Nothing could make the pain go away. Hector had tried everything. Asked everyone. Neurologists, orthopedic surgeons, immunologists, chiropractors, acupuncturists, homeopaths, crystal healers, and anyone else, quack or not, who said they could help him. None of them had. Hell, they couldn’t agree on what was wrong with him.
He’d heard “fibromyalgia” and “phantom pain” from the real doctors. They’d told him it was all in his head. One guy had even accused him of faking his symptoms to get drugs.
The chiropractor had called it a “misalignment of the spine” and proceeded to give him what amounted to a two hour back massage. Hector’s back felt better than it had in ages, but the pain hadn’t gone away.
The acupuncturist had told him he had something wrong with his chi and spent quite a while poking him with needles. Hector’s chi no doubt was much improved, but his muscles still screamed at him every time he moved.
The homeopath had told him he had “rheumatism” and given him a "tonic" that tasted like water and did nothing for the pain. He stopped taking it when he found out the active ingredient was “diluted arsenic.”
The crystal healer had been the most dubious of the bunch. A burnt out old hippie with unkempt hair and a habit of staring into space, she’d said he had too much “negative energy” in him and spent an hour waving a piece of polished quartz in his general direction. He bolted when she tried to sell him the $3,000 home crystal kit.
Now Hector was trying magnets. The man was small and unassuming. He wore an old fashioned bowler hat and carried a cane (apparently magnets couldn’t heal everything). He was an older man – late fifties Hector thought, and he had one of those accents immigrants get when they’ve lived in the US long enough to know how to speak perfect English, but choose not to. His name sounded like “Valdemar” but he spelled it with a “W.” Waldemar. Hector thought he might be Polish. “You have problem with pain, yes?” Waldemar asked.
“Yes? Uh, yes,” Hector stammered.
“Where you feeling pain? Back, maybe?”
“Yeah, in my back, and my chest and legs. Everywhere really.”
“You’ve asked nerve doctor, yes?” Waldemar seemed concerned.
“Yeah, he said it was all in my head”
“Good, good. Real doctor not work, so we try magnets.”
“Wait, you’re not “real?”
The little man gave him a concerned look, “Not doctor. Just man with magnets. So, we try magnets.”
Waldemar spent an hour waving various magnets at Hector and running them up and down his spine. Afterwards, Hector didn’t feel any better, and he said so.
“Of course not, I not doctor, just man with magnets. Magnets not work on everyone. Placebo effect, yes? Stop seeing quacks like me and go find real doctor. Here’s card of neurologist. Tell him you were desperate enough to try man with magnets. He’ll listen.”
“Uh, thanks,” Hector said taking the card. With some trepidation, he decided he’d give modern medicine a second chance. If that didn’t work, there was always aromatherapy.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Hell
I lay dead in the jungle, surrounded by a pool of blood. Then, the blood started to seep back into my bullet wounds and I was alive. My buddies were all around me looking worried and I wanted to speak to them, but I was too weak. Suddenly I coughed, and the blood that was on my face flew into my mouth and down my throat. Wait, that wasn’t right. Sharky, the medic, was holding me and he looked frightened, but he put on a brave face and said, “!em ot klat ,no emoC !snikneJ em htiw yatS !snikneJ.” I had no idea what he had said, but suddenly he was running away, backwards. They all were! Where were they going? Why would they leave me there?
One of my buddies stopped and leveled his rifle at a dead bogie in front of me and the bogie must not have been quite dead, because suddenly he was on his feet without even seeming to stand up. I saw a flash from my buddy’s rifle, but instead of shooting the enemy dead, the gun sucked the bullets back out of him, and I watched as he healed right in front of my eyes. That’s not what was supposed to happen. Then the bogie turned his gun on me.
I felt a hot wet trickle across me chest as the last of my blood surged back into my body. Behind me, someone called “!snikneJ” and suddenly I flew to my feet. I was looking down in horror when bullets flew out of my chest and into my enemy’s flashing muzzle. I don’t know how, but I was healed. No wounds. No tears. Nothing. The bogie must have gotten freaked out by that, because he ran off backwards into the bush.
