass, dazzling his swollen eyes.

A universe unto itself, moving slowly in time. A million emotions dancing and making love, within; happiness and misery, love and hate, peace and remorse. Conscience, regret, longing and memory lie beneath it's golden surface... waiting.

He lifts it high, toasting past, future and this dying moment. Peering into its' depths for one last look. Its' twenty year journey from field to perfection was nearly over. The whiskey sending warm tendrils numbing his thoughts. Smooth...

ALMO

"Well, do we have a deal?" Nicky asked, pouring three fingers of whiskey into the tumblers between the men.

Roger hesitated. He knew this happened a hundred times a day in his business. The odds of being caught were nil. The loser would be the insurance company. That impact was less than a flea bite.

His mind flashed to seventh grade. The difficult spelling test he had received such lavish praise for. He had cheated. He had felt ill when the teacher singled him out for recognition.

Roger was older; corners weren't so sharp. He raised the glass. "We do."

PLANET X

Recently, at a movie premier, Jimmy Buffet was walking along the gold carpet and asked Steve Jobs what the one brand of whiskey he enjoyed.

Steve replied, that as The Chair of a distillery company that used cereal in the process of creating a lower priced whiskey, he had made it taboo to discuss it with outsiders.

He did say that the actual recipe and process was kept under lock and key in a steamer trunk and was guarded by zombies. The one person who had seen it, now sang like a nightingale and lived a life in the sewers.

JD

Old George was a hell of a man.

He turned 101 Thursday.

That was the day before the night he died.

Most people want to die in their sleep.

No pain, no surprises.

Go to sleep and never wake up.

Not George.

He didn't want to go at all.

Last Thursday night he got hammered and this cute 19 year-old doll took him home.

Later, when her husband got home, George went out the window still pulling on his pants.

Fell from the second floor and broke his neck.

Whiskey and tail, that was how George wanted to go.

PLANET Z

After reading about the Whiskey Rebellion, my friends and I invented this game called Whiskeypedia.

You log on to Wikipedia and look for the most popular articles. Then, you make funny changes to the articles.

The last change to get rolled back is the winner. Everybody else takes a shot of whiskey, toasting to the last man standing.

The more you drink, the weirder the updates get.

Sometimes, nobody ends up noticing the change and it's there for a very long time.

The government is thinking of getting involved, calling our actions vandalism.

Perhaps, Tom the Tinkerer will rise again.

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 ArminasX...

How about.... Purity?

You have until midnight on Friday June 13th 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 #114 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. Please use your name as the filename if you can, okay? Makes it easier to produce the show quickly.

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.

Every time Jesse blinks, her eyes change color.

From blue to brown to green to yellow to red...

“Is it some kind of newfangled contact lenses?” I ask.

She laughs. “I was hang gliding and flew through a rainbow,” she said. “Apparently, there's some kind of magic in rainbows that does this.”

You're supposed to wear goggles, but Jesse's broke and fell off, leaving her eyes unprotected.

“What about the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow?” I asked.

“I wish,” she said, sighing. “Just the eyes.”

She picked up her cane, and her dog led her away.

You want to know? Well, I'm dead either way, I might as well talk.

You want to hear about The Bunny Mafia?

I'll tell you about it.

Yeah, I ran with the rabbits. Cooked books for the Five Hutches, trafficked in hookers.

You know. Because they screw like rabbits.

No drugs. Only carrots, lettuce, cabbage – they like vegetables. The fresher, the better.

Then, one day, a package arrives. It's a bloody foot on a chain, wrapped in newspaper.

“Little Bunny Fufu sleeps with the Easter Eggs,” said The Harefather.

Yeah, he got whacked on the head, alright.

He got whacked.

Feelin' lucky tonight?

William Bonney over in Accounting was a renegade CPA who settled down and went corporate.

But during Audit Season, the Call of the West got in his blood, and he became Billy the Billing Kid.

Forms? Ledgers? Books?

He's put them all away and reach for his sixguns.

He'd shoot down lawyers and tax agents and all sorts of credit service representatives.

Accounts Payable and Accounts Receivable became Accounts Dead when he faced off with them on Main Street at High Noon.

Billy wasn't killed by no sheriff.

Downsizing, man. It gets us all in the end.

Every Thursday, the neighborhood kids gather up at the local church and put on a puppet show for the town.

This week was different.

You see, someone burned down the shed the kids used to store their arts and crafts.

Years and years of handcrafted puppets, up in smoke.

So, the children used cheese. They put hunks of cheddar, gouda, and havarti on sticks and a bedsheet curtain rose to thunderous applause.

