By John McDonnell
“I hate the winter,” Dolores said one day. “I need a vacation at the beach, but we have no money.” Larry had gone into hibernation mode and he was asleep in the corner of the TV room in the form of an 800 pound male grizzly bear.
“I remember when Father used to take us to our winter home in Florida,” Edna said. She was watching a game show in a sequined pink tulle gown, bedecked with jewelry. “We’d spend our winters playing in the sand and watching the alligators maul deer that wandered too close to the lake. I missed a lot of schoolwork those years, but Father said with a mind like mine it wouldn’t matter.”
“You never had a house in Florida,” Dolores said.
“Didn’t I?” Edna said. “Oh, well, it must have happened to somebody else.”
Then there was a knock at the front door and when Dolores opened it a TV announcer smiled at her, temporarily blinding her with the glare from his teeth.
“Is this the home of Larry the Alien?” the man said, shoving a microphone in her face. He was smiling so hard it looked like his face might crack, and his eyes were bulging with manic energy.
“Who wants to know?” Dolores said.
“I want to tell him that he won the ‘You Can Be Fabulously Wealthy Marketing Sweepstakes’, and he’s won a million dollars!!!” the man shouted. Dolores had the sensation that the oxygen was being sucked out of the neighborhood every time he opened his mouth.
“Oh, that’s lovely,” Edna said, from the couch. “But you’ll have to come back in several months. Larry is taking his winter nap.”
“That’s not possible!” the man said, whipping a poster-sized check out of a briefcase. “He needs to take his check today! I have TV cameras waiting!” He pointed to a group of people behind him, and they did indeed have a battery of cameras pointed at the house.
Before Dolores knew what was happening the group had brushed her aside and were inside the house.
The announcer found Larry in his corner, and said, “Here he is, boys! Make sure you get a good angle on my teeth!”
He started shoving Larry, prodding him to wake him up. Larry snorted once and tried to keep on sleeping.
“Come on, Mr. Larry,” the man said. “Wake up to the wonderful fact that you’re a winner! Did you hear me? You’re a winner!”
Larry growled once, but did not open his eyes.
“I’ll bet he’s dreaming about salmon,” Edna said. “It’s a lovely dream for a bear.”
The announcer picked up a pepper shaker from the kitchen table and poured some into his palm, then threw the handful at Larry’s big wet bear nose. Larry scrunched up his nose, snuffled, and then sneezed loud enough to rattle the windows. He opened his eyes blearily and looked at the announcer.
“There’s the sleepyhead!” the announcer said. He turned to the camera, grinning even more broadly. “Folks, we’re here at the home of an average Joe extra-terrestrial who just happened to sign up for the ‘You Can Be Fabulously Wealthy Marketing Sweepstakes’, and he won! How are you feeling right now, Larry?”
He shoved the microphone in Larry’s face, there was a pregnant pause, and then there was a blur of activity involving Larry, the announcer, and the camera crew, who abandoned their equipment and ran like a herd of stampeding buffalo through Dolores’s house and out to their van, where they drove off without saying goodbye. Larry roared and chased the announcer through the house, cornering him as he tried to climb a crystal chandelier in the entryway, and the man’s sobs and shrieks could be heard in the next ZIP code.
Dolores finally got Larry away from the announcer by offering him several pounds of salmon steaks from the freezer, and Larry went sleepily back to his corner in the TV room and curled up with his snack, after emitting several more thunderous roars.
“I’m so sorry,” Edna said, helping the announcer down from the chandelier. “He’s not very pleasant until he gets his coffee. Would you like to stay for some tea?”
The announcer seemed to have lost the ability to speak, and he simply picked up his microphone and hightailed it for the door, where he made a run for the high ground.
“Well, dear,” Edna said, picking up the check and handing it to Dolores. “I guess we can take that Florida trip now. I can't wait to see those alligators again."
