BLUESTANK

you see it all round you
thinking sun says it'll cost you
if you only knew
the material playing under the morning dew

its a terrible prospect
stars pining for the earth
mundane living suspect
playing over and under dearth

it never ends
going to the ends
of the earth
to unearth
this lil ditty
deep in your minds eye
never gonna make you try
to spitshine the gray and gritty

the dude's fishbolt eyebrows
a trip for any young soul
white lightning aheap the phony droll
gangly and marred under the rows

whiplash rollercoaster
never too far
wishing under a silvery star
taming an iron hair toaster

every part of you is built up like a tank
here i go rushing through in a quick breath
numbingly ominous thunderheads whistling under their dying breath
today i caught a whiff of that bluestank


BLUESTANK By Tim Munn 12.20.2010
COPYRIGHT 2010 TIM MUNN

JOAQUIN BURROUGHS INVITES YOU TO FRIENDSHIP

The story tells us that Jerry Cheese was an actual round of cheese. As to what type and age is

uncertain, a matter to digest at another more convenient time. But, enough of these jests, the

story awaits. On a prevailing wind, east or west no one knows, as has been lost with the

trudging of time, there sailed a valiant sailor by the name of Lawrence Unicorn.

"Why do you always get to be the main character, Lawrence? Hmmm?" Jerry Cheese tapped a string

cheese foot upon the deck, his string cheese arms crossed together. Lawrence wasted no time in

answering his companion.

"Maybe it's because I'm popular?"

"Popular?! I released a freaking cd for crying out loud! How much more popular can I get?! As

for you, what have you done?"

Lawrence considered a moment, giving another brief answer. "I'm captain of this ship."

With that, Lawrence's hoof meets Jerry's rump, sending Jerry flying forward deck. Lawrence

kicked him so hard that Jerry flew completely off the deck. So hard his mercheese kids will

probably feel it, Lawrence mused. Ugh. Mercheese. That sounds terrible. "Quick, somebody

throw Jerry a life preserver before he reproduces!" Lawrence barks to the nearest soul nearest a

soul-saving life preserver. A one-eyed, one-armed, one-legged hume-sailor flung over the life

preserver listlessly. The sailor changed out his peg arm to a hook and hauled up a shivering

Jerry Cheese. Lawrence met the duo, handing Jerry a towel, he taking it in a huff.

"I'm filing a complaint. I could have died!" Jerry yelped. He yelped again in the process of

drying himself off. "What is this?" he asked.

The sailor looked it over briefly. "why, that's a mussel, sir."

"A mussel, you say?" Jerry said, giving it a keener, closer eye.

"Yes, sir."

"A MUSSEL KA-POW!!" A smack down if there ever was one!

"Christ! That mussel just knocked out that round of cheese!" the sailor himself yelped,

galloping behind Lawrence for safety. Lawrence gave him a hard look. "I'm sorry, sir. It's

just that you're bigger than me."

"You're bigger than the mussel!" Lawrence snorted, looking intently at the tiny beast. It

hopped on, over and around Jerry howling a terrible war screech that wouldn't scare even the

lowliest amoeba. Somewhere distant, in a dream perhaps, Jerry thought he could hear the voice

of an angel singing to him as he tramped his way through a field of tulips. It's better that

Jerry doesn't hear this, Lawrence thinks, trying hard to maintain his composure in sight of such

a ferocious beast, Jerry, he scares easily.

"WHO DA MAN! WHO DA MAN!" the mussel screamed out.

"Technically, that would be me, sir," the sailor said, ker-thudding his way from behind

Lawrence.

"BOOSH!! HOW YA LIKE IT NOW, TOUGH GUY?" the mussel said, putting the sailor in a wrist lock.

Lawrence could have sworn the sailor cried for his mommy; while the mussel could have sworn it

was something racist against mussels. It was this fact that led him on. "YOU GOT SOMETHING

AGAINST ME? I'M STONGER THAN YOU, YET I'M SMALLER THAN YOU. HOW CAN THAT BE YOU SAY?

TARD-HUMES LIKE YOU ARE THE DOMINANT SPECIES YOU SAY? WELL MISTER, I DON'T LIKE THAT ATTITUDE!"