Hamlet had never been so... delicious.

When the curtain fell for the last time, we gave them a standing ovation.

And then, got our our wine and crackers.

They call early afternoon baseball games “Businessman Specials.”

You might ask... why?

After playing a full game the night before, the teams aren't going to be at their best. So, the players take the day off and the front office suits up.

Ever seen a marketing and branding specialist try to charge a bunt from third?

Almost as ugly as one trying to justify seven-dollar beers while watching a sub-500 cellar-dwelling bum squad.

Or your 100 million dollar cleanup man picking up a broom and cleaning up the stands.

Seen his slugging percentage?

Better make him mop.

My doctor put down the chart and did a little happy dance.

"Does this mean I'm cured?" I ask.

"No," says the doctor. "You're not in fact, it's terminal."

"I'm going to die?"

"Yes, but not soon. In fact, it will be a long, painful, agonizing death."

"Then what's the dance for?"

"Nobody's seen what you've got before."

"Why is that good?"

"I'll get it named after me," he said. "I'll be famous."

He asked a nurse for a bottle of champagne. "Drink up, it can't hurt. At least, I don't think so."

And he toasted to my bad health.

Welcome to the Weekly Challenge Number One Hundred And Thirteen, 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 ArminasX, and we went with Purity.

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):

JUSTIN

We exist in the most pure, simple state we can. We choose not to stand out with looks and keep it to the standard, basic color: gray. We avoid all the needless accessories that so many of our kind have, such as lasers, rockets, and blade arms. We run on the simplest form of energy, rechargeable batteries. We stick to wheels and don't use hover plates. We even forgo transistors and use basic circuit boards and vacuum tubes. Others of our kind make fun, call us outmoded. We pay no processing power to this. We are proud to be robo-Amish.

GUY

Oh, the purity of salmon, done with just enough olive oil and a hint of coriander. Tom would give us another tasty culinary footnote, then Elisson would bring the whiskey, and the party would begin. Terrence would bring his friend Raoul to play around while Laieanna, the belly dancer would give us her best dance, Caleb would add the twist of the twisted and Daphne would take us right down to the sewage, then, the idiot in chief would appear with all his cogs spinning and the dish would be truly ready for upload. Another weekly challenge would be posted.

MIKE

Quality Control's a real pain, the owner reflected, recalling the chain of events that had led to this. Due to record demand, the backup system had been brought into production. Feeling the pressure, the supervisor had only inspected each filtration seal, not replaced them as directed. The last one failed, sending contaminant downline, and an alert operator had hit the emergency shunt. The company guaranteed 99.5% purity - well above the industry norm; had the contaminant reached the main storage vats, the consequences would have been beyond imagining.

Another whipcrack and scream echoed through the room. Yep - QC's a real pain.

STEVEN THE NUCLEAR MAN

Snowflakes float lazily as she begins shouting. I do not fight back, and this infuriates her. Crystalline water sparkles in angled sunlight, like the shining stone in her ring that bounce bounce bounces on the floor.

She leaves tire tracks in the driveway, a bit of rubber on the street.
Her suitcase, her car are gone, and so is she.

Fat wet flakes fall, coating my hair in age, weariness, fear. They
come down down down and fill in the tracks with a coat of purest
white.

For a little while, I can forget. For a little while, I pretend.

TOM

Purity has taken a serious hit during the latter 20th century. Its became the plutonium of discourse. None the less it best describes that which is best. The distillation of the raw to the refined. The purity of pen is Mont Blanc. Its weight gives substance to the stroke. Perfectly balanced and contoured to the task at hand. I am partial to the gold nib over the silver but I’m a purest when it comes to glide. The latest of the line is the cobalt blue StarWalker. Image a $400 ballpoint pen the good Sisters of Mercy are wailing somewhere in penmanship purgatory.

SISTER MARY EDITH

My story centers on my own purity, or lack thereof. Some of you may remember me as Sister Mary Edith. Alas, I've been defrocked, which isn't as much fun as it sounds. It was a routine clergy-net sweep for kiddy porn that turned up my brief fling with 100 word stories. I was cast out, and my pc exorcised by the Cardinal himself, which is why, when Lawrence played my mp3, pure silence. On the upside, did you know exorcism completely uninstalls Windows Millennium Edition(R)?

A year later, I've found my new calling. You can call me Scout-Master Mary Edith.

THOMAS

The priest droned as the crowd murmured. With their sins absolved, the village would be pure once more.

Ena stood before the cold obelisk, trembling... resolved. Purer than the sacrifices before her. No evil thought or deed found purchase in her soul. This fact made her ideal to remove the sins of her peers.