At this point, I knew something was fucked around me, but no one else seemed to care. They just stood out in the clearing passing the canteen around. Sawyer was taking a leak. They were smiling, laughing, chatting, but nothing they said made sense. It was all warped… backwards. Memories flashed back to me. This is what we’d been doing before the attack. Before I got shot. Before I… died.
Things were flashing back faster than they’d gone forward. Whole days passed by in a blur. Patrolling the bush, scrapes, mosquitoes, endless slogs through the mud and bramble, gunfire at night, fleeting glimpses of the enemy during the day, it all zoomed by like a passing breeze. I stood in a burning village, hands covered in soot, face stained by tears. I saw my friends slaughter emaciated peasants armed with machetes or ancient rifles. Then, blur again. Walking, trudging from village to village, looking for weapons, looking for people who didn’t belong, never staying too long in one place. Then I was in the one place where we made the mistake of lingering. I felt the dirt on my hands as we dumped a young girl into a shallow grave. I saw what we did to our “brothers” who raped her to death. Then the blur again, towns, bases, whores on the street, artillery shells falling in the distance, getting off the boat, then, nothing. Blackness, emptiness.
So now I sit and stare into the darkness, wondering where the rest of my life went. My family, my friends. Why can’t I remember them? They must be out there, but then, maybe they aren’t. Maybe I am a child of war and strife, no friends but my brothers, no love but love for battle, no lust but bloodlust. Wait, white text… “Please be kind, please rewind?” Huh? Where am I? When am I? Who am I? What was I talking about? Where..wha…
Uh, I guess I must have zoned out for a bit, they told me I’d get jittery at first. It’s probably this stupid boat making me seasick. Yeah, that’s it. Nothing to be nervous about, I’m part of the baddest band of brothers that ever lived, and we’re going to teach those little bastards why you don’t mess with the United States of Fucking A. Ooh-RA! Now why does it feel like I’m forgetting something important?
One of my buddies stopped and leveled his rifle at a dead bogie in front of me and the bogie must not have been quite dead, because suddenly he was on his feet without even seeming to stand up. I saw a flash from my buddy’s rifle, but instead of shooting the enemy dead, the gun sucked the bullets back out of him, and I watched as he healed right in front of my eyes. That’s not what was supposed to happen. Then the bogie turned his gun on me.
I felt a hot wet trickle across me chest as the last of my blood surged back into my body. Behind me, someone called “!snikneJ” and suddenly I flew to my feet. I was looking down in horror when bullets flew out of my chest and into my enemy’s flashing muzzle. I don’t know how, but I was healed. No wounds. No tears. Nothing. The bogie must have gotten freaked out by that, because he ran off backwards into the bush.
At this point, I knew something was fucked around me, but no one else seemed to care. They just stood out in the clearing passing the canteen around. Sawyer was taking a leak. They were smiling, laughing, chatting, but nothing they said made sense. It was all warped… backwards. Memories flashed back to me. This is what we’d been doing before the attack. Before I got shot. Before I… died.
Things were flashing back faster than they’d gone forward. Whole days passed by in a blur. Patrolling the bush, scrapes, mosquitoes, endless slogs through the mud and bramble, gunfire at night, fleeting glimpses of the enemy during the day, it all zoomed by like a passing breeze. I stood in a burning village, hands covered in soot, face stained by tears. I saw my friends slaughter emaciated peasants armed with machetes or ancient rifles. Then, blur again. Walking, trudging from village to village, looking for weapons, looking for people who didn’t belong, never staying too long in one place. Then I was in the one place where we made the mistake of lingering. I felt the dirt on my hands as we dumped a young girl into a shallow grave. I saw what we did to our “brothers” who raped her to death. Then the blur again, towns, bases, whores on the street, artillery shells falling in the distance, getting off the boat, then, nothing. Blackness, emptiness.
So now I sit and stare into the darkness, wondering where the rest of my life went. My family, my friends. Why can’t I remember them? They must be out there, but then, maybe they aren’t. Maybe I am a child of war and strife, no friends but my brothers, no love but love for battle, no lust but bloodlust. Wait, white text… “Please be kind, please rewind?” Huh? Where am I? When am I? Who am I? What was I talking about? Where..wha…
Uh, I guess I must have zoned out for a bit, they told me I’d get jittery at first. It’s probably this stupid boat making me seasick. Yeah, that’s it. Nothing to be nervous about, I’m part of the baddest band of brothers that ever lived, and we’re going to teach those little bastards why you don’t mess with the United States of Fucking A. Ooh-RA! Now why does it feel like I’m forgetting something important?