There was a sudden eruption of gunfire behind the mussel and the hume. It was Jerry Cheese to

the rescue! Unfortunately, he'd never fired a gun in his life. The recoil against his string

cheese arms was intense, sending arms and weapon flailing upward. The weapon and string cheese

fistules were too much for the poor round of cheese; Jerry was knocked out for the second time

in a scant few minutes. The weapon though, still fired against the pressure of Jerry's string

cheese fingers. With the remaining ammunition in the clip, the weapon sliced through the mast

of the ship, sending it toppling rear deck. It landed with a mighty crash, sending splinters

high into the air. The crew was instantly stranded in the ocean; with no sail, there was only

certain death. Or at least, very grave injury. Like the mussel that had accosted the hume. He

lie underneath the huge beam, heaving and ho-ing out huge pants of breath.

"This-this could be my last one!" he let out a great sigh, then gasping at another breath of

air. The sailor met him, taking one of the mussel's muscular hands into his own. "Who are you?

Do I know you?" he asked the hume shakily, and this more with reverence, "Are you God?"

"No!, no!, sir! I can't claim such a lofty title, nor could I claim its lowest. I'm a hardened

sailor, you understand. But, I know his book, know his followers, know that his words have

worked wonders. It could do well for me; it can still do well for you. You believe that much

right?"

The mussel nodded. The sailor then urged the mussel to repeat after him, with little response.

He looked on the crowd gathering around. "I think he's going," he told them in brief words; for

a brief life, thought the sailor, if we are not coming, then we are going. "The sunset is

waiting for you," cried the sailor.

Slowly, the mussel turned its head and saw that it was mid-morning. Another twelve hours,

contemplated the mussel, this guy's asking for it! "Wait," croaked the mussel, "I could be

getting better already-" the mussel hacked and hacked some more until the sailor drew in closer,

"closer-" the sailor moving ever closer. "If I could have a last meal, with my friends," he

pointed out Lawrence-- he helping a wobbly Jerry to his feet-- and the sailor.

"Me?" the sailors voice crackled. He's a hardened sailor, you understand, they aren't allowed

to have many friends, as decreed by sea law. "I would be honored. Tonight, we dine on a roast

with friends!"

"Mmm, roast," the mussel smiled, he not knowing what a roast is. He rubbed at his gurgling

belly, which drew an eye from Lawrence.

"There's something fishy going on here."

"Was it something I ate?" Jerry asked weakly, spewing across the deck. Jerry nodded profusely.

"Smells like fish."

*****

The hume's name is Joaquin. Joaquin Burroughs to be more precise. He invites you to

friendship. That's what the printed business cards he ordered online read. JOAQUIN BURROUGHS

INVITES YOU TO FRIENDSHIP, plain as day on the five-hundred cards. He didn't even know that

many people, he reckoned; and he was only giving away three cards. One to his captain, to his

captain's first mate and one to the mussel, Eustace was his name. He knew a Eustace once, who

used to pick on him incessantly in grade school. That man was eaten by a gerbil, Joaquin

thought terribly. Still, there was vague sign of smile at lips edge. He put those terrible

thoughts to rest, covering them with thick blankets of tears and repression. Tonight, they

would get no kiss on the cheek.

He was below deck, whistling a happy tune, one of several which were decreed by sea law. Still,

he tried in vain to put forth his own rhyme to the jingle. There was something about the sea

and friendship-- that much should be obvious-- professional wrestlers, Lawrence Welk-- whoever

the heck that is, thought a beguiled Joaquin-- lovely geishas, ugly ducklings and Jerry

Springer-- whoever the heck he is! Gosh! Trifling thoughts begone!-- as standing near the

hatchway to the lower decks are the Captain and his first mate.

"Joaquin, it's good to see you again!" Lawrence took Joaquin's hand, giving him a bear hug.

Never since the war, Joaquin shivered, had he been given a bear hug.

"It's _gouda_ to see you," Jerry winked, twice for effect. His eyes, his gouda eyes. Eustace

must have put a big hurt on Jerry's former eyes. "Doctor Cutter said there was mold in my old

eyes. Mold! It could have spread to my brain, and poof! I'd be a dead man!"

"Cheese can't die from mold, I'm pretty sure-"

"You're a round of cheese," from Joaquin, perhaps not with love, but with a basic knowledge of

cheeses. He gave a brief glance towards his captain, then back to Jerry. He grunted.

"First, not all cheeses take gains from molds. Second, I freaking know that. If I didn't know

that, I'd probably have eaten myself alive ages ago!" He stopped, but whimpering, added: "Why

do you think my girlfriend calls me Flipper?"