The priest recited the ancient text, knife raised asking his god's blessing on this sacrifice. Then motioned Ena to kneel.

As the knife came down, crimson lightning issued from the obelisk, killing the priest, and the ogling crowd. Ena walked quietly away; the village pure again.

SOUGENT

Back in January 1919, I was a traveling salesman and I had just made a big sale down in Beantown and was walking down the street to a bar I'd spotted earlier ta get a sip of whiskey when all of a sudden I hear a rumbling sound down the street in the direction of the Purity Distilling Company and the ground started shaking.

I looked and there was this big old wave of molasses coming straight for me, so I did the only thing a body could do.....

I hopped on and body surfed that sucker clear across town.

POND NITELY

“Hope” “No” “Faith” “No” She sighed. “How about Grace?” “Uh uh” The newspaper in his hands, a wall between the two of them, rattled as he shook his head. “Prudence? Patience?” “No, no and no! What is with the goofy names, I don’t want our daughter running around with a tag like Prudence. And do we have to talk about this tonight, I’m just bagged”” She sighed. “I read today that the Puritans named their children after virtues to give them strength. I really want to give our child the best start possible in this uncertain world.” He sighed and turned the page. His wife used to read the Wall Street Journal, now the coming baby ruled her focus completely. He peered over the paper. “Well if you want to give her a good start, how about a name that suits the new millennium, not some outdated ideal. Why don’t we call her Cynicism, or maybe Apathy.” “I’m not even going to dignify that with a reply" Several breaths worth of pause, and... "Chastity? Charity?” He folded the paper, rubbed his temples and mentally reached for the white flag, waiting. “Purity?” “Fine” Poor kid.

ANIMA

Vitaly had some, and I needed it, bad.

It had been days – the brainfog was settling in… News on the vidscreen was sounding
plausible.

Come on Vitaly, I whine. Scanning the room, I spy the scarred PIOSK bottles. I know
you fired up the Elektron yesterday. Liquid's better, but chemical will do.

Vat have you trade?

A foil of pop tarts and six Twinkies….

Prakhaldna – 10 minutes.

How about liquid?

Chevo? 'K – 5 minutes.

Inhaling, the purity of the O2 hits my brain better than anything I remember.

I wheeze again, growing sharper and more cynical with each passing moment.

JD

In the beginning we were driven out from the garden.

Latter we were driven across the face of the earth.

At last we were driven into the sky and across the universe.

In all times and places we searched for what had been lost.

The void between the stars, our last hope.

For eons we searched in the darkness of that void.

And then we found the Children of the Light.

We saw that they had what we had lost and then we understood.

So, in our terrible rage we killed them all.

Once lost, purity can not be regained.

PLANET X

The oldest house in our neighborhood was always the center of activity, in it lived the pastor of the local church.

Purity, the pastor's daughter, was always prim and proper, an example for the neighborhood.

When they moved, the house sat empty for a very long time, until Purity bought it for her family.

Soon, Purity had her own daughters living with her, each were very pretty, and had names like, Charity, Destiny, Faith, and Grace.

And her mission was so much like her step-father's, to provide a little heaven for each of their visitors, twenty bucks at a time.

PLANET Z

The quest for genetic purity has been the foundation for the greatest evils throughout history.

Disposing of those deemed imperfect, flawed, or inferior.

However, sometimes it can be a good thing.

Take Nardo the cat as an example. He's the perfect specimen of Ginger Classic Tabby in all regards except for one minor detail – he's a polydactyl.

Those thumbs cost him a life of poking, prodding, and harassment at cat shows.

Instead, he got dumped at a shelter. My ex girlfriend picked him out, she moved to California, and left him with me.

He's not perfect. Then again, who is?

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 Justin...

How about.... What would you do if you found yourself face to face with a dragon and all you had was a boyscout handbook and a pinata costume??

You have until midnight on Friday June 20th 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 #115 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. Please use your name as the filename if you can, okay? Makes it easier to produce the show quickly.

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.

My dad, the kidder.

Every time the old man tried to tell me his favorite joke, something interrupted him.

Usually, it was the phone. Or a knock on the door.

The last time I talked to him, I asked him again.

He stared out the window, just smiling. "I'll be with your mother soon," he said. "Anything you want me to tell her?"

He was calm, relaxed. Maybe a little tired from the pills.

This morning, he was gone.

I opened the envelope and read the note.

"I forgot the punchline," it said. "But, trust me, it was really funny."

So, you want to pet the kittycat?

I can't blame you for wanting to.

Follow the rules:

The kittycat decides who may pet the kittycat.