Progress
We’ll go in jetpacks and flying cars,
and sleek ships that surf the stars,
while below us the Earth will stink,
with urban grime,
and senseless crime.
And through it all we’ll think:
“how lucky we are,
to have ever made it so far.”
We’ll swim in oceans of the mind,
and restore vision to the blind
while around us people will die,
from the mislaid plan,
of their fellow man.
But will we stop to wonder why?
Or will we just look sad
and say, “gee, that’s too bad.”
We’ll take our daily food pills,
and teach our robots handy skills,
while above us the sky turns gray,
with all the speed,
of corporate greed.
Then what will there be left to say?
“Ignore this world, look to the stars,
when Earth is dead, there’s always Mars.”
and sleek ships that surf the stars,
while below us the Earth will stink,
with urban grime,
and senseless crime.
And through it all we’ll think:
“how lucky we are,
to have ever made it so far.”
We’ll swim in oceans of the mind,
and restore vision to the blind
while around us people will die,
from the mislaid plan,
of their fellow man.
But will we stop to wonder why?
Or will we just look sad
and say, “gee, that’s too bad.”
We’ll take our daily food pills,
and teach our robots handy skills,
while above us the sky turns gray,
with all the speed,
of corporate greed.
Then what will there be left to say?
“Ignore this world, look to the stars,
when Earth is dead, there’s always Mars.”
Monday, April 20, 2009
Broken Heart
Plaque gathers in veins
Blood thickens slowly
His chest fills with pains
Bacon left him lowly
Atria spasm
Ventricles shatter
From chest to chasm
Life leaves the matter
His family mourns
For the one they lost
While morticians warn
Of exorbitant cost
They give all that they own
For the sake of his soul
But all this is unknown
To the man in his hole
Blood thickens slowly
His chest fills with pains
Bacon left him lowly
Atria spasm
Ventricles shatter
From chest to chasm
Life leaves the matter
His family mourns
For the one they lost
While morticians warn
Of exorbitant cost
They give all that they own
For the sake of his soul
But all this is unknown
To the man in his hole
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Too Old For This Shit
Albright was a small town, and news travels fast in small towns. So, when Charlie Gilchrist, the town's 72-year-old mayor, was found dead in his home half-way through his fifth term, there was one word on everybody's lips: "murder." But who could have done it? What kind of sick bastard would shoot an old man? Detective Wilson didn't know, but he was certain of one thing: he was too old for this shit.
Wilson had been working the case for days, but still had no leads. No hair. No fingerprints. No sign of a struggle. Nothing. Just two clean shots to the back with a 9 mm. – whoever did it was a pro, but what was a pro doing in Albright? Wilson leaned back in his chair and massaged his graying temples. There just wasn't any reason for it. Everyone knew Charlie, everyone liked Charlie. Even the city council was mostly made up of his old friends. Wilson just couldn't get it to make sense, and when things didn't make sense, there was only one thing to do: drink.
Detectives Wilson and Grady sat in their favorite bar, McCullough's, and drank. Drank and talked. "So who do you think shot the old coot?" Grady asked, before downing a shot of whisky.
"I don't know," Wilson admitted throwing back his own glass, "but whoever did it was real cold blooded. I just don't get it. Who could do something like that?"
"Dunno. Not everybody cared for the man, you know."
"What do you mean? He's been great to this town."
"No, we've been great to this town," Grady said, slamming down his third shot and showing no signs of slowing, "My dad was great to this town. Built up that hardware store from nothin'. Nothin'! All good ol' Chuck Gilchrist ever did was bring in one chain store after the next."
"He brought jobs."
"Yeah, and he took jobs. Besides, jobs ain't the fucking alpha and omega. There's somethin' called civic pride, ya know? What about all the local stores that got muscled out? Huh? My dad died penniless thanks to those fuckers!" Grady's lip trembled as he drank yet another shot of whisky.
"Hey, easy there," Wilson said taking on a consoling tone, "don't go yellin' at me."
