It takes a thief to catch a thief.

That's what the mayor said to the police chief when the crime rate threatened his re-election chances.

So, the police chief went to other towns, recruiting thieves.

He figured he should grab some rapists and murderers, too.

When the crime rate soared, the mayor lost the election and a new mayor took office.

The problem was, this guy was corrupt as hell.

The police chief wondered. It takes a mayor to catch a mayor?

He never got the chance. It took 10 hours for the coroner to find all the bullets.

Ever have a nosebleed and then you sneeze?

It makes a really big mess. Especially if you sneeze on the carpet.

So, there I was, pinching my nose and holding my head back and aah aaah aaah choo!

Gigantic red splatters all over the bathroom mirror. Violent tendrils, splotches, and patterns I can see myself through.

Wicked awesome!

That's when I got the idea to paint canvas with my blood.

Over and over, I'd pick my nose to get it nice and bloody. Then, I'd tickle a few nosehairs and... voila!

Yes, my friends, I truly bleed for my art.

Armageddon.

The final battle between Good and Evil.

And here I am, a rifle in one hand and a cell phone in the other, waiting to find out which side I'm on.

Evil likes how I'm a good shot, but Good thinks I'm officer material.

Doesn't matter which calls. Whatever side I end up on, I'm going to fight.

Phone rings, and I answer it.

It's one of those automated calling systems, asking if I've contributed to the local policeman's fund.

I hang up and wait.

Looking around, lots of people with guns and phones, waiting.

Maybe this is hell.

Happy Birthday, America. How old are you now?

We've baked you a cake. A country-sized cake.

I know, we didn't have to, but we had all this food lying around in silos and warehouses and store shelves.

It would have just gone to waste. Or food aid to people that hate us anyway.

We'll dig a gigantic hole and call it your mouth.

Go ahead. Make a wish. Blow out the candles.

Then, thousands of bulldozers will push the cake into your mouth.

Earthquakes will chew it up. Grind it into a sugary mush.

And swallow the cake down.

Welcome to the Weekly Challenge Number One Hundred And Sixteen, 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 of Footnote, and we went with Popular Mechanics.

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 THE NUCLEAR MAN

The wrench flies from the engine, close enough that I taste flecks of rust. Grandfather yells, a balding series of spheres in the front seat. I already know I'm worthless, thanks. I wipe the grease onto my ruined shirt, he dabs a pressed handkerchief at his forehead.

The wrench and my hand slide back in. It - he won't identify it -
must be held just so. The key cranks, washing the smell of exhaust
and gasoline over me.

The car roars to life. He lumbers inside, shouting how he fixed the car.

The wrench smashes a beautiful music through the windshield.

JEFFREY

Going Down with the Ship

The sirens Rang out all over the ship.
"What the hell is going on?" The captain asked over yet another explosion.
"Sir, we seem to be having some problems," The engineer answered with a sheepish smile on his face.
"I'm getting that feeling, can you be a bit more specific?"
"Well sir, that is a problem, see the book does not mention anything like this."
"What book? What are you talking about?"
"The book, the one that I get all the ideas from."
"Show me this book," he pulled out an ancient looking magazine. The title barely legible, 'Popular Mechanics.

GUY DAVID

Chaketo Chirapa was reading an edition of Popular Mechanics. It amused him how human technology resembled early Chirapa technology, but failed to capture some of the essence that was the heart of that technology. He was especially amused by Jay Leno's Garage. The view of the famous television show host seemed to be especially distorted and misinformed. The laws of mechanics would bent in his column into a new shape altogether. Chaketo Chirapa had no illusions about Chirapa technology though, and he often mused in his podcast about the way Chirapa science and technology would advance in the foreseen future.

THOMAS

The Saga of the Carson Brothers Body Shop

Fred and George Carson were the most popular mechanics in the tri-state area. They weren't the kind to fix automobiles, or even young ladies in low budget pornos. They fixed bodies.

The dollars rolled in as their fame grew. The rich, the very rich, and the damned, sought the young brother's services: limb augmentations, neural transmitters, ocular replacements. Everything was coming up roses, albeit genetically enhanced ones. Eventually, the enhancements stopped working and people started dying, realizing too late the energizer bunny doesn't live forever.

Quietly, the brothers flew to Cancun and retired...sorry, but richer...a lot richer.

MARY EDITH

Cleaning out grandma's attic was like going back in time. In the corner was a Popular Mechanics from 1902!

Inventions:
-The Vacuum Cleaner: Will it lead to uppity home-makers?
-The Submersible: What leviathans of the deep await?

Opinion section:
-Alternating Current- a death-trap in every home T. Edison

Interviews:
-Robert Falcon Scott on new Horse-Based Vehicles vs. primitive dog sleds in the race to the South Pole
-Roosevelt's Gun Cabinet: The president guides us through his collection from the Winchester Moose Whacker to the ladylike Beretta Butterfly Blunderbuss

And slipped between the pages? An article rejection letter! Poor Grandpa Tesla.

ROBERT

She gets crazy sometimes, with these machines; like you couldn't drag her away, but what's to do?

She made this little robot with pigtails and a bright bunched up face just like hers, and took it to school for show and tell, and the thing told the story of it's life, which was like two days long, beginning with it's slick metal brain being screwed, finally, into place. I guess everybody loved the thing, because Sarah came home, alone again, and without a word went back to her tiny pink laboratory, the door closing smoothly, ending with a "snick".