THE END
Showing posts with label friday flash. Show all posts
Showing posts with label friday flash. Show all posts
Friday, January 14, 2011
Saturday, November 27, 2010
Larry The Football Fixer
By John McDonnell
Blinky and Mushy were two of the patrons at Murphy’s bar. You may wonder why they had those nicknames. Well, Blinky was a man who tended to blink a lot whenever he got excited, and Mushy got his name because he could get misty-eyed at anything, including the sound of a clock ticking or the taste of buttered toast.
One day when Larry came to work in the form of Michelangelo, and he was up on a scaffold painting a replica of the Sistine Chapel ceiling in Murphy’s bar, Blinky and Mushy came to him with an idea.
“You’re an expert at time-traveling, right?” Blinky said.
“Si,” Larry said, putting the finishing touches on a cherub.
“The man’s a genius!” Mushy said. He was starting to tear up.
“Well, we were thinking,” Blinky said, “that it would be a small thing for you to influence the outcome of the Wagstaff State game this week. You could ah, travel forward in time and maybe do something that would allow our team to win.”
“Change the future?”
“That’s it,” Mushy said, tears brimming in his eyes. “Gosh, Larry, it would be the most beautiful thing. Wagstaff hasn’t beaten Crusher Tech in 30 years.”
“I dunno,” Larry said. “It’s not really permitted. It’s against the rules, like eating store bought pasta.”
“Aw, Larry, just this once,” Blinky said, blinking furiously. “One time, that’s all. You’d be making so many people happy, especially if you could arrange for Wagstaff to win by three.”
“Okay, maybe just once,” Larry said.
“I knew you’d do it!” Mushy said, sobbing with joy.
Larry got down from the scaffold, wiped off his paint spattered hands, and closed his eyes. The air shimmered and he disappeared. In a matter of seconds he was back.”
“The deed, she is done,” he said. “Now, I have to finish this ceiling. The Pope wants me to paint his bathroom next.”
The Saturday of the big game Murphy’s bar was packed. The word had gotten out, and there was a rumor that a lot of Murphy’s patrons had taken a financial interest in the outcome. As the game progressed the mood quickened, because Wagstaff State was actually holding its own. It seemed that Crusher Tech’s best players were coming down with a stomach virus that required them to spend a lot of time in the locker room, and the second stringers who replaced them were not doing as well. Larry intimated that he had placed a small colony of viruses in the team’s Gatorade.
By the fourth quarter the game was close, and the excitement was palpable. Mushy had had several crying jags by now, and Blinky was blinking so much he could hardly see the TV set. The game came down to one big play, with Wagstaff State lining up to kick a field goal that would win the game for them.
“This is a historic day,” Blinky said, blinking three times in succession.
“I can’t believe I’m here to witness it,” Mushy said, choking back tears.
You could hear a pin drop in the room when the players lined up. The ball was snapped, the kicker strode forward, swung his foot, and --
the ball disappeared.
There was a gasp from the crowd and then a shout, as a football appeared on the bar and the crowd realized it was the same ball that the kicker and his teammates were searching frantically for on the field.
“Larry!” Blinky said, jumping up and down, waving his arms, his eyelids moving like hummingbird wings. “What’s going on? Is that the game ball?”
“This is terrible,” Mushy said, tears streaming down his face. “Oh, this is horrible!”
There was pandemonium in the bar, with people yelling directions to the kicker, others cursing, Mushy crying, and Larry turning into an 8 foot ostrich and running about madly in search of a hole to stick his head in.
Then the ball disappeared from the bar and reappeared on the field 25 yards from the kicker. He ran after it as it bounced crazily down the field, followed by the other 21 players.
Then it reappeared on the bar, and the crowd screamed, groaned, cursed.
Then it disappeared and reappeared on the field, this time in the lap of a Mr. Charles H. Hungadunga, who was sitting at the 50 yard line, and the teams charged into the stands after it.
Then it was back on the bar.
Then it was back on the field.
“Folks, this is the craziest thing I’ve ever seen,” the TV announcer was saying. “In all my years of doing the Big Game, I’ve never seen a disappearing football.”
Finally it ended up on the bar again, and the gun sounded that ended the game. Crusher Tech fans rushed the field, the Wagstaff State fans sat in shock, and the mood in the bar was funereal. Mushy was sobbing, Blinky was staring into space (his eyelids seemed paralyzed) and Murphy watched in horror as his patrons lost their thirst and started filing out of the bar.