"You're right, man. Sorry. It's just… you know how emotional I get when I think about my dad."
"It's all right. I didn't mean to bring it up. I just wish I had some leads, ya know? How hard could it be to find someone in this town with a nine and a motive?"
The two sat there drinking in silence for the next twenty minutes until finally Wilson rose, muttered, "I'm too old for this shit," and left.
The next morning, Wilson came to a decision. His muscles tightened with nervous energy as he drove to the station. Adrenaline flooded his brain as he walked through the door, he wanted to get this over with -- just rush straight into the chief's office and lay it on him, but he needed to be sure. He needed to know he wasn't making a huge mistake. "Grady," Wilson yelled in the direction of Grady's desk, "we need to talk"
"What is it?" Grady asked as they entered the deserted break room. Something like fear flickered across his features.
Wilson sighed and grabbed a doughnut from the table, "Grady, we're friends, right?"
"Y-yeah," Grady stuttered.
"So there's something I wanna ask you, and it's very important that you tell me the truth, OK?"
Grady nodded slowly.
"Grady, do you think I should retire?"
"What?"
"I keep sayin' I'm too old for this shit, and you know I have grandchildren on the way, and Greta has always wanted to travel. It just seems like the right time, ya know?"
"B-but what about your case?" Grady stammered.
"That's why I'm talking to you, would you mind taking it on? I'm gettin' nowhere, so it's not like you could do worse."
"I-I guess I could do that," Grady said with a weary sigh.
Wilson gave a wide smile and hugged his friend, "great, because I'm thinking of resigning today. I'm not getting any younger, and I need time to start campaigning."
"Campaigning?"
"Yeah, I'm gonna run for mayor."
Wilson had been working the case for days, but still had no leads. No hair. No fingerprints. No sign of a struggle. Nothing. Just two clean shots to the back with a 9 mm. – whoever did it was a pro, but what was a pro doing in Albright? Wilson leaned back in his chair and massaged his graying temples. There just wasn't any reason for it. Everyone knew Charlie, everyone liked Charlie. Even the city council was mostly made up of his old friends. Wilson just couldn't get it to make sense, and when things didn't make sense, there was only one thing to do: drink.
Detectives Wilson and Grady sat in their favorite bar, McCullough's, and drank. Drank and talked. "So who do you think shot the old coot?" Grady asked, before downing a shot of whisky.
"I don't know," Wilson admitted throwing back his own glass, "but whoever did it was real cold blooded. I just don't get it. Who could do something like that?"
"Dunno. Not everybody cared for the man, you know."
"What do you mean? He's been great to this town."
"No, we've been great to this town," Grady said, slamming down his third shot and showing no signs of slowing, "My dad was great to this town. Built up that hardware store from nothin'. Nothin'! All good ol' Chuck Gilchrist ever did was bring in one chain store after the next."
"He brought jobs."
"Yeah, and he took jobs. Besides, jobs ain't the fucking alpha and omega. There's somethin' called civic pride, ya know? What about all the local stores that got muscled out? Huh? My dad died penniless thanks to those fuckers!" Grady's lip trembled as he drank yet another shot of whisky.
"Hey, easy there," Wilson said taking on a consoling tone, "don't go yellin' at me."
"You're right, man. Sorry. It's just… you know how emotional I get when I think about my dad."
"It's all right. I didn't mean to bring it up. I just wish I had some leads, ya know? How hard could it be to find someone in this town with a nine and a motive?"
The two sat there drinking in silence for the next twenty minutes until finally Wilson rose, muttered, "I'm too old for this shit," and left.
The next morning, Wilson came to a decision. His muscles tightened with nervous energy as he drove to the station. Adrenaline flooded his brain as he walked through the door, he wanted to get this over with -- just rush straight into the chief's office and lay it on him, but he needed to be sure. He needed to know he wasn't making a huge mistake. "Grady," Wilson yelled in the direction of Grady's desk, "we need to talk"
"What is it?" Grady asked as they entered the deserted break room. Something like fear flickered across his features.
Wilson sighed and grabbed a doughnut from the table, "Grady, we're friends, right?"
"Y-yeah," Grady stuttered.
"So there's something I wanna ask you, and it's very important that you tell me the truth, OK?"