JUSTIN

Lenny fixed everyone's car. The competitor, Charles, had to close shop because Lenny's such a popular mechanic. Charles is still bitter.

Lenny used to swear constantly. Even a slight bang on his knuckles
would get him cursing. When his wife gave birth to their baby, he made
the promise to stop cussing as best as he could. He still cursed at
work sometimes when something really bad happened.

One day while Lenny was working under a car, Charles knocked the jack
out from under with a sledge hammer. The car fell, crushing Lenny's
legs.

"Aw Charles, still peeved are you?"

ANIMA

POPULAR QUANTUM MECHANICS

Uncertain about your uncertainty principle?

Then you need Popular Quantum Mechanics
The magazine that explains the unexplainable.

Learn how to play the ponies in a parallel universe and win!
Surfing tips for finding the break in your wave formation.
Bonus Blueprints! Diagrams for decks using Planck's Constant!

Popular Quantum Mechanics.
Where it doesn't count until you're out of options.

Looking for something a little lighter, try the subsubcompact "Nanotech News", where smaller is bigger and a thousand copies fit on the head of a pin.

Popular Quantum Mechanics and Nanotech News, available at W.H. Smith, in all the finer Cosmodromes

SOUGENT 1

As he lay there, all he could think of was the initiation that was to happen tonight.

It was an exclusive group, almost a secret society. Only the best of
the best got an invite, he'd worked his entire life to prepare, to be
the best so that one day he could be part of the elite.

His father was a member, and his father before him, to fail wasn't an
option for him, he'd disgrace the family if he failed.

Was he ready? Yes, absolutely.

It's time..... after tonight, he'd be a member of the Brotherhood of
Popular Mechanics.

SOUGENT 2

When I was a kid I used to go over to my Grandfathers house and he had a whole stack of Popular Mechanics magazines from the 50's and 60's. I used to spend hours and hours reading them.

I especially liked the articles on the flying submarine, and how to
build your own 30 foot sailboat. And then there was the article
about the what future would be like in the 21st century, the time
we're living in now.

It didn't get much right, except for the clothing, that they got
right. Too bad, I really wanted a flying car.

TOM

Mrs. Manicotti complained about a gurgling sound in the back end of her car. Mrs. Genivalce keep hearing a sound sort of like a screaming cat coming from her trunk. Mrs. Leonie hadn't an idea where the noise was coming from but Rudy of Miracle Automotive always listened politely to the old women's explanations, went about the task at hand. With a 100mm spanner rapped in a towel Rudy or one of his sons successfully ending the noise. In Little Italy they were very Popular Mechanics.

On the way to the Jersey landfill Rudy thought how threemorsongatastic his job was.

PLANET Z

Break time!

No, I'm not gonna hang out with the losers in the metal shop and the geeks in the datacenter. Ugh!

I'm gonna hang out with the popular mechanics in the repair shed.

Oh, Johnny, the way he sets that oscilloscope. Make my heart beat faster! Faster!

Bobby's got the coolest flip-top googles. Brings out the blue in his eyes. Totally rad.

And Dave oh, Dave the way he strips and degreases an engine. I wish he'd do that to me some time.

What? It's two?

Break's over. Oh well.

I hate work. This place is so high school.

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 Evamoon...

How about.... Oil?

You have until midnight on Friday July 11th 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 #118 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.

Yeah, I punched a mall Santa in the face.

Guy had it coming. He was drunk and falling all over himself.

Plus, it was July.

That drunk bastard should be up at the North Pole, making toys.

Instead, he's making faces at the kids and puking on himself.

There's enough of that in December, but I won't want to have to see this crap in July.

Who do you think makes all the fireworks for the Fourth of July? he drools.

The Chinese, I say, and I punch him again.

Santa goes down, and I take his sack of fireworks.

Every fifteen seconds, Dave hits the Random link in Wikipedia and learns something new.

Hypotrichosis is when you have less than normal amounts of hair, for instance. Dave looked in the mirror and smirked... he might have that.

He kept clicking until he found an article about himself.

He read it from top to bottom.

Everything... his birth, his school days, his career.

It was all there. Boring as hell.

So, he changed it.

He added a wife and kids. Made himself a retired football star.

Everything was great.

Until, of course, someone deleted the page by accident.

Bye, Dave.

"Tell me a story, my beloved," said the king, "Or the sun will shine over your headless corpse."

Scheheradze smiled and recited the same story she'd told every night for the past three years.

The king was cruel, yes, but also senile.

He woke up every morning, free from memory of the day before.

So, when he'd ask for a story, it was always new to him.

Just once, she grew tired and changed it.

"Why did you change the story?" he said.

She was confused... frightened. He... knew?

He was laughing as she buried a dagger in his chest.

If you've read Fark, you've heard the adage: Every time you masturbate, God kills a kitten.

So, every time a cat masturbates, does God kill a baby?

I know the answer. And the answer is YES.

Malnutrition, ad genetics, crib death - the government and WHO make excuses, but you'll never get the truth out of their reports.

It's masturbating cats killing all the babies! Damn them!

Very few people know. Bob Barker is one of them.

Why do you think he kept saying to spay and neuter your pets?

It was for the children. It was always for the children.

When it comes to the marsupial family, the koala is the heaviest drinker of coffee.

Kangaroos are already jumpy enough without caffeine.

