Dani's Shorts 4 Read online

  "OK?look, the Ghost Train!" shouted James.

  "Not scary." Bob moved over to the candy floss stall.

  "Come on, Bob, it'll be fun." James had a plan, I could see it.

  "Okay, okay, but afterwards we get some candy floss," replied Bob.

  So we all got on the ghost train. James whispered something to the controller before he jumped on. His grin gave him away. As we entered, an errie sound began?it was a Justin Bieber track. Bob leapt from his seat and ran out in complete terror.

  "No!!! Not Bieber! Ahh!"

  86 - (Mathew W Weaver Challenge) - Motion in the Potion

  (pickled frog, batarang, goat's hoof, home brewed maple syrup)

  "Holy jumping bullfrogs, Batman! We've got ourselves in a pickle this time!" screamed the brightly-coloured-slightly-camp-costumed Robin.

  The Dynamic Duo were in trouble yet again, dangling on ropes above an enormous cauldron filled to the brim with vinegar, onions, spices...and frogs.

  "I think those amphibians' jumping days are over, my illustrious caped friend," replied Batman.

  Their vile enemy, the Wicked Witch of West Side Gotham appeared.

  "Ha-ha! You will soon be pickled alive, Batty, along with your queer sidekick!"

  "Who's she calling a sidekick?"

  The Wicked Witch moved over to her precious goat, which was connected to their ropes and grazing on a luscious lawn of grass.

  "As my beauty eats to its heart's content, you will slowly descend into my magic potion, second only to my home brewed maple syrup in occultist circles. With wing of bat and eye of bird, and pickled frogs aplenty, my potion will be ready. Ha-ha! And then I will make those revolting bloated cattle turn into...gorgeous goats! No more enforced drinking of cow milk for children in schools!"

  "Ah-ha, that would account for the missing cows of Gotham."

  "And signs of an oppressed childhood, it seems, Batman."

  "Or some 'udder' bovine related problem, Robin. Not so fast, Wicked Witch of West Side Gotham! We're here to pasturise your evil plot!"

  "Ha-ha! So long, Batty! I'm off to reap what I have sown! Now where's my broomstick...?" The Wicked Witch left them to pickle.

  "Quick, Robin, before she cackles herself into the history books, reach into my utility belt and take out my batarang."

  "Holy beachballs, Batman!"

  "No need to play pocket billiards, Robin."

  "Sorry, force of habit. Got it!" Robin pulled out the tool.

  "Now, throw it up and cut our ropes..." Batman heard an ominous clang of metal on the floor. "What happened?"

  "Err, I dropped it."

  Batman shook his head in dismay and noticed Robin moving his mouth in a distinct manner.

  "Robin, is that gum you're chewing?"

  "Sorry, Batman, it is. I know it's not right on a mission such as this but the herring we had for lunch was a little overpowering..."

  "Stop chewing the cud and pass it over!"

  "What?"

  "Pass it over. I'm going to spit it onto the grass so that the goat's hoof will stick, giving me time to untie myself!"

  "Great idea, Batman!"

  "No tongues."

  "Okay." The 'daring' duo exchanged the gooey mass and Batman aimed and spat, with the gum landing an inch in front of the goat. It stepped on it and was unable to continue, halting their fall from grace.

  "Holy cohesive sticky substances, Batman! You did it!"

  The winged avenger struggled with his ropes and after a backuprise, two muscleups and a shoot to handstand, he was free, releasing with a double backward somersault and landing on both feet.

  "And now to stop the Wicked Witch of West Side Gotham's dastardly deed! I'll be back in a hop, skip and jump of a lesser-spotted New Guinea poisonous bush frog, Robin!"

  "Wha??"

  Weekend Quickie 62 (Monday Edition) - Fun to be a Selleck

 

  (Tom Selleck, Clydesdale horse, Dr. Pepper, refridgerator)

  (Short version)

  Tom forgot his pants in the refridgerator next to the 2 litre bottle of Dr. Pepper lying above the frozen head of his favourite Clydesdale horse. It was fun to be a Selleck.