The kittycat decides when you must pet the kittycat.

Not may. Must.

The kittycat will decide where on the kittycat you may pet and where you must.

The kittycat is not obligated to tell you where.

And the kittycat can decide to change its mind about anything it has decided.

Sure you still want to pet the kittycat?

Fine.

But don't bitch when your other hand ends up in a bandage like the first one.

Sure, you think you know all about the Sloppy Joe, but I knew Joe, and he wasn't sloppy.

No, the real problem was the waiter Fred.

We called him Sloppy Fred.

Joe would make beef sandwiches and smack the bell. Fred grabbed the platter, and all hell would break loose.

Sauce this way. Sandwiches that way.

Sure enough, by the time he got to the table, he'd gotten them all messy.

Fred tried to blame Joe, the chef.

But he didn't count on these things being a hit.

Joe killed Fred. Covered his tracks really good.

Not sloppy at all.

We're a small town, barely a thousand people.

Everybody knows everybody else, or at least knows about them.

George is the town's weatherman. Had a job at a big television station before he got sick of city life and retired here.

Well, maybe not retired. More like cracked up after blowing a bunch of forecasts, getting fired... drinking a lot.

Whatever. He's a lousy weatherman, but the best we got.

When the tornado siren went off, he just laughed.

“No tornados today,” he said.

Those were his last words. During the cleanup, we found his body smashed against a tree.

iPodjacker has begun!

Ever seen a billion dollars up close? Run your hands over it, or your eyes. Slowly.

Even when it's in hundreds, it fills a room.

You can make a room out of it. Stack it up, make walls, a roof.

Maybe even live in it. But it would make more sense to buy a place with it big enough for what's left over and you to fit comfortably.

It doesn't take much. You'd barely miss that little bit at all.

And it wouldn't miss you. A billion dollars doesn't care.

It just sits there. In a room. Doing absolutely nothing.

Jefferson Jellyfish Jones couldn't count to 88, but he used every one of those 88 keys on that piano like a surgeon uses every knife on his tray.

He sliced and snipped at the music, tucking and nipping until what was once a bloody mess was a shining example the finest beauty.

Your ears and soul, lifted higher than they'd ever been lifted before, sonny.

At the ripe old age of 88, at the Bad Times Bar, Jellyfish hit those keys one last time, face down.

Even in his dying moment, no sweeter sound.

Play all night, Jellyfish. Play on.

Welcome to the Weekly Challenge Number One Hundred And Fourteen, 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 Justin, and we went with What would you do if you found yourself face to face with a dragon and all you had was a boyscout handbook and a pinata costume?.

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):

STEPHEN THE NUCLEAR MAN

The head writer's litany began the same as it had all week.

"Sharks. Piranaha. Tigers. Bullets. Female ninjas. Male ninjas.
That guy who chomped things. Beheading hats. Booby traps. Even
frickin' lasers. The franchise is done. What else could 007 face?"

"He could face," Justin said, while I cringed and sank into my chair,
"a dragon while he had nothing but a Boy Scout Handbook and a Piñata
costume."

The stuff we took at last night's party had not been THAT potent.

"This isn't MacGyver, dammit," the lead writer yelled.

Then we locked eyes and shouted it together.

"A team-up!"

TOM

What would I do if I found myself

face to face with a dragon and

all I had was a boy scout handbook

and a pinata costume?

Well I’d square my feet

raise my head and proudly say:

So! Where the hell was Biggles

when you needed him last Saturday?

And where were all the sportsmen

who always pulled you though?

They're all resting down in Cornwall

writing up their memoirs

for a paper-back edition

of the Boy Scout Manual.

I’d shoot candy from my butt,

embrace my moral straightness

and waddle as fast as could for the exit.

MIKE

I opened the Boyscout Handbook. Oath? Yeah, I know one - more’n one - and if the dragon catches me in the open, I’ll say ’em all. Hmmm, Table of Contents.

Badges? I don’t need no stinking badges! First Aid? Can‘t fix “dead“. Ahhh - Outdoor Adventures!

Quickly, I stuffed three lighter refills down the sheep piñata’s throat, tied twine to a foreleg, ran it around a nearby tree and... a rush of wind and the dragon was there. I yanked the twine and the ‘sheep’ lurched. The dragon pounced, swallowed and, five seconds later, blew up.

This better be a great fraternity.

GUY DAVID

Chaketo Chirapa knew what he had to do. He put on his cloaking device and went to the store. The salesperson had his head buried in some comic book with dragons in piñata costumes. He might as well have been reading a boyscout handbook. It was so easy. Chaketo Chirapa took what he needed, put it under his cloaking device and went back underground, where his people where singing their Chirapa songs.