However, they can easily afford to hop to Starbucks time and time again because of their deep pockets.

Possums enjoy a good cappuccino now and then.

Wombats prefer tea. And Tasmanian Devils use diet soft drinks for a quick boost of energy.

Technically, the duck-billed platypus is a monotreme and not a marsupial.

Nobody has ever seen a duck-billed platypus drink coffee, but then, nobody has seen one play a tuba, either.

There's always a first time, though.

Maybe you're familiar with the story of The Rainbow Bridge?

Kitty Heaven, a place to visit.

It's not quite true.

Rainbows do soar over the meadows of Heaven, majestically, but not at any bridge.

They wait for the storm to pass, the Lord's tears dry, and they look down at the world, searching.

Like Valkyries searching for the bravest of the fallen, they seek out those who have loved and been loved the greatest.

And guide them to where that love is eternal.

No pot of gold at the rainbow's end, but a greater treasure awaits.

The rainbows search anew.

The file will be available shortly.

Welcome to the Weekly Challenge Number One Hundred And Seventeen, 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, and we went with Oil.

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):

ANIMA

FAMILY MATTERS

Hiya Castor, I can't talk, I'm getting ready for a date….

No, it's not Hamgravy
No, not Brutus …
Not the sheik…. No, it's not the movie producer… Eww not him – he was too greasy…

This guy's soooo handsome, He's a sailor! How I love a man in uniform…

I AM NOT A SLUT! That's a terrible thing to say about your sister…

Yes, yes….I will tell Cylinda… yea, you still love her…. You really need to get over
her, big brother… how 'bout I set you up with one of my girlfriends?

YOU WOULD NOT GET A DISEASE!! You're awful!!

BRAD Z

The Sam n Ella Calamity -- Oil Issues

A dark viscous liquid dripped slowly into a large pool that had formed beneath the craft.
"Found the problem, crack in the crankcase."

"Can you fix it?"

"Might take a while, I’ll need that oil can from the storage closet.”

"Ummm."

"Umm what, we need the can in order to go."

“The safety inspector removed it.”

“What!”

“Didn’t want to contaminate the area by accident he said.”
“We’re so screwed”

Vibrations reverberated around them as a herd of brontosaurs ran through the valley below.
“Maybe we can squeeze some oil out of them.”

“You know that’s a myth right?”

GUY DAVID

The sailor was suspended 20 feet above the deck in a cage. He recognized the growth on the banks of the sea, so he started swinging the cage, trying to get to a certain plant. He succeeded in cutting a piece of the plant with his pipe, but failed to catch it. It fell straight down where the thin tall woman caught it with her mouth. Immediately, her muscles flexed and she flew into the air, Matrix style, and landed the sailor a sucker punch. “Good one” laughed Bluto, then he strolled towards the sunset with his beloved Olive Oyl.

STEVEN THE NUCLEAR MAN

Jim nearly bounced in his cleansuit and waved the rest of the lab over. He pointed at the display, where the genetically modified amoeba was eating a grey dot and excreting a small black drop.

Everyone cheered, except Sandra. She was new, and was still learning
names and projects. Jim saw, and his gloved hands grabbed the
shoulders of her cleansuit.

"I've made an organism that eats plastic and excretes oil! It's a
perfect recycler! The shortage is over!"

They were all so excited that they missed the black drop running down
the edge of the lab's plastic air seals.

TOM

Little Earl loved oil. Probably got it from Big Earl or maybe Old Earl. In the panhandle the people say the oil is in the blood. If it was in there Little Earl hadn’t a clue. He was only six and the gurgling black crude that set his progenitors’ hearts a fire wasn’t the color that delighted his young heart. Little Earl drove Big Earl crazy asking when it was going to rain. "When it comes we’ll all go down to the Kmart," said Old Earl. Little Earl loved the oil puddles in the parking lot. They made rainbows.

EVAMOON

She turned in bed and glanced at the clock. 3 am. She sighed. Why hadn’t she listened to her mother’s warning never to fall for a sailor? Always out on that rickety fishing boat and he barely made enough to feed his family. But there was always enough for his habit: That evil green weed. She’d begged him to give it up, but he kept sucking down can after can of his “spinach.”

She thought of running off with that dark-haired man who was always after her.

“Oh stop,” she scolded herself, “Olive Oyl, you know you’ll never leave him.”

THE GREAT HITES

And not a drop to drink

"Albert! You aren't drilling another well are you?"
"Ma, you know we got to find some. We are going dry here. It is about darn time we had our own supply."
"But Albert, you ain't had nothing but bad luck with that in the past, and look at the state our yard is in."
"This time will be different."
"That is what you said the last few times and look where it gotch 'ya."
"Would you please lay off ma?"
"No, we need water to drink and all you keep doing drilling is oil."

THOMAS MERKEL

“Whoa, what did your mother feed you?” Justin said to Melody, his new baby.

“What the?...” he thought. “Note to self. Next time I get a hazmat suit.”

Gently wiping her bottom, he calmed her while stating the obvious, “Clean and dry.”

He surveyed his surroundings. Babies need way more stuff than I ever imagined. Just stuff. Baby powder...baby wipes...baby lotion...and baby oil.

“Baby oil!” His thoughts raced into overdrive.

She just wanted a massage. Right. One thing led to another and... Voile!

Baby.

Those bottles should really come with a warning label: “Caution: Can cause babies!”