Grady nodded slowly.
"Grady, do you think I should retire?"
"What?"
"I keep sayin' I'm too old for this shit, and you know I have grandchildren on the way, and Greta has always wanted to travel. It just seems like the right time, ya know?"
"B-but what about your case?" Grady stammered.
"That's why I'm talking to you, would you mind taking it on? I'm gettin' nowhere, so it's not like you could do worse."
"I-I guess I could do that," Grady said with a weary sigh.
Wilson gave a wide smile and hugged his friend, "great, because I'm thinking of resigning today. I'm not getting any younger, and I need time to start campaigning."
"Campaigning?"
"Yeah, I'm gonna run for mayor."
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Schrodinger's Taco Shop
It was a cold January evening when Jakob and Tim finally found a parking space. The two were quiet as Tim squeezed his red 2003 Corolla into the space between two SUVs. Jakob uncurled his lanky frame from the small car and stretched while Tim squeezed out of his door and made sure he didn’t scratched the behemoth next to him.
"It's a bit of a walk from here, but I couldn't find a closer spot. Sorry." Tim said as he ran his hands through his shoulder-length hair.
"You should be sorry," Jakob said pointing behind him, "you left your lights on."
"I wha- oh, oops," Tim said before running back to his car.
"Don't worry about it," Jakob said when he got back, "if I had a car, I'm sure I'd forget the lights constantly. I can't even find my wallet most mornings."
"You don't always keep it in the same place?"
"Usually I forget to take it out of my pocket… So where are we going this time?" Jakob asked, wandering off topic.
"Mexican," Tim said as the walked down the busy street.
"Eww, not Mexican," Jakob said making a face, "didn't you see the thing on Channel 10 about the taco shop with all the rats and roaches and stuff?"
"This place isn't like that."
"You sure?" Jakob asked as he dodged a skateboarder.
"Yes," Tim said as they turned the corner, "There, it's the blue restaurant across the street."
"Well, it is better lit than the one on the news," Jakob admitted.
"Exactly," Tim said as they jaywalked to it.
"Is it going to be spicy?" Jakob asked, "I don't like it when it's spicy."
"'Course it will, it's Mexican, but you can ask them to make it mild if you're a total wuss," Tim said as he walked up to the counter.
Jakob tried to appeal his newfound wuss status, but was interrupted by the young woman behed the counter asking for their orders.
"Quiero dos Enchiladas del Diabla, no avocado y un tamarindo," Tim ordered in passable Spanish.
"That'll be $4.95," the woman said.
Tim paid and got out of the way, while Jakob ordered the least menacing looking item on the menu: a bean and cheese burrito with nothing on it, and a can of coke.
"You said it wrong," Jakob said as they waited for their food to arrive.
"Said what wrong?"
"Your order. It should have been ‘sin aguacate,’ not ‘no avocado.’ Plus you said del instead of de la"
"Wait, they don't say ‘avocado’ in Spanish?" Tim asked.
"I'm pretty sure it's aguacate"
"Huh. All these years…"
"What's wrong with avocados, anyway?" Jakob interrupted.
"I'm allergic."
"Oh, that's no good," Jakob said as the food arrived.
"Yeah, it sucks."
"I love avocados."
"I thought you didn't like Mexican?"
"When did I say that?" Jakob said through a mouthful of beans.
"Just now."
"Did not. Hey, this burrito is pretty good. How're your enchiladas?"
Tim chewed thoughtfully and sighed, "too spicy."
"Really?"
"Yeah," Tim said before taking a big gulp of his tamarindo.
"But you were all making fun of me when I said that I didn't like spicy foods."
"Well, I didn't expect it to be this spicy,” Tim said, doing his best to seem indignant.
"Oh please, you were showing off," Jakob said between bites of burrito.
"What?"
"Come on. Ordering in Spanish. Getting the spiciest thing on the menu. You were trying to impress me."
"I – that's ridiculous!" Tim was picking absent-mindedly at his enchiladas, not quite making eye contact.
"Yeah, you just say that."
"OK, I will."