  (250 word story)

  Tom forgot his pants in the refridgerator next to the 2 litre bottle of Dr. Pepper lying above the frozen head of his favourite Clydesdale horse. Why he'd put them there, he'd never know. After the recent surge in popularity of his police TV series 'Blue Bloods' he'd been lost within himself, fighting demons from earlier days, the 'Middle Ages' as he called them. Other than his initial success with 'Magnum PI', the only thing which brought him any money, though not pleasure, was a stupid movie with a baby, back in 1987, working with lesser actors than himself. He'd tried a few movies but they'd all flopped, even the one about baseball. His thirst for limelight, however, had to wait until he put the 'detective' back on.

  Taking out his pants and putting them on was tricky, the cool crutch biting into his manhood. He could have sworn that the horse's head had winked at him. He decided to ignore it and took out the Dr. Pepper bottle and poured a drink. Maybe he shouldn't have bet on that Clydesdale the way he did. He missed it so, those Saturday mornings, trotting down the highway...

  "Tom! Close that fridge door! Who do you think is paying for the heating in here!"

  Tom slowly closed the door and faced his accuser.

  "Higgins! Why don't you go back to your Hawaiian estate, ya dumb English...aristocrat!"

  He listened to the shouts as he left. It was fun to be a Selleck.

  NEWSFLASH: Fancy a Quickie?

  (TIW Blog)

  by Scallywag

  Since the reign of Mamie of the Big Hair has ended, there has been an irratic yet abundant orgy of quickies from the Queen of the Bordello, DL Zwissler. Depending on her voracious mood and availability, quickies now happen on Saturdays, Sundays and even Mondays. Will this feast of revelry continue or will she become tired and worn out from all the action?

  DL Zwissler, prolific erotic writer extraordinaire, said "the best times for me are when Earl is busy doing some DIY around the house and the kids are asleep or mucking about outside. Only then can I slip away for a quickie?"

  Frequent users of the quickies are starting to feel the pressure under her supremacy and dominance. Jordan Bell, who was always ready for a Mamie quickie, has been tired out. Dani J Caile, scoundrel and cad, is still persevering but mentioned that "?she has a strange copulation of elements. I try to keep up with the ol' girl but you know, when you get too much of a good thing?sometimes I just get it over and done with as quickly as possible, but I'll do her good in the end." However, Richard Russell, man of many words and much less sense, apparently cannot get enough, posting his impatience and boredom on his Facebook page?"oh, what to do, what to do?"

  As to whether quickies are a passing fad or some literary heavy petting is still to be seen, but when they happen, there's always something exceptional to see.

  A TIW spokesman stated "I don't see what all the huff and puff is about, really. Interest in quickies has waned recently, but I'm sure DL Zwissler has the right equipment to whip up a storm and get us all into shape."

  Grudge 12 - As stated under Regulation 16

  (Cowritten with Mathew W Weaver)

  (all characters in a cardboard box, one character learning 'duck' language, dystopian, red Lionel toy train)

  "As stated under Regulation 16 By-law 22 Section 2 Point 4.1 Appendix 3 Paragraph 42 of the Manifesto Issued by Those Within The Box, as of now, it is my turn with the red Lionel toy train."

  Watson grabbed the treasured object and tugged. John held it closer to his chest. The damp, mouldy cardboard box shook with their wrestling and wrangling, straining the rips in the corners.

  "It's mine!" John snarled.

  "Guys, please, mind The Box!" warned Bernard, fed up with their confined, disease-ridden dystopian world.

  "Quack," Howard agreed.

  "Oh, shut up." John let go, and Watson retreated in
triumph to his corner.

  "Quaaack."

  "Why bother learning, Howard? When was the last time we had a duck in here?" John sighed.

  "You never know?QUACK."

  The misery, the oppression, the overcrowding?Bernard couldn't take it anymore, the insanity was torturing.

  "Don't you wish you were free?" he asked, struggling to his feet, his head jammed against the top of The Box.

  "No," a voice from another corner muttered.

  "Squalor is next to ugliness," Watson commented, train in hand. He giggled, "My precioussssssssssssss??"

  "Oh, miserable old box?I so love having rags for clothes," grumbled John.

  "Is it just me, then?" Bernard demanded as ants nested under his moist patch of fear. "The dirt, the smell, the insecurity of it all? Doesn't it bother you?"

  "Go if you want. We can do without you," Watson snapped, annoyed at the interruption to his play. John tried to swipe the toy train back and missed.

  "Quack."

  "Look at you! You don't even know what's out there!" Bernard jabbed a finger in the air. "Don't you care? We're Schrodinger's cats as far as anyone or anything out there is concerned!"