There was a moment of confusion from Lawrence and Joaquin, but then a dawn of horrifying

knowing. "It happens to the best of men, Jerry," Lawrence said, trying to give some support.

It would be tough for him, as he didn't have Jerry's problems, he's a unicorn, after all.

"Look at me, Jerry," Joaquin spoke up, "I was born a hume, but became a half-tree. I-I don't

talk about it much, it's a terrible story-"

"what is this? The Man's Support Circle?" Jerry interrupted.

"Let him speak, Jerry." Jerry grumbled, motioning Joaquin to continue his story.

"One day, a year ago-- or three, or five; the sea is a heinous and lawless place against time,

so it is-- we had made our way from a deep, deep sea voyage to our home port. The crew

disembarked, and back then, I was young; I wanted to captain my own ship. I asked the captain,

and maybe he will remember this, if he would take me under his wing-"

"Yes!" excaimed Lawrence, "I remember it well indeed! I said 'I'm no Pegasus! Pegasuses are

sissies when it comes to the sea!'"

Joaquin smiled, "Surely! Then you popped me one in the gut, telling me to get to port. I did,

painfully-"

*****

He looked back to the ship, longing for his wife's companionship. Rhoda had been laid up on the

ship, sick with blistering hot fever. He told her that he would stay with her, take care of her

through her illness.

"But the captain told you to go. He's right, since when will we make port again?"

She was so truthful, so honest. It had been one or three or five years since they had last made

port. But that brang rise to a question. How long could Rhoda take living life on the seas?

He tried to rember the times they'd ported, able to bring back a few out of the many; and try as

hard as he might, he could not think of a time when his dear Rhoda wasn't ill for the occasion.

He wept, flinging his head to her bosom.

"My dearest! It's the sea that makes you so sick! Come with me, I beg you! We'll leave the

sea to our backs forever! If only you will come with me!"

Rhoda gently stroked the crown of her husbands head, running her fingers to his newly-grown

sailor's beard. Her delicate fingers lifted his chin to meet her beautiful face. "Joaquin, my

dearest, if you truly love me, you will go to port. "My dearest," she said, bursting into

tears, "my dearest, go to port and find a cure for my affliction, I beg of you!"

"So be it," he whispered, kissing her hand and forehead.

Joaquin let out a long, pained sigh as he trudged his way through the port. There was raucous

action in the port city, he sighing at its pleasures. Without that rock by his side, he was

silly putty in this mistress' arms. A tickle and wink here!; a loving hand and kiss there!

Zounds!, he was to the point of overflowing; giving what little soul he had left to this, his

home! Home!, with his Rhoda! If only he could turn back around. It was the strange and

alluring call of the city that drew him forward, not the cure for his Rhoda's illness that

started his quest. Terrible, terrible! Yet still he moved forward.

"Joaquin! Come, join us!" It was a shipmate, Raul Llama, who had come aboard shortly after he.

Raul motioned Joaquin into the building. Joaquin looked to the sign above the doorway. A

picture of Millard Fillmore, the hume's name below the prominent painting, or so one assumes.

Scoundrels! Debauched and depraved! Yet his countenance is thrown such as at that moment, one

of the women flanking Raul slinked through the crowds. She crept to Joaquin, grabbing him

furiously.

"Join us, Joaquin!" she says, cozying up to the sailor.

Joaquin drew back, aghast at this first temptation. Poor Raul! The spirit of this city has

corrupted him, as Joaquin says in a not so discreet manner. Raul laughs, gladly accepting the

women back to his free arm with a smile. He nodded to Joaquin, then spoke.

"See that hume on the sign? That's Millard Fillmore. The most hardcore pimp west of the

Mississippi-"

Miss Isipi, Joaquin thought oddly, was the name of the silly sock puppet that entertained him as

a child. That was also the name of the carved mermaid queen riding ahead of the ship; the same

one some of the bachelors of the ship, himself at one time, had- rogue thoughts, begone!

"I served with him in Vietnam."

"Raul," one of his companions perks up, putting on her serious face, "I never knew you were in

Vietnam!"

"I don't even know what that is," Joaquin snaps in, "I doubt that I even want to know."

Raul grunts, giving Joaquin a tough eye, "Before Millard died from the fairy dust attacks, he

left me his empire of brothels. We just opened one up in Las Vegas, seventy-six now."

