the rusty garden. His body crumbled halfway in & out. She stepped closer already winding the towel for another swipe, if needed. "Thank you Maam, may I have another." He unravelled

Unaffiliated baton twirling was, briefly (thank the Lord), a scourge through the midling classes of the Core planets. Although she swears she meant nothing of the kind, we owe our

Monroe was the kind of kid that practiced baton twirling in his backyard and sold earthworms through his bedroom window. He had no need of friends or companions of any sort. Beau

"I was a meandering mendicant going from shrine to shrine to execute divine justice upon His earthly vessels. Which is what we call you normies." "Kool. Would you like fries with

When you travel with a dragon in your party the Welcoming Partys are few and far in between. I try to explain the benefits of dragon shit to the locals but they're too scared to

Being the rider of a troubled dragon was not for the weak kneed. Sometimes how much pressure you applied to its dorsal nerve made no difference. The dragon would buck you off & fry

As a child I imagined the life of a Dragonfire swallower was sleeping on roses, wine, song, & comely wenches. In reality, I've discovered, it is one full of lots of dragon shit. We

If I didn't my mother would kill me for borrowing the crown jewels without permission. One last jewel was missing, the Star of the Morning. It fell in the mud at the Oasis concert.

Waa'kapa'muuka and the Gas Masked Socialite were hosting Prester John and his entourage at a quaint rundown motel on the skirts of Lake Cacapeepee, aka the Municipal Sewage Pond.

the alphabet I used. I'm sure it was one I must have known well enough to kid myself I knew how to use it. As for my use of language, even now, I have no idea how the words come.

"The Republican Party is no more. What we have is the Whites Party riding on the laurels of the GOP," explained Musta Phillies to the parking warden that was writing him a ticket.

an Emmy or Oscar or some piece of shit reward for spoiled celebs to pat each other on the ass. That iguana was my grandfather, and now I ran a successful livery service in Bangor.

It felt weird having the Devil rattle around in there, but evidently He knew what He was doing. "Gloop glup," I said as He shoveled my regrets into my empty thirst for vengeance.

scars on his arms was still in the "I only want to suffer, not exit" stages of depression, asked if anybody had seen his phone. Uh-oh. I called Vivienne on her new cell phone and

to the garish sun, and all the infernal orb rewards them with is a glaze of skin cancer." Mr. and Mrs. Centipede clicked their poison pincers together amidst the mushroom patch.

Never before. I’ve tested it countless times by not flushing. I might go a week without flushing. Not even a hint of a giggle. But the moment I flush Susan Cowsill laughs like an

of amateur pornography of unsuspecting people disrobing which Zuckerberg soon uploaded to his personal reserves. The camer-ants go marching on and on, oofah, oofah. They violate

“Again, I’ll say, I could be right, you could be wrong, we could be naked all day long.” She didn’t decipher stupid, snubbing his pickup line, flipping him off behind her back.

There is nothing more comforting than the familiar. The Lady in the fluorescent tutu, an unusual color for every day of the year, pushing her old pet pussycat in a baby carriage.

breathing and sleep. They made noises to each other over me. One of them was constantly sticking my arm to take blood. For blood magic probably; to keep me enthralled. No weapons