[Optional Ending 1] As the two talked, argument turned to discussion, discussion turned to banter and by the time they left the restaurant, they were happily talking about their favorite 80's era cartoons. They both agreed that Transformers was better than GI Joe, even though they were too young to remember either show very well. Tim still had some of the toys. They walked back to Tim's car, agreed that the restaurant had been pretty good, and they returned to their respective houses. The end.
[Optional Ending 2] Tim discovered that his Enchiladas had avocado in them. His throat swelled shut while Jakob called an ambulance and prayed. [Optional Ending 2A] The paramedics arrived in the nick of time and Tim was able to recover from his near-death experience with only a mild headache. The end. [Optional Ending 2B] The paramedics arrived late and Tim died of suffocation. Jakob cried all through the funeral. The end.
[Optional Ending 3] As the two talked, argument turned to discussion, discussion turned to banter, and banter turned to flirtation. Eventually, Tim took Jakob home. [Optional Ending 3A] Jakob told Tim he was sorry, but they just didn't "click" and they never went on another date. Tim was left wondering if it had been something he said. The end. [Optional Ending 3B] Jakob kissed Tim good night and they made plans to go on another date soon. The end. [Optional Ending 3C] Jakob invited Tim up to his room and the two had sex. [Optional Ending 3C, Subsection 1] The two woke up in the morning together and made plans for another date. The end. [Optional Ending 3C, Subsection 2] Jakob woke alone and never saw Tim again. Two weeks later, Jakob was told by his doctor that he had contracted Chlamydia. The end.
[Optional Ending 4] The gas line below the restaurant ruptured due to poor maintenance. Both diners died instantly in the ensuing explosion. The end.
[Optional Ending 5] Jakob and Tim got into a heated argument over whether Transformers was better than GI Joe. [Optional Ending 5A] They both decided that the argument had been stupid and finished their meal in peace. The end. [Optional Ending 5B] The two eventually came to blows. It was the bloodiest fight that restaurant had that week. [Optional Ending 5B, Subsection 1] Eventually the cook ran out of the kitchen brandishing a greasy spatula and threw them out. Jakob didn't have a car, so he had to take the bus home. [Optional Ending 5B, Subsection 2] The fight was so bloody that people were afraid to intervene. By the time the cops arrived, Tim had a broken jaw and was missing two teeth. Jakob got off lucky with only a black eye, but he still had to take the bus home. The end.
[Optional Ending 6] Jakob got food poisoning from a rat dropping in his burrito and the restaurant was shut down by health inspectors. Tim and Jakob were both too traumatized to ever touch Mexican food again. The end.
"It's a bit of a walk from here, but I couldn't find a closer spot. Sorry." Tim said as he ran his hands through his shoulder-length hair.
"You should be sorry," Jakob said pointing behind him, "you left your lights on."
"I wha- oh, oops," Tim said before running back to his car.
"Don't worry about it," Jakob said when he got back, "if I had a car, I'm sure I'd forget the lights constantly. I can't even find my wallet most mornings."
"You don't always keep it in the same place?"
"Usually I forget to take it out of my pocket… So where are we going this time?" Jakob asked, wandering off topic.
"Mexican," Tim said as the walked down the busy street.
"Eww, not Mexican," Jakob said making a face, "didn't you see the thing on Channel 10 about the taco shop with all the rats and roaches and stuff?"
"This place isn't like that."
"You sure?" Jakob asked as he dodged a skateboarder.
"Yes," Tim said as they turned the corner, "There, it's the blue restaurant across the street."
"Well, it is better lit than the one on the news," Jakob admitted.
"Exactly," Tim said as they jaywalked to it.
"Is it going to be spicy?" Jakob asked, "I don't like it when it's spicy."
"'Course it will, it's Mexican, but you can ask them to make it mild if you're a total wuss," Tim said as he walked up to the counter.
Jakob tried to appeal his newfound wuss status, but was interrupted by the young woman behed the counter asking for their orders.
"Quiero dos Enchiladas del Diabla, no avocado y un tamarindo," Tim ordered in passable Spanish.
"That'll be $4.95," the woman said.
Tim paid and got out of the way, while Jakob ordered the least menacing looking item on the menu: a bean and cheese burrito with nothing on it, and a can of coke.
"You said it wrong," Jakob said as they waited for their food to arrive.
"Said what wrong?"