Raul says this with an air of great accomplishment. He was an heir of great accomplishment,

stealing Millard Fillmore's business, down right shady to say the least, right out from under

him. "Raul, is there any hope for you? Why, on the ship-"

"There's hardly any women on the ship! Most of them are taken, the one's that aren't are hands

off, else its your hands. Seriously," he rises from his place, huffing and puffing and blowing

his companions wills down, "It's a sausage fest on that ship. I know you're a married hume,

Joaquin, but be honest. This place right where we're standing, this will get you."

"Never," Joaquin replied coldly. He stormed off down the street, drawing fire from Raul.

"You'll be back, Joaquin," he turned, smiling to the ladies. Several more were walking down the

street, they turning at the sight of Raul. "You're no farmers daughters, I'd reckon. Come

inside, and I'll show you the life of Farmer Brown's Daughters." They, not being farmer's

daughters, but billionaire elderly playboys' daughters, quickly followed behind, for the

briefest look into the lives of the peasants.

Reality Blip, Part 1

*Blip*
Chuck checked over his control panel. He looked over his shoulder to Lawrence. "You're not going to like this, Larry," Chuck said grimly. Lawrence shook his head, placing a hoof to his aching left temple. With his other, he circled it around, telling Chuck to go forward with his information. Chuck gulped.

"Sir, we've got a Blip. Sensors detected the blip about ten minutes ago. It's not good-"

"I'll tell you what is and isn't good Mister Zebra. Now continue."

Chuck gulped harder this time. Never before had he been this frightened. Sure blips happened all the time. Blips are blips, right? Why couldn't this blip have been like most all the other blips? Chuck worried over everything he could worry over in a split second. That was all the time he had; maybe all the time the world had. "A Reality Blip, sir," Chuck squinched himself in his chair, expecting a horn or slap from Lawrence Unicorn. He wearily managed a quick look over to Lawrence, not expecting the frail, pale-looking shell of the Unicorn he once knew.

*blip**blip*
Raul Llama sat at his desk, composing what he thought to be the greatest complaint letter he had written, perhaps in all the history of Llamakind, to Bill Gates and Microsoft. It seemed that if one used their Continuum Transfunctioner in ways other than controlling the space/time continuum, that there could be serious consequences... which he was not expecting. Damn you, Bill Gates, and the Continuum Transfunctioners you poop out. He held his clearly defective Continuum Transfunctioner at a good length, eyeing it with great caution. He carefully sat the device down, picking up the remains of another sealed in a baggie. He started on the greatest complaint letter to Steve Jobs and Apple. It seemed that if one used their Overthruster incorrectly, it could overthrust straight into someone's... well, let's just say it wasn't pretty. Raul forced a laugh, releasing a gas bubble, destroying the chair he sat in, launching him up to the sealing and knocking him unconscious.

*blip**blip**blip*
"I-I don't know about this Steve," Bill quaked. Steve gave him a tough look.

"Look! If we're going to get out of this mess, we're going to have to team up! Now, are you with me?!"

"I guess so."

"You guess so or you know so?!" Steve yelled.

"I-I know so," Bill cried.

"Good. Let's get to work. You know about computers, right?"

Bill hastily shook his head. "I thought you knew about computers, Steve."

"Damn! Oh man, I'm going to have to think on my feet here! Man-oh-man-oh-man! ThinkThinkThink!! Bill, do you know about computers?!"

"Steve, you just asked me that!"

"Yeah. What's your answer now?"

"Nonono...! I want to go home."

"That's not going to help us now, unless... You have beer, right?"

"I don't drink."

"DAMMIT!" *beep* "Yeah, this is Steve. Yeah, the party at Bill's house for tonight, it's off. Yeah, he's all whiney and saying 'I want to go home!' You know what I think? Billy-boy needs a nap! HAHAHA!! Alright, talk to you later!"

"STEVE! You have a cell phone! We're saved!"

"Not so fast. I have one of those phones that has three phone numbers pre-programmed."

"But you can dial one of those numbers and tell them where we are and who... or what we're being held captive by!"

"Hold on, Buck-O! The first number is to the Geriatric-900 hotline, those Hotty McHotkins, yeah, they could teach you a thing or two, heh! The second is to some crazy guy I met once. The third is to the future."

"But wha-? Huh? No?!" Bill slowly devolved into gibberish. Steve looked to their captor with a big grin.