Back in his room, he hooked everything, turned it on and said: “I am Chaketo Chirapa, I am an alien from another planet, and this is my podcast.”

JUSTIN

The boyscout handbook sat open on the ornate vanity below the mirror. Scattered strands of crape paper are scattered about, one in the book marking the page on birthday parties. The ancient dragon stares at her red face in the mirror. Her golden eyes glinted with machinations of a brilliant plan. Her stomach rumbled with angry pangs of hunger. Piece by piece she donned and assembled the pinata costume that was big enough for her whole body. She would fly to the party, lay in waiting, then when the first boy struck her, when they all expected candy, dinner time!

THOMAS

His piercing golden eyes stared, impatient, hungry. “I'm a little bit hungry here, can we please speed things up a little?”

My tail encircled the struggling woman's ankles, holding her aloft, her brightly colored dress falling around her looking like a large overstuffed pi?ata.

“Just give me a few more moments.” I told him.

I'd been gazing at a boy scout field guide looking for just the right cooking technique. He liked his humans always the same, but I was getting bored and wanted some new recipe.

“Come on, I'm starving.” He whined.

“Fine, tartare again.” Patience isn't his virtue

ANIMA ZABALETA

I'm an Eagle Scout, but nothing in my scout handbook prepared me for this…

My trusty book covers such things as killing large animals with a Bowie knife…. Earned the badge in Webelos.

Lookey're: Blueprints for a survival raft out of ocotillo staves and spider webs… I built variation C at Jamboree.

Page 35. Here's instructions for cooking Chili Mac in a turtle shell.

But there's nary a word about this…

Steeling my courage, I turn a deliberate 360, look the Dragon directly in the eye, and ask,

"Lai Choi San, does this piñata costume make my ass look fat?"

EVA MOON

She stared at the screen. Who were they kidding? A boyscout handbook? A pinata costume? How on earth would those things help you with a dragon?

"I swear, hon, they've really lost it this time."

"Let it go, Alma."

"I hate this! It's impossible and it pisses me off that I won't get a story in this week."

She felt his hot breath on the back of her neck. "Want me to blast 'em for you?"

"No, no." She reached up and stroked the familiar, scaly claw that curled gently around her shoulder.

"I give up. Take me flying, baby."

MICHELLE

Early Monday afternoon newly formed Boyscout Troop 714, from Detroit Michigan, was planning a simple Fourth of July party, Mexican style. A quick meeting in the park suddenly turned to tragedy when the dragon struck yet again.

Volunteer parent, Janet Turner, was the only survivor of the attack. Troop leader, Melinda Cox, was heralded as a hero for using a pinata costume and distracting the dragon long enough for Janet to escape by building an airplane, according to directions found in the boyscout handbook, and flying away. The plane crashed, killing the other sixteen parents onboard.

MARY EDITH

Piñata? Check. Dragons circling in the distance? Check. I called the troop over.

"OK boys, we'll have a roaring fire in no time! Everyone find a good weenie roasting stick?" But as I demonstrated proper whittling technique they fell back screaming! I felt a breath of steam on my back. I whirled.

When I regained consciousness, the fire hissed and popped with drippings from a brisket so big it took three boys to turn the spit.

Those Boy Scouts-- always prepared!

PLANET X

When Daphne was fourteen she thought she loved Laurence so very much.

She would stop him everyday to ask him questions like, "What is a girl suppose to do when she knows her destiny is to marry someone and he won't even acknowledge her existence?"

Always, Laurence would just stare with a blank face.

But it was when he finally answered her questions with "What would you do if you found yourself face to face with a dragon and all you had was a boyscout handbook and a pinata costume?",

that she knew that Laurence was only full of crap.

TERRY TEE

Some great stories start out like Charles Dickens A Tale of Two Cities with "It was the best of time, It was the worst of times"

Or even classics like Poe's The Raven, with "Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,"

But only Larry Snodcrapper would come up with a beginning like "What would you do if you found yourself face to face with a dragon and all you had was a boyscout handbook and a pinata costume?" in his story, I was a teenaged podcaster.

SOUGENT

Jimmy tugged at his outfit, "itchy" he mumbled. "Hold still", his mother admonished as she finished closing up the back.

"We spent a lot of time making this pinata costume, I don't want you
tearing it up right away".

"I won't Mom", Jimmy replied. "Where's my boyscout handbook?"

"Right here", his mother said, handing him the book.

Jimmy took the handbook and dashed out to his meeting.

When he arrived, all the other boys were milling around.