“You know, the first official football game was between Rutgers University and Princeton, in 1869,” Larry said, from the ice bucket where he’d stuck his head. “It was played under soccer style rules. Rutgers won, by a score of 6 runs to 4.”
“Interesting,” Murphy said, pouring himself a beer. “Do you think they had a disappearing ball in that one?”
THE END
Blinky and Mushy were two of the patrons at Murphy’s bar. You may wonder why they had those nicknames. Well, Blinky was a man who tended to blink a lot whenever he got excited, and Mushy got his name because he could get misty-eyed at anything, including the sound of a clock ticking or the taste of buttered toast.
One day when Larry came to work in the form of Michelangelo, and he was up on a scaffold painting a replica of the Sistine Chapel ceiling in Murphy’s bar, Blinky and Mushy came to him with an idea.
“You’re an expert at time-traveling, right?” Blinky said.
“Si,” Larry said, putting the finishing touches on a cherub.
“The man’s a genius!” Mushy said. He was starting to tear up.
“Well, we were thinking,” Blinky said, “that it would be a small thing for you to influence the outcome of the Wagstaff State game this week. You could ah, travel forward in time and maybe do something that would allow our team to win.”
“Change the future?”
“That’s it,” Mushy said, tears brimming in his eyes. “Gosh, Larry, it would be the most beautiful thing. Wagstaff hasn’t beaten Crusher Tech in 30 years.”
“I dunno,” Larry said. “It’s not really permitted. It’s against the rules, like eating store bought pasta.”
“Aw, Larry, just this once,” Blinky said, blinking furiously. “One time, that’s all. You’d be making so many people happy, especially if you could arrange for Wagstaff to win by three.”
“Okay, maybe just once,” Larry said.
“I knew you’d do it!” Mushy said, sobbing with joy.
Larry got down from the scaffold, wiped off his paint spattered hands, and closed his eyes. The air shimmered and he disappeared. In a matter of seconds he was back.”
“The deed, she is done,” he said. “Now, I have to finish this ceiling. The Pope wants me to paint his bathroom next.”
The Saturday of the big game Murphy’s bar was packed. The word had gotten out, and there was a rumor that a lot of Murphy’s patrons had taken a financial interest in the outcome. As the game progressed the mood quickened, because Wagstaff State was actually holding its own. It seemed that Crusher Tech’s best players were coming down with a stomach virus that required them to spend a lot of time in the locker room, and the second stringers who replaced them were not doing as well. Larry intimated that he had placed a small colony of viruses in the team’s Gatorade.
By the fourth quarter the game was close, and the excitement was palpable. Mushy had had several crying jags by now, and Blinky was blinking so much he could hardly see the TV set. The game came down to one big play, with Wagstaff State lining up to kick a field goal that would win the game for them.
“This is a historic day,” Blinky said, blinking three times in succession.
“I can’t believe I’m here to witness it,” Mushy said, choking back tears.
You could hear a pin drop in the room when the players lined up. The ball was snapped, the kicker strode forward, swung his foot, and --
the ball disappeared.
There was a gasp from the crowd and then a shout, as a football appeared on the bar and the crowd realized it was the same ball that the kicker and his teammates were searching frantically for on the field.
“Larry!” Blinky said, jumping up and down, waving his arms, his eyelids moving like hummingbird wings. “What’s going on? Is that the game ball?”
“This is terrible,” Mushy said, tears streaming down his face. “Oh, this is horrible!”
There was pandemonium in the bar, with people yelling directions to the kicker, others cursing, Mushy crying, and Larry turning into an 8 foot ostrich and running about madly in search of a hole to stick his head in.
Then the ball disappeared from the bar and reappeared on the field 25 yards from the kicker. He ran after it as it bounced crazily down the field, followed by the other 21 players.
Then it reappeared on the bar, and the crowd screamed, groaned, cursed.