"I'll have whatever he's on. Oh wait. You can't understsand me. You're an ostrich."

"Damn it! I'm not an Ostrich! I'm an Emu! Now get in the vault you two! Get!" He said, angrily pushing them into Steve's bottomless vault."

"Don't worry, Billy-boy. There's a safety net down there. Somewhere. You might want to have a parachute handy the next time, if there is a next time. I don't have a parachute. Do you have a parachute? Because I don't have a parachute."

*blip**blip**blip**bliptoinfinity

Pointless Posting Man #5

Pointless Posting Man #5

By Tim Munn


"If only I can make the Post With A Point, our world would be a better place," Pointless Posting Man dreamed wildly. He wasn't too cautious with his dreaming lately. They came and they went; he remained firmly embedded right where he was. He was Pointless Posting Man, Cityland's Greatest Super-Hero. His goal: To create a Post With A Point. Many times he'd come close to that perfection which he desperately sought; a few times so achingly close he could feel it in his finger muscles, just itching to be released. He looked to those hands and fingers and waited for his inspiration.

"This is it!" he screamed wildly to thin air. "This is the big one!"

At first, a few words trickled onto the page, then a small stream, then finally, YES! This _really_was__it_! This was the Post With A Point! Finally, after years and years of trying, here it was! Typing, typing, typing. It was flowing easily from his mind to finger, from finger to keyboard, from keyboard to screen. He stopped briefly, considering the greatness of this post. Was it going to affect the lives of the entire planet? Just a country? A single person? He didn't know, and that not knowing frightened him. He looked through the several paragraphs before him, scrolling up a little and down. A new paragraph; the root of his Post With A Point firmly taken hold, getting to the meat of the matter. Still, there was another creeping feeling, some impending doom or another likely to befall the city, its' heroes soon on the call. All the while, he would remain here, typing his Post With A Point, the world's greatest post, with the ability to solve all the world's problems. A post so great that-- "Holy crap!"

This isn't happening! This isn't happening!! Of all the heroes in Cityland that calamity could fall on, it had to be him!! At first, Pointless Posting Man pecked just a little more furiously at his keyboard, quickly smashing at it, the keyboard soon becoming a bajillion bits of useless information. His computer was useless; a power outage of some sort had rendered it useless. Herose, pacing his computer room several times. No external hard drive or battery back up. No generator, though it wouldn't have done much good. He ran his hands over his now aching temples, looking in a moment to his hands and fingers. He stretched them out, keep them loose, try to close out the game. But the game was up, wasn't it? There was no power; writing by hand was out of the question; dictation a possibility, but only if he got to it pronto and Librarian Man was up to task. No! It couldn't be done! Why hadn't he bought an audio recorder?! He stomped out the door, into the front yard, and yelled a deafening yell. It was quite loud.

***

I wrote this last night. This is not the full version. It may not even be the version, but it's what I've got. :)
Copyright 10.2.2008 4 a.m. by Tim Munn

Special Delivery

"Don't call me Lawrence," a voice, Larry's voice. Or in this case, Lawrence's voice. It's played over color bars. A picture is in the middle. It's a man, 'Bertrum' is captioned below in scrolling letters. Bertrum looks to be quite frightened.

"There's nothing to worry about, Chuck," Lawrence says in a confident voice. A grainy picture comes forth; Lawrence is leading Chuck the cameraman down a short and dark passageway. "Bertrum is perfectly harmless. He always appreciates visitors and is welcoming of new ones," Lawrence says cheerfully. He seems to be cheerful as well. Lawrence's tail whips about and there is a certain whinee in his voice. They come to a locked door. 'Bertrum' it's marked. Lawrcence first puts an ear tothe door.

"We're here at the doorway to Bertrum's habitat," Lawrence whispers, while Chuck zooms in on Lawrence standing in front of Bertrum's nameplate. "He seems to be sleeping," Lawrence continues, "Bertrum's a bit of a snorer. Let's wake him up!" Lawrence pounds on the door, hoof and metal clanging together. just over their ringing ears, a low moan is heard. it then becomes a howl as Lawrence continues to pound.

Chuck immediately lowers his camera. "I don't want to go in there, Larry. I really don't."

Fear. It was an understandable emotion in this situation. Bertrum was the first hume in the facility. There were others, yes, but none as old as he. Most people, Chuck included, had only seen baby humes like Garth and Lydia. They'd seen the infantile side of humes; sweet and oh-so-cuddly. This was different. This was Bertrum, a full-grown adult male. And he was angry. Lawrence mentally noted his thought for dialogue, looking to Chuck.