Suddenly, in strides a rather large dragon causing the boys to freeze in place.

"Hello Scoutmaster Digsby!!" all the young dragons shouted.

CALEB

The mood was set. She had candles burning, incense too. She had slipped into something more comfortable and looked radiant. We were sipping champagne and feeding each other ranier cherries. I was sure it was time. My heart skipped a beat when she wanted to play truth or dare. I said truth. And so she asked, “What would you do if you found yourself face to face with a dragon and all you had was a boyscout handbook and a pinata costume?”

I shook my head. Packed my things and left. Rather get my cherries popped by her sister anyway.

LAIEANNA

"Are you taking this seriously?" Lulu's lawyer asked, pointing at Morris's piñata costume.

"This keeps me in good spirits during these trying times," Morris said.

"Mr. Gritter, we're here to discuss the details of your divorce. I strongly recommend you retain an attorney."

Morris touched his tattered, old boy scout handbook, "I've always lived by the honor and rules of this book. It's my lawyer. Besides, I'm not looking for a divorce," he met Lulu's keen eyes, "just some changes in our relationship."

The lawyer motioned to continue; Lulu's ears flicked in anticipation.

"Just stop eating my family and friends."

PLANET Z

A dragon tattoo on his chest, a bottle in his hand.

“Get back in the basement, you little fucker,” growled Frank.

Frank married Mom last year, then she overdosed.

Goodbye Mom, hello pain.

The basement was full of junk and cockroaches - somehow, Bobby survived.

He read his torn-up Boy Scout Handbook, wore rags and busted pinatas when his old clothes rotted away.

He found a knife. Scraped it sharp.

Above, laughter. Shouting. Something shatters. Screaming.

Then, silence. Frank was asleep.

No more of this. Tonight, escape or die trying.

Shadows, creeping slowly. Raising the knife.

Bobby slew the dragon.

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 Stephen the Nuclear Man...

How about.... Exam?

You have until midnight on Friday June 27th 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 #116 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. Please use your name as the filename if you can, okay? Makes it easier to produce the show quickly.

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'm not old, they tell me.

I'm in my Twilight Years.

They're not lying, I tell them. They're just full of shit.

I look like I'm in my eighties, but I'm really in my eight hundreds.

Been that way since I was... well, eighty.

I don't know how and I don't know why. I just know that I haven't died yet and I don't appear to be in any rush to.

Know that song Forever Young? Well, I'm Forever Old.

I get sick a lot. I feel tired, weak.

But it beats the hell out of the alternative, I guess.

It is a rule of the of the palace that everywhere our liege walks, rose petals must be strewn at his feet.

Sadly, the roses were killed by unexpected frost, and it will be months before new blooms can grow.

Our master lays in bed, tied up and angry.

“All I want to do is walk to the bathroom,” he growls.

“No,,” I say. “We have no roses to strew at your feet. We must carry you.”

He sighs. He knows that he is no more important than the office, and with the office comes rules.

We tighten the ropes.

Ever hear of the Falling Chorus of Ghastly Cliffs?

No? It's a fascinating story.

Imagine a gigantic gleaning amphitheater set on the edge of a cliff.

As the city residents become old and weak, they join the line down Main Street to the chorus at the cliff.

When they reach the amphitheater, they sing for all they're worth.

Some go for a few seconds. Others, for hours.

When they're exhausted, helpers pick them off the ground and toss them over the edge.

Another takes their place. The choir goes on forever.

It's beautiful, except for the screams and messy splatters.

There's quite a lot of interviews with SL podcasters at iPodjacker.com.

And if you've decided to give SL a whirl to see what goofiness I've assembled, well, drop an IM to Crap Mariner.

Mom was busy in the kitchen. Little Susie asked why.

"It's Baking A Cake Day," said Mom. "That's why I am baking a cake."

"Why is there a Baking A Cake Day, Mommy?" asked Little Susie.

"To celebrate Cake-Baking!"

"Why celebrate cakes? Why not pies?"

"You're not an unpatriotic pie-lover are you?"

Little Susie asked why pie was bad, but her mother shoved her out the door.

"Go play outside!" she shouted.

Susie walked through the trees to the neighborhood creek and made mud pies with her friends.

But she came home caked with dirt.

I got a financial advisor.

He tells me to buy, so I buy.
He tells me to sell, so I sell.

Works out pretty nice.

Then, he tells me to meet him at the diner at midnight.

So, I meet him.

He slides a gun across the table.

He tells me to kill the priest who molested him as a child.

I say no.

He slides a stack of bills across the table.