Then it disappeared and reappeared on the field, this time in the lap of a Mr. Charles H. Hungadunga, who was sitting at the 50 yard line, and the teams charged into the stands after it.
Then it was back on the bar.
Then it was back on the field.
“Folks, this is the craziest thing I’ve ever seen,” the TV announcer was saying. “In all my years of doing the Big Game, I’ve never seen a disappearing football.”
Finally it ended up on the bar again, and the gun sounded that ended the game. Crusher Tech fans rushed the field, the Wagstaff State fans sat in shock, and the mood in the bar was funereal. Mushy was sobbing, Blinky was staring into space (his eyelids seemed paralyzed) and Murphy watched in horror as his patrons lost their thirst and started filing out of the bar.
“You know, the first official football game was between Rutgers University and Princeton, in 1869,” Larry said, from the ice bucket where he’d stuck his head. “It was played under soccer style rules. Rutgers won, by a score of 6 runs to 4.”
“Interesting,” Murphy said, pouring himself a beer. “Do you think they had a disappearing ball in that one?”
THE END
Friday, April 16, 2010
Petey And Muggs Discuss Evolution -- a #fridayflash story
By John McDonnell
“The sign says don’t throw peanuts to the lions,” Muggs said.
“This one ain’t interested anyway,” Petey said, pointing to the huge male who was pacing back and forth in his cage inside the lion house, his shoulder muscles rippling with every step. “This boy wants his steak dinner.”
They had come into the lion house following a short man in a blue suit and a white straw hat, who was holding the arm of a young woman in a red pleated dress that stopped an inch above the knee. The man and woman were leaning against a railing near one of the cages at the far end of the corridor. There were six male lions, each with his own cage, and they were all pacing back and forth, waiting for their dinner. Every once in awhile, one of them would let out a deep, moaning roar, which echoed like thunder in the tiled building. The air was thick with their animal smell.
“So is that Mrs. Fishburn?” Muggs said, pointing to the woman in the red dress.
“That, my friend, is not Mrs. Fishburn,” Petey said. “But that is the reason Mr. Fishburn has been fiddling Mr. Donovan’s books. He’s got a chippie.”
“That ain’t right,” Muggs said.
“Aw, marriage ain’t natural anyway,” Petey said. “Look at them lions. They don’t get married, do they?”
“Animals and people is different.”
“No they ain’t. Ain’t you heard of evolution? They’re havin’ a big trial about it right now in Tennessee. All them Bible people want to convict a teacher named Scopes for teachin’ that we came from monkeys.”
“I didn’t come from no monkey.”
“You sure about that? I think I seen some of your relatives in the gorilla house.”
“Hey, what’s he doing down there?” Muggs said.
The man in the straw boater was throwing peanuts at a lion. He was throwing one peanut after another. He hit the big cat in the eye, and the lion roared. The man in the hat roared back, laughing and making a fist at the lion. The girl next to him giggled at the game he was playing.
“That ain’t right,” Muggs said.
* * *
The Packard was in the shop, so they had to walk back uptown.
“Funny how them lions got so excited,” Petey said.
“It was loud in there,” Muggs said. “My ears still hurt.”
“You probably shouldn’t have pressed Mr. Fishburn’s head against the cage. I thought he was havin’ a heart attack when you did that.”
“The sign said don’t throw peanuts to the lions,” Muggs said. Muggs wrinkled his brow in thought for a moment, then said, “You think people and animals are the same?”
“Nah,” Petey said, grabbing an apple from a fruit stand while the proprietor wasn’t looking. “We’re the ones that belong in the zoo.”
THE END
Copyright John McDonnell, 2010
“The sign says don’t throw peanuts to the lions,” Muggs said.
“This one ain’t interested anyway,” Petey said, pointing to the huge male who was pacing back and forth in his cage inside the lion house, his shoulder muscles rippling with every step. “This boy wants his steak dinner.”
They had come into the lion house following a short man in a blue suit and a white straw hat, who was holding the arm of a young woman in a red pleated dress that stopped an inch above the knee. The man and woman were leaning against a railing near one of the cages at the far end of the corridor. There were six male lions, each with his own cage, and they were all pacing back and forth, waiting for their dinner. Every once in awhile, one of them would let out a deep, moaning roar, which echoed like thunder in the tiled building. The air was thick with their animal smell.