JUSTIN

The necromancer raised his robed arms, gnarled hands pointing towards the void between stars. Purple light snaked from his mouth with evil incantations. The purple light encircled headstones. Earth acquiesced to rising dead. Dusty moans and bony chattering marched towards the stronghold.

Bony soldiers advanced, bones creaking, arrows loosed from the walls
of the stronghold. The shafts passed through ribs or glanced off
hardened skulls. By magic, they climbed the walls. Boiling oil was
poured, covering the skeletons. The bones were turned black and the
old joints ceased creaking. They sealed their doom by unwittingly
creating black, silent ninja skeletons.

ALMO

"Well, that's the last barrel," said one of the last two employees at the last oil refinery on Earth. "That's all there is."

"The people from the Smithsonian will be here soon to collect it," said his partner, inhaling the gassy aroma for the final time. It brought back memories of tigers in your tank, winged horses, shells.

"So, what do you want to do while we wait," the first man asked.

The second got a manic teenage grin.

They siphoned 20 gallons from the last barrel of gasoline that would ever be and they practically sprinted toward the Camaro.

HOUSTON

The jet black slicked back pompadour of Vinnie's shone with its brilliant luster. It was his pride, his source of power.

The other Jets used to tell him if an Arab could sink an oil well into
his hair they could pump out enough oil to run Jersey for two, three
years. Exxon had nothing on Vinnie Baggodonuts and he and the other
Jets ran wild and free in the streets.

One dark night in Brooklyn, the sharks caught him outside his turf
after dark, and with a shiny new Zippo they lit him up like a Kuwaiti
oil well.

CRAIG

I turned the bottle on its head, gurgle gurgle is all it said.

Receiving it’s taste I give thanks to the Italian mystery.

Olive oil in my veins swirling then merging with life.

I’m insane in my big leather chair pouring Carapelli down my chest.

The oil spreads out pooling in my lap, slowly covering jeans in green.

Olive oil in my veins becoming my life, but not my wife.

Drip, drip, the IV serves the earthy elixir, slowly eons of dust circulates in my heart.

I become one with the peasants, skin wrinkling, vision waning, mouth drying.

Olive oil.

PLANET Z

They followed the Yellow Brick Road out of the fields into the forest.

“Oil! Oil!”

Dorthy and the Scarecrow stopped.

There was a man made of metal by the side of the road. And in his hand, an axe.

“What should we do?” she asked.

The Scarecrow looked the man up and down.

“He's made of tin,” he said. “Let's haul him to the salvageyard.”

The Salvageman of Oz paid them fifty bucks.

“Fifty bucks!” she laughed. “We sure aren't in Kansas anymore!”

They took a cab to Emerald City, avoiding the big pussy and sleepy field of poppies altogether.

The sound file may not be available until later this weekend...

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 Anima Zabaleta...

How about.... The Voice?

You have until midnight on Friday July 18th 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 #119 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 loved to tinker and he read Popular Mechanics.

They used to run articles on their latest big project as features,

Then sell plans for the project for a small price.

One such project was the URBO CAR, Two-stroke engine, 60 miles a gallon.

Dad got excited and sent for the plans.

For months, the arc welder in the basement crackled as he welded the giant frame of the Urbo Car. It was huge!

One day I asked him

“How are we going to get this out of the basement, dad?”

The look I received is fodder for stories.

Wade! Get your cottage cheese dimpled buttocks in here!
Yeah Jerry…
Wade What The Fish Sticks is going on with Tony Romo and Jessica
Simpson? Now my star quarterback, the man I built my franchise around,
is going around singing "Sweet Child 'O Mine" at a karaoke bar!
Well… Jerry…
And that dadgum Joe Simpson keeps calling trying to renegotiate Tony's
contract! That man makes ME feel creepy, and I have Jerry Junior as my
son…
Yes Daddy!
Get OUT! I tell you Wade, that Simpson girl is the Cowboys' Yoko Ono!
We need a plan to bump her off!

Yes, there's an issue with the feed on iTunes.

You can either wait for me to roll up my sleeves and deal with this, or you can manually add http://podcasting.isfullofcrap.com/index.xml to the feeds in iTunes.

The odds of my dealing with this are pretty long because this is a great opportunity to see who notices and hits this page to see what the deal is. Maybe even listen to some of the stuff in the archives.

And, while they're here, they can leave a comment on a few stories. Perhaps vote on the Weekly Challenges.

Or, they can just trundle off in a huff, grumbling and grumping.

Either way's fine with me.

Okay, and now, the story:

Paska is a small island with just a few hundred residents.

Everybody knows everyone else.

Especially Josh. He may be Mainlander, but he’s with the Weather Bureau.

He gets freshly-baked pies and hugs when the weather is good.

He gets things thrown at him when the weather is bad.

Every now and then, he likes to tinker with the weather control engine and make the clouds all different colors.

“Make a pink bunny!” says the mayor’s daughter.

Josh pushes a few buttons, pulls a lever, and the island’s church is incinerated by lightning.

“Um,” says Josh. “The bunnies are angry.”

Another announcement... Feed validator said there were some invalid characters in the descriptions.

I've cleared them out and reduced the feed items to 10.

Should be working again in iTunes.

I'd like to thank everyone who mentioned it once and then didn't bother me about it again.

I'd also like to thank everyone who shrugged, went to the page, and listened to the episodes through the handy Pickle Players or downloaded the files manually.