“I'm here to make you money,” he says. “Go on. Take it.”

I slide it back.

“Invest it for me,” I say, and I take the gun.

You can hear them clacking against the street, shattering windshields on parked cars.

It's raining marbles. Glass beads falling from the sky, the distant sound of thunder and the flash of lightning.

Yesterday, it was raining bologna.

The cheap stuff, too. Not even store-brand. That institutional crap they sell to schools and prisons.

It's rained pretty much everything this past year. Cats and dogs ain't the least of it.

You name it, it's fallen from the sky.

Popcorn wasn't bad.

Razorblades, on the other hand, totally sucked.

The weatherman's given up completely. He just stares at the camera, laughing.

Welcome to the Weekly Challenge Number One Hundred And Fifteen, 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 Steven the Nuclear Man, and we went with Exam.

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):

TOM

The last eight undergrads hovered near the TA. Only two of them would by merit of the final exam be fasttracked into Stanford’s master program. Professor Marquette wasn’t on campus but the old man’s presence dominated the Art complex. His finals were brutal 600 to 1000 question an all day affair frown on by administration but gladly endured by the student body. Ruby handed out the bound envelopes with the test. To the horror of the codray a single sheet of paper with a single line of type.

Takashi Murakami’s My Lonesome Cowboy art or not?

JOHN B

The dampening field was playing havoc with my cochlear implant. You would think the Bar would be more trusting of it’s future paying members. The #2 pencil/transmitter was barley getting my signal out. Three days of trying to gleam answers through the static was driving me crazy. Last night I thought I had figured out a work around, but now I realized I should have spent the time studying orbital property rights, or getting a stronger amp. However, after two prior legitimate attempts, I needed an edge. This time I was going to pass and become an honest lawyer.

JEFFREY

The exam meant the difference between freedom and life long imprisonment. The problem, no one knew what it was. So we stood there in line and waited our turn while our imaginations ran wild. I watched men as hard as rocks melt, blubbering before the questioner. In all my time in the line I had only seen one person volunteer for the test. The door opened and shut, and he was gone. Then it was my turn, "Take the exam?" "Yes." he point to the door. As it shut behind me a voice said. "You are free to go."

ELLY

I‘d been dreading and looking forward to this day since I had turned sixteen. Sleep the night before, I made sure wasn’t an option thanks to my insanely expensive 13 shot venti soy hazelnut vanilla cinnamon white mocha with extra white mocha and caramel drink. I obsessively studied over the driving manual like my Grandma and her monthly subscription of TV guide. Keeping, in mind not to miss anything really important, I hadn’t realized how deadly of a mix my drink was and on the morning of the exam, I ended up in the emergency room instead of the DMV.

THOMAS

Marshall stood before the searing gaze of the Pyrogenic Magus Council. He had tested twice and failed, this time he had to pass. He needed to be a pyromancer. He spread his arms. His hands blackened and fused, (proof of his earlier failures), burst into flames. He worked the twelve forms of the Incendiary Codec, with ease. A smile passed over the half of his face that still had muscle control, after acing the oral examination. Grimacing, he started the Technique du Mastere. Marshall formed a majestic golden flaming serpent, which coiled around Marshall reducing him to ash. Three strikes...

GUY DAVID

It was time for our exam. Our teacher seated himself and watched silently, patiently as we snuggled and kissed, preparing ourselves. I slowly slipped my hand down, to fast? Our teacher was stoned faced. I couldn't discern from his expression if I was going the right way, so I continued down my partner's body looking for the right spots. She moaned. I found it. Clothes started shedding, as we got more and more excited. We forgot our teacher and dove into ecstasy.

Much later, when we where completely relaxed in the afterglow, our teacher said we did well. We passed.

POND NITELY

Max whistled tunelessly to himself, grinning as he leapt over the bike rack and raced up the stairs. "I'm home!!" he shouted, throwing his knapsack on the couch and settling in front of the TV. "Those losers" he thought to himself. Scottie and Jimbo were still at school, for a study session for the exam. Pfft. Max had used his after school time more wisely weeks ago; the cupboard doorlock was easy to pick, a quick snick with his cell, and all the multiple choice answers were his! It hadn't even beeen that hard to memorize the answers; ABADCADAFABFADABADDADAACC; piece of cake. Maybe best to get one or two wrong, just to be safe. The next morning Max winked at his buddies as the papers were being handed out, face down. He picked up his pencil smiling...A.B.A.D... " Alright class, you may begin." Max flipped his paper and stared, his face falling as he read: For this year's exam, please compose a one hundred word narrative on the following topic: "What would you do if you found yourself face to face with a dragon and all you had was a boyscout handbook and a piniata costume?"