"Your order. It should have been ‘sin aguacate,’ not ‘no avocado.’ Plus you said del instead of de la"
"Wait, they don't say ‘avocado’ in Spanish?" Tim asked.
"I'm pretty sure it's aguacate"
"Huh. All these years…"
"What's wrong with avocados, anyway?" Jakob interrupted.
"I'm allergic."
"Oh, that's no good," Jakob said as the food arrived.
"Yeah, it sucks."
"I love avocados."
"I thought you didn't like Mexican?"
"When did I say that?" Jakob said through a mouthful of beans.
"Just now."
"Did not. Hey, this burrito is pretty good. How're your enchiladas?"
Tim chewed thoughtfully and sighed, "too spicy."
"Really?"
"Yeah," Tim said before taking a big gulp of his tamarindo.
"But you were all making fun of me when I said that I didn't like spicy foods."
"Well, I didn't expect it to be this spicy,” Tim said, doing his best to seem indignant.
"Oh please, you were showing off," Jakob said between bites of burrito.
"What?"
"Come on. Ordering in Spanish. Getting the spiciest thing on the menu. You were trying to impress me."
"I – that's ridiculous!" Tim was picking absent-mindedly at his enchiladas, not quite making eye contact.
"Yeah, you just say that."
"OK, I will."
[Optional Ending 1] As the two talked, argument turned to discussion, discussion turned to banter and by the time they left the restaurant, they were happily talking about their favorite 80's era cartoons. They both agreed that Transformers was better than GI Joe, even though they were too young to remember either show very well. Tim still had some of the toys. They walked back to Tim's car, agreed that the restaurant had been pretty good, and they returned to their respective houses. The end.
[Optional Ending 2] Tim discovered that his Enchiladas had avocado in them. His throat swelled shut while Jakob called an ambulance and prayed. [Optional Ending 2A] The paramedics arrived in the nick of time and Tim was able to recover from his near-death experience with only a mild headache. The end. [Optional Ending 2B] The paramedics arrived late and Tim died of suffocation. Jakob cried all through the funeral. The end.
[Optional Ending 3] As the two talked, argument turned to discussion, discussion turned to banter, and banter turned to flirtation. Eventually, Tim took Jakob home. [Optional Ending 3A] Jakob told Tim he was sorry, but they just didn't "click" and they never went on another date. Tim was left wondering if it had been something he said. The end. [Optional Ending 3B] Jakob kissed Tim good night and they made plans to go on another date soon. The end. [Optional Ending 3C] Jakob invited Tim up to his room and the two had sex. [Optional Ending 3C, Subsection 1] The two woke up in the morning together and made plans for another date. The end. [Optional Ending 3C, Subsection 2] Jakob woke alone and never saw Tim again. Two weeks later, Jakob was told by his doctor that he had contracted Chlamydia. The end.
[Optional Ending 4] The gas line below the restaurant ruptured due to poor maintenance. Both diners died instantly in the ensuing explosion. The end.
[Optional Ending 5] Jakob and Tim got into a heated argument over whether Transformers was better than GI Joe. [Optional Ending 5A] They both decided that the argument had been stupid and finished their meal in peace. The end. [Optional Ending 5B] The two eventually came to blows. It was the bloodiest fight that restaurant had that week. [Optional Ending 5B, Subsection 1] Eventually the cook ran out of the kitchen brandishing a greasy spatula and threw them out. Jakob didn't have a car, so he had to take the bus home. [Optional Ending 5B, Subsection 2] The fight was so bloody that people were afraid to intervene. By the time the cops arrived, Tim had a broken jaw and was missing two teeth. Jakob got off lucky with only a black eye, but he still had to take the bus home. The end.
[Optional Ending 6] Jakob got food poisoning from a rat dropping in his burrito and the restaurant was shut down by health inspectors. Tim and Jakob were both too traumatized to ever touch Mexican food again. The end.
Possessed
Malcolm’s claymore hungered for world domination, Malcolm was sure of it. Malcolm didn’t, mind you (it was Malcolm’s policy not to hunger for anything besides food, and then only when he was hungry), but the sword definitely did. Malcolm could tell be the way it gleamed, by the way it seemed lighter during battle, by the way it never seemed to rust or lose its edge (not that that kept Malcolm from sharpening it daily).