“So is that Mrs. Fishburn?” Muggs said, pointing to the woman in the red dress.
“That, my friend, is not Mrs. Fishburn,” Petey said. “But that is the reason Mr. Fishburn has been fiddling Mr. Donovan’s books. He’s got a chippie.”
“That ain’t right,” Muggs said.
“Aw, marriage ain’t natural anyway,” Petey said. “Look at them lions. They don’t get married, do they?”
“Animals and people is different.”
“No they ain’t. Ain’t you heard of evolution? They’re havin’ a big trial about it right now in Tennessee. All them Bible people want to convict a teacher named Scopes for teachin’ that we came from monkeys.”
“I didn’t come from no monkey.”
“You sure about that? I think I seen some of your relatives in the gorilla house.”
“Hey, what’s he doing down there?” Muggs said.
The man in the straw boater was throwing peanuts at a lion. He was throwing one peanut after another. He hit the big cat in the eye, and the lion roared. The man in the hat roared back, laughing and making a fist at the lion. The girl next to him giggled at the game he was playing.
“That ain’t right,” Muggs said.
* * *
The Packard was in the shop, so they had to walk back uptown.
“Funny how them lions got so excited,” Petey said.
“It was loud in there,” Muggs said. “My ears still hurt.”
“You probably shouldn’t have pressed Mr. Fishburn’s head against the cage. I thought he was havin’ a heart attack when you did that.”
“The sign said don’t throw peanuts to the lions,” Muggs said. Muggs wrinkled his brow in thought for a moment, then said, “You think people and animals are the same?”
“Nah,” Petey said, grabbing an apple from a fruit stand while the proprietor wasn’t looking. “We’re the ones that belong in the zoo.”
THE END
Copyright John McDonnell, 2010
Friday, April 2, 2010
A Bad Idea -- a #fridayflash story
By John McDonnell
Petey and Muggs were leaning against the ring ropes watching the Princeton Strongboy sparring with another fighter at the gym in New Jersey. The Strongboy was tall and blonde, and threw quick, sharp jabs that splattered sweat from the other man’s head when they connected. They sounded like wet towels smacking against a cinderblock wall. He smiled and danced on his toes between jabs.
“Nice looking fella,” Petey said. “Went to college, I hear.”
“Why’s he a fighter then?” Muggs asked. “He should be one of them Wall Street boys.”
Petey laughed. “He’s doing okay knocking out the tomato cans they’re putting in front of him. Mr. Donovan has made a few shekels from him too.”
“Then why are we here?”
“Because he’s got to go down next week when he fights Irish Tommy Nolan. It’s all set up, only he’s not convinced he wants to do it.”
A bell rang, and the round ended. The Princeton Strongboy slipped through the ring ropes and stepped down to the floor. He spit his mouthpiece into a bucket held out by his trainer, a wizened man with stubbly white hair. The trainer gave him a towel and proceeded to unlace his gloves. When that was done, the trainer whispered in his ear and pointed at Petey and Muggs.
The Strongboy came over. “Can I help you fellows?”
“We’re here about some business,” Petey said.
“Yes, I know.”
“Mr. Donovan has an idea about your next bout.”
“I don’t like that idea.” He rubbed the towel vigorously through his hair, then draped it around his neck. “Sorry that you fellows had to come all the way out here, but you wasted your time.”
“That so?”
“I have too much to lose. If I beat Nolan, I’ll be the toast of the town. I’m different, you understand? I went to Princeton. The press loves me. Not your typical pug, if you know what I mean.”
“How come you’re not on Wall Street?” Muggs said. “Ain’t that where you boys go to work?”
The Strongboy laughed, showing his white teeth. “I’ll end up there eventually, working for father’s firm. For now, though, I’m making a better return beating up my social inferiors.”
“Any way we can convince you?” Petey said.