STEVEN THE NUCLEAR MAN

She collects the fee from the nightstand. He rubs his ring finger, counting ribs as her shirt slides over them. "I gotta run," she says. "I have a exam in biology to study for." "I had an exam at the hospital yesterday," he blurts. She giggles. "What grade did you get?" He remembers the scan full of unexpected metastatic dots. "They don't give grades." He hopes his smile seems natural. After she leaves, he rolls upright, lights a cigarette - why stop now? - and stares at the door. He opens the nightstand drawer, removes the book, and desperately begins to cram.

EVA MOON

She stood in his office, looking hopeful and impossibly young, exam clutched in her hands.

"Professor Newman, I just can't fail this class." When he didn't respond, she leaned provocatively over the desk, "I'd to anything for a A," she breathed.

He leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers, "Anything?"

A sly smile far beyond her years curled her lips. "Anything."

"Try studying."

In an instant the smile turned sour.

After she left he tapped her name into the university computer, out of curiosity.

Last quarter's grades: C-, C, D, A

He laughed. The A was in Ethics.

ALMO

James stood bare-chested and barefoot in front of the monk.

The snow turned his feet nearly purple. A dark, angry wound glared red from his shoulder. He neither shivered nor flinched.

His eyes were red-rimmed and his skin was loose, showing the effects of the monthlong test of solitude on the harsh mountain.

"You have done well phyi rgyal," the monk said flatly, using the Tibetan word for foreigner. "All that is left is the written exam. You will be one with our spirit."

"Exam?" James said incredulously. "Screw this. I'm not taking any written test. Those things are hard."

CALEB

Mr. Johnson it’s a good thing you finally came in for your exam. You know Prostate Cancer kills a handful of men each year. Now there’s nothing to be alarmed about. I’m going to demonstrate the whole procedure before we begin. First you’ll pull down your pants like this and then bend over. Now you reach back and take each cheek in one hand and pull. Now do you see how open that is? You can see Tierra Del Fuego from here. See? It’s ok to look.

Now you just take one of these and then…

Hey come back here!

JUSTIN

Ok, let's see here, a podcast where anyone can submit a 100 word story. Hmm, an entry exam? Let's see... Can you count to one hundred? Yes. Do you have a computer microphone? Yes. If no, go buy one you cheap jerk! Rude... Check all that apply: Are you Sick, demented, a zombie, have a hard to pronounce name, or tasteless. Uh... One more. What would you do if you were face to face with a dragon and all you had was... what the crap? Heck with this. Maybe I'll try ipodjacker podcast. Maybe it's not done by a retard.

JERRY D

“Mr. White.”

“Yes.”

“Mr. White, are you ready?”
“Yes.”

“Mr. White, did you bring with you a number two pencil?”

“Yes, I brought two of them just in case, and please, call me Jerry.”

“I am so sorry, Mr. White, you score will be reduced by 15% for not following instructions”

“What do you mean 15%, that's not fair!”

“Mr. White, you were given full and complete instructions.”

“You were to bring one number two pencil.”

“One more infringement of the instructions and you will be dismissed with a grade of zero.”

“Mr. White.”

“Yes.”

“Why are you naked?”

Scream..........

ANIMA

Carl worked the women alone, especially the pretty ones. They couldn't talk back, or complain… Outside, the sun was setting…

"Jayne Doe, Caucasian female, aged 25 to 30"

"Skin, pallid and cool, …Cause of death… Possible exsanguination? … No apparent gross body injury ."

"Lovely", he murmured, stroking her marble white cheek.

"Heh… small puncture wound on the neck… make that 2…

With the jab of the measuring probe, Elenas' eyes flash open. She grabs the examiner, dragging him near.

"So you like dead girls? Exit solus, dear doctor." she thinks, sinking her razor sharp teeth into his neck.

PLANET Z

The call is full of static. I barely hear the account and password, but after a few tries I type them into the system and look up his trouble ticket.

“What does this 'exam' mean?” he says in a thick Arabic accent. “Why broken?”

I swear, I can hear... gunfire?

“It's 'exim' not 'exam,'” I say. “cPanel uses exim as a mail handler.”

“I know not comptuers!” he shouts “We pay you! Fix it! Fix it no-”

I hear an explosion, and the line goes dead.

Goddamned terrorist.

I guess that fucker didn't know the safe handling of explosives either.

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 Tom from The Podcast That Was Once Footnote...

How about.... Popular Mechanics?

You have until midnight on Friday July 4th 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 #117 to be. Failure to send in a topic with your selection will me