  "I hate cats," murmered John.

  "I like quacks," Howard interjected, "How about we all be Schrodinger's ducks instead?"

  "My preciousssssss," Watson hissed.

  "Are we...are we alive or dead?" whined Bernard.

  "Dunno. If we're Schrodinger's ducks, then we'll only know if someone opens The Box."

  "Quack."

  Bernard looked around at his companions and saw the miserable, pathetic life they had, never once wondering what it was like outside. Surely there was more than this?

  "I'm leaving," he said.

  "Good riddance, you and your 'oppression'," mumbled Watson.

  Bernard shook his head, and looked up at the sagging roof inches from his nose. He sucked in, and punched upwards into the unknown. Whether or not the others were watching he did not know or care; his fist sank through the rotting cardboard like a clenched hand through thick, wet paper. Light shined through, and madness seized him. He reached, grabbed, and pulled himself out.

  A flap closed on the hole in the top of The Box, and the light dimmed once more.

  Watson sniffed.

  "Finally."

  John leaped forward, "My turn! MY TURN WITH THE TRAIN!"

  "Quack," Howard said, shifting aside as they rolled past him.

  Soft tapping on the side of The Box cut through their yells and made them pause.

  "Can I come back in, please? It's cold out here."

  Weekend Quickie 63 - Don't mess up the suit

  (Michelle Obama dressed as Monica Lewinsky, Trick or Treat, carrots, the White House - 250 words)

  Michelle came in dressed as Monica Lewinsky, with a middle-priced office suit stretched over one of the Sumo wrestling costumes they'd used at the last White House Interns and Secretaries Halloween Trick or Treat Party. Beaming white false teeth and a large black wig topped it off.

  "So, Big Boy, how about a little fellatio tonight, huh?" She rubbed her plastic Sumo padded leg against the door frame and squeezed her padded chest provocatively.

  "Oh, Michelle, you know I don't like opera."

  The padded leg hit the floor, shifting the large wig to the right, making Michelle readjust it.

  "Jesus, Barack, get your head out of your policies and start paying some attention to the world around you!"

  Barack paused in his carrot munching, carrots being important in a President's diet, filled with vitamin K, C and B, but as many believe, not vitamin A, although they are an excellent source of beta-carotene, the antioxidant carotenoid that your body can convert into vitamin A.

  "Look, darling, it's been a busy week. Can't we just watch a movie or something?"

  The large black wig hit the floor as she flung it down and spat out the false teeth.

  "I can't survive on Obamacare alone!"

  "Who can? Carrot?"

  Fuming, she took one, ripped the top off and threw it at him, shaking the remainder in a threatening manner.

  "I'm going to the bathroom! I may be some time!"

  The door to the adjoining bathroom slammed shut.

  "Please don't mess up the suit!"

  Weekend Quickie 64 (Sunday Edition) - American's in Europe

  (The song "Born in the USA", Hungary, Russian hat dance, happy - 250 words)

  He was doing it again, embarassing me in front of everyone. This time it was a dingy gay bar in the 8th district, Budapest. The way he was going, we'd be deported from Hungary in two seconds flat. The Nationalist skinheads in the corner looked ready to change their normal target for the night, a stray homo leaving the place, in favour for a drunk American.

  "Born in the USA! I was born in the USA!"

  The cheap speaker system buzzed and screeched to his inebriated karaoke warbling.

  "Born in the USA! I'm a long gone daddy in the USA!"

  I grabbed him and he unceremoniously left the stage to a rapturous applause of relief. The DJ chucked on another song as the next singer took the limelight.

  "Hey! What ya doing? I ain't finished!"

  "You're getting attention. If you don't shut up, we'll get into more trouble than when you did that Russian hat dance."

  "Eh? The Kozachok? That was fantastic, that was! I was a star!"

  "You puked into the guy's hat right there in the middle of the performance!"

  "I had one too many prawns. Besides, he wasn't angry!"

  "He wasn't happy about it."

  "He left."

  "To get his gun, to get his gun. Talking of weapons, those guys over there are polishing their knuckledusters."

  He wobbled on his legs and stared in their general direction.

  "Let "em. Born in the USA! I was born in the USA!"

  They came at us, eyes blazing with rage.

  "Run!"