(The censoring of the word "masturbation" from the show titles in iTunes is a hoot.)

Some doors say push. Others say pull.

And then there's some doors that don't say either on them.

You have to figure out which way they go based on the handles.

If there's just a flat plate to push on or a bar to tug on, that's easy.

Then there's the swinging doors. You push on either side.

What if someone's coming from the other side?

Best to push carefully.

Or, if you're feeling like being really mean, why not just kick the door in?

Although, you'd better be sure the door swings that way.

Want to sign my cast?

I had a boss who made the craziest demands.

Once, she told me to focus on everything.

No. Really.

Focusing on everything.

Isn't that impossible?

You have to focus on something. And then, everything else goes out of focus.

When something catches your attention out of the corner out of your eye, you shift your focus to that.

And what you had been focusing on, you don't focus on anymore.

How can you focus on everything?

One day, I noticed that she used a special bottle of eyedrops for her contact lenses.

It glowed green.

I quit the next day.

Bobby was the one who pounded the stake through the vampire's heart.

The vampire had gasped, clutched the stake, and died.

“Isn't he supposed to turn into dust?” said Bobby. “Or burst into flames?”

The Vampire just sat there. Dead.

“I dunno,” I said. “What else are we supposed to do?”

We stuffed his mouth with holy wafers and garlic.

Turned the hose on him.

“Running water,” said Bobby. “And sunlight.”

Crosses, holy water, and even six silver bullets didn't seem to do anything.

I checked the address.

“Isn't 37 next door?” I asked.

The sun was setting.

We ran.

I've been sitting on this one for four freaking months.

Martians? Robots?

You wouldn’t think they’d be at war, but they are, and the world is at stake.

The robots want to exterminate all human life.

The Martians just want to enslave them all.

You might think “At least we’d be alive and we’d have jobs” but you’d be generally miserable about it and have no freedom.

Kinda like things are now.

But then, they’re Martians. Foreigners. Invaders.

Sure, the Martians have robots, but they left them at home.

You know, to keep the confusion to a minimum.

Martians? Robots?

We’d better hurry up with destroying ourselves on our own.

Jack didn't realize his mistake until he'd chopped through the beanstalk.

The giant was directly above his farm.

And falling. Fast.

Gold coins couldn't buy his way out of this one.

The goose's goose was cooked.

And the magic harp began to play a mournful dirge as the shadows grew darker and darker.

He giant was falling face-down, and when he saw the look on Jack's face, he roared with laughter.

“FEE FIE FO FUM!” was the last thing the giant shouted, and the last thing Jack heard.

Jack's wife, asleep, didn't feel a thing.

“Magic beans,” she mumbled.

Britney Mason asks:

Has Podcasting jumped the shark? Adam Curry has not done a show since July 9. Most podcasters I know aren't putting out content as often.

Possible reasons:
- Podcamp Boston preparations
- PME preparations
- Summer vacations for their kids
- They'd rather spend their time getting paid to consult about podcasting or provide podcast services than actually podcast
- They suck, they realize it, and they're getting out

I can't wait until the death of "X will be the death of Y!" and "Has Z jumped the shark?" or when that trend finally jumps the shark.

Welcome to the Weekly Challenge Number One Hundred And Eighteen, 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 Anima Zabaleta, and we went with The Voice.

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 THE NUCLEAR MAN

Like jasmine, nighttime soft and delicate, heard in the sudden pause of a dozen conversations. Like curry, seasoning small talk into sublime soul sharing. Like molasses, soft and comforting, though we're "just friends". Like pure summer dew, innocent and clear kisses. Like sugar, delicious and excruciatingly sweet. Like butter, melting words enhancing our flavor. Like yellow sliced cheese, once delightful, now blasé. Like jalepeño, ferocious heat cursing stupid infidelities. Like ice, a no-taste defined by cold, the absence of heat Like copper, metallic aftertaste lingering long after the real thing is gone. Like whiskey, hateful burning but never, ever enough.

MIKE

The interrogation had lasted for hours, seemingly, 'unsatisfactory' answers rewarded with increasingly strong jolts of electricity. Jeff writhed in pain.

The last charge had almost knocked him out.
"Tell me!" commanded the voice. "What did you pass to that agent?"
"I can't say, and you're supposed to put me on 'The Box', not fry me," he screamed.
"You're in a box; close enough," replied the voice. A long sizzle, a longer scream.
Finally: "Tech data for the new radar."
"Good," said the voice, pleased. "We had to confirm the data's validity. By the way - tell your CIA 'Thanks!' for us."

TERRY TEE

Josh woke to the voice "tissue regeneration complete, blood pressure 120 over 68, pulse 55, thank you for using the Nightingale, Mk IV., have a nice day"

Easing the unit's hatch open, Josh looked around the room, checking for signs of entry. Seeing none, his eyes went to the clock and stopped.

He had been in the med unit for three weeks, he hadn't thought that the damage was that extensive on his first observation. Well, at least he has a purpose to survive now, if only to hunt down that little red beast that had tried to eat him

GUY DAVID

Chaketo Chirapa was podcasting about the simple things in life, all from his alien perspective. He started out small, not letting much slip out, afraid of being found out, both by his own people and by The Humans. As his listenership grew, his desire to have The Humans trust his little alcove of 118 migrating Chirapa grew even stronger, and he found his voice as a podcaster, a voice pleading for sanctuary, and people listened as his podcast became increasingly popular, and he was mistakenly recognized as a rising and ground breaking voice in fiction by both Sigler and Hutchins.