He’d tried to explain all this to Wee Bobby, but the old goat just gave him a funny look and told him he’d taken one too many knocks to the head. This was, of course, true, but it didn’t stop Malcolm from insisting that the damn thing was possessed. Furthermore, Malcolm insisted, that demon sword was going to drive him mad if he didn’t get rid of it. Of course, Fast Willy made a crack about how they probably wouldn’t notice -- which really wasn’t all that funny, but the way Fast Willy said it had half the bar spilling their beers. This got Malcolm all kinds of mad though and he actually got out his claymore. At this point, the others all agreed that perhaps he should get rid of the sword after all.
So, after a few more drinks, Malcolm, Fast Willy, Wee Bobby, and a big man that everyone called Ferret (although no one, not even Ferret, could remember why) headed out on the moors to give the sword a proper burial. It was agreed that they should bury the sword at a crossroads, seeing as how that was what you did with evil swords (at least according to Wee Bobby), but none of them thought to bring a shovel, and since it was still early march, the frozen ground was too hard to dig in anyway, so Ferret suggested that instead they should throw it in the pond next to the crossroads, and everyone enthusiastically agreed that this was close enough.
Malcolm was sad to see his sword go, but they assured him that there were other, less evil swords out there. Then Wee Bobby suggested that Malcolm show any new swords to him so that that he could make sure they weren’t cursed, and everyone else enthusiastically agreed. After that, they all headed back to the bar, except for Ferret who stuck around long enough to fish the sword out of the pond (and damn near froze his fingers off in the process). He eventually sold it for a pretty penny (of course, when Fast Willy found out, he made him give him half).
Malcolm spent the next few days looking for a replacement sword, but was disheartened to learn that every sharp metal object in the county was apparently under a terrible curse. Malcolm started getting suspicious eventually, so Wee Bobby called his friend who was a priest in a neighboring town and had him personally bestow upon Malcolm the greatest weapon the land had ever known, the mighty (wooden) Spoon of St Andrew.
From then on, Malcolm always referred to himself as Malcolm, Lord of the Spoon. Everyone else just called him Malcolm the Mad.
He’d tried to explain all this to Wee Bobby, but the old goat just gave him a funny look and told him he’d taken one too many knocks to the head. This was, of course, true, but it didn’t stop Malcolm from insisting that the damn thing was possessed. Furthermore, Malcolm insisted, that demon sword was going to drive him mad if he didn’t get rid of it. Of course, Fast Willy made a crack about how they probably wouldn’t notice -- which really wasn’t all that funny, but the way Fast Willy said it had half the bar spilling their beers. This got Malcolm all kinds of mad though and he actually got out his claymore. At this point, the others all agreed that perhaps he should get rid of the sword after all.
So, after a few more drinks, Malcolm, Fast Willy, Wee Bobby, and a big man that everyone called Ferret (although no one, not even Ferret, could remember why) headed out on the moors to give the sword a proper burial. It was agreed that they should bury the sword at a crossroads, seeing as how that was what you did with evil swords (at least according to Wee Bobby), but none of them thought to bring a shovel, and since it was still early march, the frozen ground was too hard to dig in anyway, so Ferret suggested that instead they should throw it in the pond next to the crossroads, and everyone enthusiastically agreed that this was close enough.
Malcolm was sad to see his sword go, but they assured him that there were other, less evil swords out there. Then Wee Bobby suggested that Malcolm show any new swords to him so that that he could make sure they weren’t cursed, and everyone else enthusiastically agreed. After that, they all headed back to the bar, except for Ferret who stuck around long enough to fish the sword out of the pond (and damn near froze his fingers off in the process). He eventually sold it for a pretty penny (of course, when Fast Willy found out, he made him give him half).
Malcolm spent the next few days looking for a replacement sword, but was disheartened to learn that every sharp metal object in the county was apparently under a terrible curse. Malcolm started getting suspicious eventually, so Wee Bobby called his friend who was a priest in a neighboring town and had him personally bestow upon Malcolm the greatest weapon the land had ever known, the mighty (wooden) Spoon of St Andrew.
From then on, Malcolm always referred to himself as Malcolm, Lord of the Spoon. Everyone else just called him Malcolm the Mad.
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