“Not a chance, boys,” the Strongboy said. He turned on his heel. “Have a nice ride back to town.”
Later, on the way back to town in the Packard, Petey said, “I’d a bet money he could take a punch.”
“Aw, you can’t fault him for that,” Muggs said. “He wasn’t looking.”
“He’ll need some dental work now.”
“I still can’t figure why he didn’t go to work on Wall Street,” Muggs said. “That’s where I’d go, if I was him.”
Petey whistled. “The size of you, why didn’t you ever go into the fight game?”
“I did. I fought a few bouts when I was a kid. Had a manager and everything.”
“Why didn’t you stick with it?”
“I had a problem. I never could remember the rules.”
“What rules?”
“Like when to stop hitting.”
“That would be a problem.”
“Yeah. I almost killed a fellow because of that. They had to pull me off him. After that my manager said I should retire.”
“Good decision,” Petey said. “You can’t go far if you don’t remember the rules.”
THE END
Copyright John McDonnell 2010
The Greatest Boxing Stories Ever Told: Thirty-Six Incredible Tales from the Ring
Petey and Muggs were leaning against the ring ropes watching the Princeton Strongboy sparring with another fighter at the gym in New Jersey. The Strongboy was tall and blonde, and threw quick, sharp jabs that splattered sweat from the other man’s head when they connected. They sounded like wet towels smacking against a cinderblock wall. He smiled and danced on his toes between jabs.
“Nice looking fella,” Petey said. “Went to college, I hear.”
“Why’s he a fighter then?” Muggs asked. “He should be one of them Wall Street boys.”
Petey laughed. “He’s doing okay knocking out the tomato cans they’re putting in front of him. Mr. Donovan has made a few shekels from him too.”
“Then why are we here?”
“Because he’s got to go down next week when he fights Irish Tommy Nolan. It’s all set up, only he’s not convinced he wants to do it.”
A bell rang, and the round ended. The Princeton Strongboy slipped through the ring ropes and stepped down to the floor. He spit his mouthpiece into a bucket held out by his trainer, a wizened man with stubbly white hair. The trainer gave him a towel and proceeded to unlace his gloves. When that was done, the trainer whispered in his ear and pointed at Petey and Muggs.
The Strongboy came over. “Can I help you fellows?”
“We’re here about some business,” Petey said.
“Yes, I know.”
“Mr. Donovan has an idea about your next bout.”
“I don’t like that idea.” He rubbed the towel vigorously through his hair, then draped it around his neck. “Sorry that you fellows had to come all the way out here, but you wasted your time.”
“That so?”
“I have too much to lose. If I beat Nolan, I’ll be the toast of the town. I’m different, you understand? I went to Princeton. The press loves me. Not your typical pug, if you know what I mean.”
“How come you’re not on Wall Street?” Muggs said. “Ain’t that where you boys go to work?”
The Strongboy laughed, showing his white teeth. “I’ll end up there eventually, working for father’s firm. For now, though, I’m making a better return beating up my social inferiors.”
“Any way we can convince you?” Petey said.
“Not a chance, boys,” the Strongboy said. He turned on his heel. “Have a nice ride back to town.”
Later, on the way back to town in the Packard, Petey said, “I’d a bet money he could take a punch.”
“Aw, you can’t fault him for that,” Muggs said. “He wasn’t looking.”
“He’ll need some dental work now.”
“I still can’t figure why he didn’t go to work on Wall Street,” Muggs said. “That’s where I’d go, if I was him.”
Petey whistled. “The size of you, why didn’t you ever go into the fight game?”
“I did. I fought a few bouts when I was a kid. Had a manager and everything.”
“Why didn’t you stick with it?”
“I had a problem. I never could remember the rules.”
“What rules?”
“Like when to stop hitting.”
“That would be a problem.”
“Yeah. I almost killed a fellow because of that. They had to pull me off him. After that my manager said I should retire.”
“Good decision,” Petey said. “You can’t go far if you don’t remember the rules.”
THE END
Copyright John McDonnell 2010
The Greatest Boxing Stories Ever Told: Thirty-Six Incredible Tales from the Ring
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