PLANET X

With the object it in my hand The Voice in my head said "It's Right"

But I knew that it wasn't right.

Again The Voice said, "It's right and you know it"

No, it can't be right, it just can't, as far back as my grade school days

I knew it wasn't right, but then maybe the voice was correct.

The voice said, "now you're coming around to my way of thinking, it's right"

Well, no hurt in trying.

Right 15,

now to the left past 15 to 35,

back right, back to 24,

With a click, the lock opened.

ANIMA ZABALETA

Serena, I'm taking off the bandages now… are you ready? Blink once for yes, twice for no…

OK
The Vox in a Box is your 47th procedure… You are arguably the most perfect person alive –

You've had all the classics – the tummy, tush, tata trifecta; a complete body lipo; collagen lip injections…..

I must say, of your rarer augmentations, the removable arm quick release and orbital gyros for improved eye rolling are some of my finest work….

Gently now…. Let's hear how the Vox works. Now you'll sing like Yma Sumac…

Damn Chinese instructions….

Well then dear, ready for #48?

ALMO

Long, thin fingers held the card to the light.

A green stroke ran down the middle of the white card. He passed it to the heavyset man on his right and said, "One for Richardson."

He held the next card and saw a yellow stroke. He passed it to the pinched-looking man on his left. The pinched-looking man traced a blue marker over the yellow. He returned the card to the center man, who held it to the light to look at the green mark.

"One for Richardson," he said, smiling. The Voice of the People would be heard again.

EVA MOON

Alan felt the 15-foot tall papier mache wizard head begin to tip dangerously. Everything had gone so well at dress rehearsal. He'd spent hours learning to manipulate the rods and strings that controlled the wizard's eyes and mouth while speaking his lines into a mic. The mic was the best part: a special filter gave him The Voice - deep, resonant and superbly wizardy. But now it was opening night of The Wizard of Oz. The Redmond High School theatre was filled to capacity and disaster loomed. The head teetered precariously. Munchkins scrambled for cover.

"OH CRAP!" the voice boomed.

THOMAS MERKEL

“Hey! It's about time you made your way back.” A familiar voice jarred Eddie back. Blinking rapidly, Eddie tried to get his bearings, remembering where he was. Eddie was... almost... but not quite... dead. Always slipping between life and death, and back again. He preferred death over life. The voice kept calling him back, refusing to let him rest in peace. Every time he thinks he's finally made it, his mother's voice calls him. He would kill her, but he listened to her enough on this side of existence. He just could not think of listening to her for eternity.

BRAD

Today is my day, you must pick me! No no pick me You both went last time You know you want to pick me Don’t pick her; we can’t handle another day like that. Oh shut up, your days are horrific I am the only one who knows, you must pick me Everyone knows you know nothing You are all a worthless infection to him, I banish you all Shut up Fred You can’t banish us you little shrew.

In the morning I often just go with the loudest voice for my personality pick of the day.

JUSTIN

That voice, that terrible, horrible voice. I have heard it ever since I came to this place. Strange creatures with odd, legs, come here and some sort of spawn comes from them. I am forced to help them carry their strange, bulky things for them. The voice is always speaking to me, driving me mad. Above, in the skies, those, things, are always there, screaming their blasphemous cries into the atmosphere. I cannot take it any more, the voice, it is driving me to madness! The voice, there it is... "The white zone is for loading and unloading passengers only."

PLANET Z

The voice.

I wish I had never heard it.

And yet, now that I've heard it, I need it.

Nobody believes that I heard the voice.

They think I'm crazy.

But I'm not.

I heard it.

And it was beautiful.

Once you hear such a voice, everything else is noise. Ugly. Revolting.

That's why I did what I did, and if you try to put me through the surgery to repair my ears, I'll just drill deeper.

Now, everything's quiet.

I think I like it that way.

And I'm ready to hear the voice when it speaks to me again.

We don’t talk any more about the VOICE. It just made the people in the neighborhood hinky. True, ever single thing said was spot on, all the same torches and pitch forks in the front yard gave one cause to pause and consider a trip to Paraguay. So what I did was ask the VOICE. He thought is was a great idea gave me a number of reasonable airfares and hotel accommodations. The VOICE gave me GW's cell number and I got a job as his new public relations manager. Seem the VOICE gave him the inside info on Paraguayan Expatriatism.

This was Tom's story for WC#118, but it got lost in the shuffle.

I have created two folders: This Week and Last Week.

It should help with keeping things better sorted out from now on.

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.... Occupy?

You have until midnight on Friday July 25th 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 #120 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.

There's a reason why people use the phrase “Like clockwork.”

Every gear must be in perfect alignment.

Every tooth, precise, as with every escapement, spring, and wire.

It all doesn't just fall into place.

It has to be painstakingly planned and built to utter precision.

One piece out of place, and the whole mechanism fails.

It takes a steady, patient hand to guide all the pieces into position.

Then, snap the case shut, wind it up, and listen.

Do you hear the ticking?

Another watch, another clock is born.

Amen.

We checked the video twice.

A man walks into the bank, gives the teller a rose, and she hands him all the cash in the drawer.

He kisses her hand and then walks out to the street, vanishing in the crowd.

No alarm at all.

Nobody knows who he is. His face is all over the news, but he's not armed or dangerous.