"Chuck, I served with your father, Mr. Zebra in Vietnam-"

"What?" Chuck interrupted. "My father was never in Vietnam."

"That doesn't matter Chuck. What matters is that your father served his country with a fearlessness that not only should you be proud of, but should try to channel here!"

"I guess... I don't want Bertrum anywhere near me. Minimum wage isn't that great when you hear that howl, knowing you've got a wife and kids back home." For further effect, Chuck pulls a family picture from his wallet. In it, he's shown ahppily frolicking about with an elephant and their elebra children. Lawrence smiled, but Chuck could tell there was something else.

"It's not wrong to love an elephant, Larry. There's nothing illegal about it. Look, let's just be professionals here. Bertrum's our story, let's stick to it."

"You're right, Chuck. I'm incredibly sorry. We're going to shoot some dialogue here after we shoot our visit with Bertrum. Is that allright?" Chuck hefted his camera, giving a thumbs up. Lawrence closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath, inhale, exhale.

"Hello Bertrum! How's our man today?"

Knowing full well of Bertrum's tantrums, Lawrence dodged the projectile poo that was flung. It hit Chuck's camera with such ferocity that it carrened several feet behind him, smashed into a million bits.

"That's it! I'm out of here!" chuck said, stomping off.

Lawrence chuckled a bit. "Poor Chuck. He's had a terrible day Bertrum, don't you know? what about yourself? We'll certainly have to give you more ruffage."

Bertrum howled at this. "I don't want ruffage! i want out of this place! I want some decent clothes! I want to go home!!"

"Silly hume!" Lawrence laughed. "Your shenanigans are for kids! Firstly, you can't get out of here, it's hume proof. Secondly, animals don't wear clothes. Lastly, you can't go home. i bulldozed your home terrritory, making four high-rise office buildings, two domed stadiums, six mega-malls and enough parking to give Mother Nature what for!!" Lawrnce is interrupted in the middle of his tirade when his cell phone rings. He goes completely pale.

"The producer never told me this was supposed to be a live program..."

"Silly unicorn! Ruffage my ass!!" Bertrum scowled, picking up a cheese round previously dumped in the habitat.

"Don't eat me bro!!" it screamed. Lawrence stood there amidst Bertrum's howling until a zookeeper came in and administered sedatives.

Butch

"Hold on there, Butch."

We never found him; disappeared to God knows where. He wasn't in his end of the world bunker. There was nothing there, bunks, self-defense items, food, boze; all of it gone, just like Butch. It wasn't like Butch to go off like this, even off his meds. Butch was a survivor.

"Come back home, Butch."

We never stopped looking. As far north as Texas Valley and as far south as Anchor Mountain; west to the Pine River Military Reserve and east to Banker's Lake. We never stopped looking and never found a thing. Butch Parkman was as good as dead.

"I'll never stop looking for him. He was-- is-- my friend."

Sheriff Brinker of Texas Valley was the one who had called. They'd found Butch.

"I'm fine, I'm fine," Butch told the Pine River Dispatch's Editor, Publisher and only employee Alan Reece.

"Just went on a sabbatical is all."

"Where did you go?"

Sheriff Brinker led the reporter away. He turned to Butch. Brinker gave him the 'I'm not taking your crap' look. Butch only smiled. Apparently he'd done well off his meds. He was smiling now.

"Where did you go, Butch. Be honest."

"Just took a little R and R is all Garth. You could probably use a vacation, too." Butch smiled again. It was hard to tell if his meds had kicked in. "I know; you're worried I was off my meds. I might have gone loopy and killed someone. But nope, I didn't. Just a vacation, to clear my head," Butch said, tapping his forefinger to temple. "When can I get home? I know, you've got to look out after me and all-"

"Tell me where you've been Butch."

Butch looked somewhat surprised by Garth's tone. It was Sheriff Garth Brinker who'd actullay been influential in his own defense. Part of it was they'd been friends since they were kneehigh to grasshoppers. Another part was Garth was married to Agnes, Butch's sister.

"Been around Anchor Mountain, looking for ghosts, Butch, honest."

Garth sighed.

"Ghosts and demons, I've got the gear to prove it."