  87 - (Pitman/Caile Challenge) - Beans

  (A group of old west cowboys sitting around a fire, ping pong, an inept hitman, the Gloustershire Cheese Rolling competition)

  He aimed his telescopic sight, adjusted for wind direction, elevation and curvature, and fired, right at the same time the mosquitos decided to call his arse 'supper'. His shot missed the target, an old cowboy by the name of 'One-Eyed Jack' on account of his pet snake named Jack he kept in a cloth bag over his back, and made a hole in another cowboy's metal coffee cup. The crackle of wood on the campfire covered the sound of bullet against tin.

  "Eh, Bert? Did you drink my coffee?" Randy noticed the lack of liquid in his now holey cup.

  "No."

  "My, you're in a foul mood, ain't ya?" Randy looked at the hole, putting his little finger through it.

  "Why do we...*fart*?always have ta have beans?"

  "'Cause they're cheap?*fart*?and nutreesheous. Did you poke something through the bottom of my cup?"

  "No. Ask?*fart*?One-Eye."

  "One-Eye! Did you do something with my cup? If ya did, I'll break yer bones!" Randy shook the cowboy under the blanket.

  "What?? What ya go an' do that for? I was dreaming of that nice young floozy back in town."

  "Ha, fat chance you got there, One-Eye. Didn' I catch ya with one of them cows yesterday?"

  "Break my bones, will ya? If I can get out of this blanket I'll give ya such a panning!" One-Eye lay down. Another bullet ricocheted off a rock inches from his head.

  "Yeah?you ain't never seen no action, One-Eye. If it weren't fer yer snake?"

  One-Eye sat up and wrapped his blanket around him.

  "Ain't seen no action? Weren't it me who saved yer butt over at the Wild Rodeo Casino over in Cody when them one legged Swedish farmers tried ta rush ya in that alley?"

  "Oh yeah, all 4 foot nothing of 'em. They were deadly, about as deadly as a toothless two legged dawg?"

  "An' that time those Calvinists 'ad yer cornered for a charitable donation!"

  "Alrighty, maybe yer got s
ummit there?opps?*fart*?"

  "But nothin' can beat the Gloustershire Annual Cheese Rolling competition of '68. Remember that?"

  "I don't rightly know about that?*fart*?"

  "I broke my collarbone, a shin, two fingers and lost three teeth and a wife. Now that was summit."

  "Yeah, whatever. Go back ta sleep."

  "Nah, I'm up now. I fancy a bit of baccy in me pipe. Now where did I put my stash?" Old-Eye bent down, another bullet whizzed by him.

  That was it, he was going home. Forget the job. He packed his gun away and wandered off back to civilisation.

  Old-Eye stuffed his pipe with baccy and tried to light a match on his jeans.

  "Ooo, I fancy a good ol' game of ping-pong when we're back at the ranch. How 'bout you, Randy?"

  "Eh? Oi, One-Eye, I wouldn't light up around here, we've just finished our bean?"

  The explosion sent the hitman to the ground. Looking back he saw the desolation and smiled. In his report it would be different. He may be inept but he'd get his money.

  NEWSFLASH: Attack of the Chinese Chickens

  (TIW Blog)

  by Scallywag

  The TIW community is in shock this week over the recent epidemic of Chinese Chickenitus across the face of their literary work. Elements across the board turned to 'chinese chicken' overnight, much to the dismay of all. Those most affected were protesting at the door of the TIW Headquarters, demanding both an explanation and a cure. Unfortunately, there is no known antidote.

  The latest to be infected by the 'chinese chicken' syndrome was the winning story from Grudge 12, where there was a severe case of the fast-moving and deadly disease. The once acclaimed sentence..."my very own red Lionel electric train, a limited edition, candy-apple red, complete with a whole village of characters all in a cardboard box." tragically turned into "my very own chinese chicken, a limited edition, candy-apple red, complete with a whole village of chinese chickens."

  Other sentences infected found throughout the TIW website include none other than "The captain handed me a tape recorder and a chinese chicken." (Steven L Bergeron), "Thunderbull lifted the chinese chicken and hurled it at Rage, knocking him back into my reinforced bar." (Chris E Garrison), "Did I adjust the chinese chicken? Jocelyn knew the answer before the thought was fully formed." (Tiffany Brown), and "The headline in "The Sun" read, "Chinese chicken?" (Richard Russell).