The tellers refuse to say anything about him, but they insist on keeping the flowers.

We've checked for fingerprints and DNA... nothing comes up.

What's curious is that since he started, sales of flowers have gone up.

Two rival teams of surgeons square off in the operating room.

“What are you doing here?” asks a doctor.

“Johnson at three?”

They all nod.

“Shit. Goddamned scheduling.”

The hospital administrator is called in to officiate. He tosses a coin.

“Heads,” says the anesthesiologist.

The teams scrub up, walking to opposite ends of the table.

One will work from the feet up, and the other down from the head.

“May the best team win,” says the administrator, and he drops a silk to the floor.

Under the mask, the patient breathes deep, and scalpels descend to make the opening cut.

One day, a crate arrived marked TEACHER on the side.

An electrical cord dangled out from a hole.

"Plug it in for 8 hours," a note said.

So, the principal did.

All of the kids sat quietly while the box hummed slightly.

After 8 hours, the crate was unplugged and the kids left.

Until it was school time again. Once again, kids sat down and it was plugged in.

A dozen kids showed up on Saturday, wanting to learn more.

“Go home,” said the principal.

None showed up on Sunday. They were at church, staring at a crate marked PREACHER.

It was a beautiful cruise ship. Majestic, white and powerful.

Too bad the company went bankrupt.

So, what to do with an unused, unwanted cruise ship?

Someone suggested making a jail out of it. But there were protests about the conditions prisoners would be kept in.

On a cruise ship.

Right.

The military bought it in the end, practicing their anti-terrorism tactics.

When they'd stormed it as many times as they could, it was floated out to see and used for target practice.

As if the Air Force and Navy would ever face off against cruise ships in combat.

Itazura Radio of Rezzed and Confused is looking for a name for his spaceship.

Instead of a name, I came up with a story:

The dealer shook my hand and handed me the keys.

The spaceship was mine.

“What are you gonna name it?” asked the dealer. “We can paint it on the hull for you, no charge. And if you want us to work up a nice logo for it, that wouldn't cost all that much.”

I looked the ship over, from engines to nosecone.

I drew a blank.

“How about George?” said a voice.

Was it the dealer?

No, he was gone, making another sale.

“My name is George,” said the ship. “Now let me come up with a name for you...”

Welcome to the Weekly Challenge Number One Hundred And Nineteen, 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 Occupy.

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):

PLANET Z

The Martians came to liberate us from the Robot Army, but in the end, they just changed the letterhead on the occupation government memos and made things worse.

The pods on our necks itch worse than the identity chips made our palms itch.

Machines lay unattended as we head to the fields, planting the crops our new overlords command us to grow.

“To solve world hunger,” they say.

Have you eaten recently?

Neither have I.

The air is changing. Sunsets are redder. Martians have been seen going around without their breathing masks.

And our aching throats are starting to burn.

LUNETTE

I occupy a small space inside the skull of a human female. I've been experimenting on her. I attempted to interface with her nervous system, but it was just a hopeless mess.

Eventually, however, I was able to take control of her fingers and her eyes under certain limited conditions. For example, when she's seated in front of a computer, she becomes totally distracted, and then I can make her look wherever I want and type whatever I want her to say.

Tonight, I'm attempting, for the first time, to take control of her larynx. So, is it working? Can you hear me?

GUY DAVID

Words of sadness are to occupy this space and time. I have grown weary of my travels, has occupied no home. The road is dusty, and so am I, the dust of time has covered me like a blanket, keeps me cold at night, as my sleep is occupied by haunted dreams, tormented dreams.

To you I'm but a shadow, that thing in the corner you wouldn't touch with a stick, maybe toss a quarter, just to ease your conscience, maybe get rid of some useless change, but I'm alive, yes I'm alive, just to annoy you, I'm still here.

STEVEN

She adjusts herself on the sheet. The technician straps her in and steps out of the room. The table slides her towards the scanner's large ominous doughnut.

"Hold your breath," the computerized voice says. A whir, then: "Breathe."

They saw it first on the x-ray, the little dot now an invading force.
"Hold your breath." Pause. "Breathe."

It colonized one lung, lymph nodes, spleen. "Hold your breath. Breathe."

This is what it must feel like to be Iraq, she imagines. "Hold your
breath." Her bones ache with cellular Abu Gharibs and Basras. How
much has fallen?

"Breathe."

"Hold your breath."

PLANET X

Ah, another warm, lovely morning on the planet Xray.

My morning begins with the ritual of reading the newspaper along with one of my other daily rituals, occupying that little room down the hallway.

There the problem presents itself; I live in one of those cheap hotels on the edge of the spaceport. Of course it only has a common bathroom on each floor and I do so enjoy reading in a relaxing manner.

Despite the sign on the door that I occupy it, there's always somebody that interrupts me, well, maybe I'll leave them something to remember me by.

JEFFREY

"This is not what I have been trained for." I said to Johnson in the other bunk. "No basic training was a lot of screaming, "What are we going to do? Kill! Kill! Kill!" "Yeah I remember that." I said and we laughed. "What about, What makes the grass grow? Blood! Blood! Blood!" He asked. "Yeah I remember that too. they should have taught us What makes you sweat more? Occupy! Occupy! Occupy!" I said as we sat here in our tent sweat pouring from every spot on our bodies, wondering why we were, Johnson smiled but we didn't laugh.