In Garth's search and catalogue of Butch's items from his truck found ghost hunting equipment. He wanted to believe Butch, but couldn't. He'd seen 'ghosts' before, figuring Butch's to be more of the same.

"I'm finding it hard to believe you, Butch."

Butch frowned at Garth's thought. "You just have too. I've done nothing illegal, I'll stay as long as you need, just so you believe."

Garth began to laugh. Butch joined in, but stopped as quickly as Garth had. Butch looked confusedly to the sheriff.

"What's wrong Garth?"

"You want to know what's wrong?! Butch Parkman had his voice box out because he was a smoker! I want to know: WHO AND WHAT ARE YOU?!" Garth screamed.

Butch, or the thing that called itself Butch, snickered at Garth's question. "I'm a ghost, Garth. You obviously don't know me," he smiled, lighting up a cigarette. "You don't know me," he whispered. "You don't know what I am, and I don't know you, Garth."

"Are you an angel or a demon?!" Garth said, lifting Butch out of his chair by the shirt.

He puffed on the cigarette, staring down Garth all the while. "There's many things out there, Garth. I could be any one of them," still whispering, as if Alan were still in the room.

"Alan," Garth whispered. "What did you do to him?"

Butch did not respond.

"What did you say?!"

Butch smiled now. It was a devilish smile. Garth pulled his weapon. "Don't do it, for Agnes' sake."

"But you're not real!!"

"If I'm not real, then surely you must. Between the kooks at Pine and spooks at the Mountain, you've got to shoot!"

Garth couldn't bring himself to shoot. He lowered the weapon, looking intently on Butch. "What would you or Butch have me say to Agnes? That our brother is dead?! I can't say that... I can't..."

***

Alan Reece is typing away at his keyboard. What a world. The phone call from Garth Brinker had put him off kilter. He was new to the area, buying up a newspaper that had turned into a twice-weekly broadside at the community market. He expected to get some pranks more often than not. But not like the prank Brinker pulled.

"You know what Brinker?!" Alan yells into the receiver.

"What's that, Alan?"

"Fuck you!"

"Just call up Aggie-" Click.

Alan shivered. Being new to the area was tough, getting to know the readership and their stories. Agnes Brinker had confirmed her husband's story. Butch was missing yet; the Butch Brinker held in custody hauled off to Pine for testing. Alan stopped his typing, looking into Butch's home. Aliens and ghosts ruled Butch's world and Alan had learned that they just might rule his world as well.

--John E. Lansing
--A work in progress...

Jerry

"Jerry?"

Jerry looked up, wild eyed and disheveled. He looked to the thing in front of him. It was an XBox controller. Damn. Bill Gates was on the loose. But none of that now. That voice...

"Jerry? Are you home?"

No, Jerry isn’t home.

"Your door was unlocked. I’m coming in-"

Jerry ripped the controller from its socket, throwing it at the voice. It clanged off the wall, sending chunks of wall and controller spewing to the ground. There was a yelp from the woman.

"I’m not hurt, Jerry. Please, just let me help you."

He looked back to the television, to his reflection. It was so terrible...!

"Jerry? Where are you? Speak to me, Jerry."

"No," Jerry responded, his throat dry and aching. "Don’t come any closer!"

There was a crackling now; she was coming in to help him. He was so far beyond help, why couldn’t she understand that? A shadow grew over the entryway, over Jerry. It loomed above him, ready to pierce its razor-sharp fangs into Jerry’s flesh.

"STAY BACK!!" Jerry screamed in vain. He looked up, and there she was. She let out an unearthly screech and pointed.

"J-Jerry?! What’s wr-" She couldn’t finish her sentence as Jerry’s image was so gruesome. She bolted out the house, screaming and crying. "JERRY’S NOT RIGHT!! HE’S NOT RIGHT!!"

No, he wasn’t right. By the look and feel, he was totally wrong. One minute, enjoying a newly-bought game, the next, unconcious at the foot of the console. Jerry had tried desperately in those first moments to lift himself, managing in the end only to lift his head. Jerry’s look and feel were so very wrong. So wrong, that it looked him in the face. Jerry could feel, he never lost that part of his humanity. He did feel full of holes. A bit cheesy, too. Jerry, through some unholy mutation, was now a round of Swiss Cheese. A round of Swiss Cheese with two straggly arms made of string cheese, one malformed eye and a mouth that had contorted his speech into madness.

--John E. Lansing