Bankrupt This

Against the flat gray sky of the Financial District, the skyline begins to stir. Clouds of soot bellow down the narrow cross-streets and grand avenues, away from the Alan Alanwich Tower, which teeters, lurches, and completely parts company with the ground. Triumphant as Jupiter, the ten thousand ton fledgling of cement and steel lifts itself above the be-spired brotherhood of sober banks, ascending towards the heavens.

On the penthouse viewing deck, Alan Alanwich raises his fists. As all eighty-seven floors of his company rocket away from insolvency, one thought reverberates through his mind - "This will teach those fucking Democrats!"

The Mustache

Last Tuesday morning, I woke up with a moustache. It had not been there the day before. It appeared, fully formed, overnight.

My new moustache seems to have a mind of its own. I used to smoke regularly, but it will not abide by any kind of flame close to my face. It also has a taste for jerky.

My girlfriend, thinking it was one of those fake 'staches you wear for Halloween, tried to pull it off my face. Let's just say I'm single now.

And I know it is only a matter of time before it kills again.

Hindsight

I carried my shipwreck bag with me everywhere. Inside, I kept everything I would need were I ever stranded on a desert island. A Swiss army knife. A first aid kit. Fishing line and hooks. A Zippo lighter with extra fuel. My five favorite books. An mp3 player with my favorite music. A solar charger. The U.S. Army Survival Manual. Duct tape. A torch. Mosquito repellent.

People thought I was crazy, but here I am.

In hindsight, it would have made more sense to pack a satellite phone. Then I wouldn't still be stranded on this god forsaken island.

The Mad Scientist

He was mad. Truly mad.

He spent nearly every moment in his lab, concocting, inventing, dissecting the most horrific of catastrophes. His chilling laughter echoed through the 3 AM night.

He toyed with science, shaping it in his hands, bending it to his crazed will, contorting the numbers to the point where everything was possible.

He published his results profusely. His colleagues, upon receiving their monthly journals, trembled with dismay when they saw his name listed in the table of contents.

His diabolical genius compelled him to tweak his results just enough that all of his results would be slightly inaccurate.

The Joke

"Stop me if you've heard this one before. A man walks into a bar--"

"Stop."

"I haven't even finished yet."

"But you said to stop you if I've heard it."

"You don't know what the joke is."

"Sure I do. A man walks into a bar..."

"That's just the beginning."

"The beginning of a joke I've heard before."

"Look, here's the punchline. The extra long one's for the dog."

"Oh, I guess I haven't heard it before."

"Well, now it's ruined."

"No, start over."

"Okay, a guy goes into a bar--"

"No, that one I've heard. Tell the new one."

The Stray Cats Of Glen Eden

Glen Eden would otherwise be quite charming if not for the herd of cats.

They are unlike any cats you have ever seen. The size of golden retrievers, with husky fur, they have thoroughly overrun the village.

Their favorite spot is the widow's cabin. She not only feeds them fish and chicken in individual bowls, but she always keeps her fire burning, making her roof an especially balmy spot for naps.

The cats don't normally eat humans, but knowing that there have been attacks from time to time is enough to make any visit to Glen Eden a harrowing affair.

A Wonderful Guy

At some point in his late sixties, his life became a cliche.

Most afternoons were spent on the park bench, feeding the pigeons. He stopped buying clothes more than a decade ago. He was mortified at wearing anything that might be considered fashionable, for fear of being laughed at.

He voted Republican. He drove a Cadillac, erratically. He visited the cemetery every Sunday.

Even his children knew their roles, urging him to move into a nursing home.

So close to the end, these routines were all he had left. That, and his memories of playing the lead in South Pacific.

The Bridge To Nowhere

The bridge attracted all sorts of people. Haggard old men and women, driving mobile homes. Young families, on a weekend sojourn. Teenage lovers, joined at the hands. Once, many years ago, a man came riding a camel.

"What's at the other end?" They always asked the same question.

"Nothing, as far as I know." He had never actually been down the bridge himself. It was just his job to collect the tolls.

He always wondered what possessed people to drive the bridge. Was it curiosity? A sense of adventure? Boredom? Desperation?

Whatever the attraction, no one had ever come back.

The Good Lieutenant

Recently, Officer Hanson spent most of his days seething. It seemed almost every cop in the city was on the take, whether for the mob or the corporate executives. It was giving him and the entire department a bad name.

With all the internal affairs investigations, it was becoming impossible to write a simple traffic citation without getting hauled before the citizen's review board.

Hanson prided himself on being a by the book cop. Sure, he might kidnap the occasional tourist and murder them in cold blood, but that was on his own time.

Maybe it was time for retirement.

The Librarian

Carmichael perused the aisles one last time before locking up, straightening any book out of place. This was his favorite time, with all the patrons departed, and a true silence blanketing the building.

When he was younger, Carmichael used to spend the night in the Library, reading by one of the desk lamps. He would read as many books as possible, adventure stories, how-to-books, encyclopedias. Everything.

Carmichael was just entering his office when he heard the scream from outside. It sounded like someone was in danger. He ran fervently towards the exit.

He'd waited his whole life for this moment.