TOM

The Arnestos embraced on the platform. Despite his anger at Allan he knew the man did what was needed, and as such, vowed to learn from the ancient African avatar. At each jumppoint he would study their Books and make the proper adjustments to readjust to a transversing time line.

When the Cronomotive came to a rest Cervantes was greeted to the sound of 200 hands clapping. It reminded him of a, by now, ancient Buddhist joke, he smile, which only caused a louder volley of applause.

They handed him book four on its cover a gold plate read OCCUPY

MIKE

"Well, what about that 'Superman' movie, when Clark and the evil Superman merge?" demanded Frank. "Nope," countered Jeff. "First off, they weren't the same person separated by time, they were the same person split apart. So, you could say he was just re-integrating." "The best film example I can think of is 'Timecop'," Jeff continued, "right near the end, when the Senator's past and alternate-present selves touch. They kind of melt into each other, and then the whole mess just dissolves. Two objects cannot occupy the same space and time."

"But, what about...?"

"Okay," Jeff interrupted, "Take a car wreck..."

ANIMA

I wake from the nightmare in a clammy sweat.

It's always the same… I have been traveling and I NEED to reach the terminal.
It's usually a seedy third world country, but sometimes not.
Strangely, once inside, I find myself utterly alone: the other travelers have vanished.

The intercom is sputtering foreign gibberish.

I peer fruitlessly at each door I pass.
Finally, I spot it – that universal icon of relief...

Entering the tiled room, I see hundreds of 50s style stalls, turquoise blue, extending as far as the eye can see. Every indicator knob is in the red –

"OCCUPADO"

THOMAS

“What a piece of crap... desert, cactus, desert, snakes, desert, scorpions, more desert. And even more desert. Why we chose to occupy this ass end of the world is beyond me. We only came here to help the people and we end up annexing the whole stinkin' place. This war was a waste if you ask me. Those damn invaders deserve this place. Sure, there is a little bit of gold out there in the hills, but our nation is wealthy enough. No good could possibly come from helping to liberate this god-forsaken land from that bastard, General Santa Anna.”

BRAD Z

Lost Cat

Each night I would lie in my bed waiting for Erwin to leave his workshop. I had been reading his work since I’ve lived with him. But now…this recent piece that he was working on… well… it was really concerning me…that’s when I noticed the steel box in the corner that had arrived this evening. Quickly I looked over todays writings…. To prove theory cat is to occupy box with poison and….

The next day a new sign was posted in the towns sqaure.

The sign read: Lost Cat, cat with collar. Please contact Erwin Schrödinger

JUSTIN

Have you even been in a public place, and suddenly you feel your bowels let go? It feels like you have to flatulate, but you know that if you do, you'll spray paint your underwear and pants. You've got to hold on, walking as normal as possible, until you get to a restroom. Then when you get there, there are two stalls, both occupied. One has a parent and child, the parent talking the kid through the procedure. The other has a grunting person who really needs to give a courtesy flush. Hopefully the janitor likes cleaning up the sink.

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 Planet Z...

How about.... Olive Loaf?

You have until midnight on Friday August 1th 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 #121 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.

John’s house had a storm drain in the back yard.

To Billy, it was a tunnel to the great underground orc kingdom.

“They made it look like a storm drain to fool the surface-dwellers,” he said.

One day, Billy took a butcher’s knife and a flashlight down the drain.

“To glory and treasure,” read the note he left on the refrigerator.

He never came back.

The police asked questions, and John kept saying “The orcs got him.”

John spent a lot of time in therapy after that.

To this day, he’s always watchful, and he never goes near storm drains.

I started off by ordering a Jack Daniels and Coke.

I like Jack, but it's a bit to harsh on the rocks for me. Sweeten it up with Coke, and it's perfect.

For my twenties, that was my drink.

Until, of course, every calorie counted. The body slows down.

Since I didn't want to slow down at the bar, I went with diet Coke.

Tasted close to the same. But let's face it – Jack trumps the Coke flavor.

Then out came Coke Zero. That worked a lot better.

The single calorie I saved, well, that didn't matter for squat.

Cheers.

On the one hundred and ninety-seventh day of Christmas, we dumped the egg nog in the river and sent out a lynching party to kill Santa.

“We sick and tired of Christmas!” we shouted over the carols blaring from department store speakers.

“One hundred ninety-seven seals clapping!” went the chorus, and began to gleefully count back down to the damn bird in the tree.

I thought I saw Santa on the streetcorner, but it was a bell-ringer for the Salvation Army.

We pulled down his pants and shoved the bell up his ass.

His screams were music to our ears.

Once upon a time, there was a girl named Sally.

Every night, the robot would tuck in Sally, kiss her on the forehead, and say goodnight.

The robot then would sit in a atomic-powered recharging chair for the night.

This went on every night for 500 years.

Every so often, the robot would ask Sally if she brushed her teeth or said her prayers, but it wasn't advanced enough to take verbal commands. It just asked those things as part of a routine.

When Sally's corpse decayed beyond recognition, the robot looked for a new house in the ruins.

In a land without tears, the tearmaster goes from home to home, selling his sadness.

“What good is joy without its opposite?” he tells everyone. “If you cannot feel the deep lows, what will you feel of the highs? Nothing!”

The people stood and stared, confused.

“You cannot feel good without at some point feeling bad!” he shouted.

A child picked up a rock and threw it at the tearmaster, who yelped at the pain.

H