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I may eventually put something worthwhile here. Then again, perhaps I won't.


What the eye don't see

You bought a mask, I put it on

You never thought to ask me

If I wear it when you're gone

Get real.

-- Sisters of Mercy, "When You Don't See Me"


My boss chewed me out because I was late. I tried to look contrite. He chewed me out again when he read my report - not up to standards, he said. I smiled wanly and said I would rewrite it; surely it would be better with his comments. At the staff meeting, the section chief commended the group for their efforts over the past year and those who made the company proud would be honored at this afternoon's company-wide awards ceremony, though he noted that some weren't pulling their weight. He stared at me while making that last point. I kept my mask on.

At lunch I went to the garage, found my car, popped the trunk, and took out the guns stored there. Screw the mask I had kept for many years. Today I had my own way of rewarding the company's overachievers.



The mob accountant

Brian was hired by the Giaccamo family to keep their books. Two sets of books, actually: one that the IRS got to see, one that only the Don and his closest confidants were privy to. This worked well for years, but Brian got greedy. He started to cook the books yet another way, disguising the skim he was taking from the Giaccamos.

What Brian didn't know was that Joey Jr., the Don's youngest, was a CPA, focusing on forensic accounting. When Joey discovered the discrepancies, Brian's goose was cooked. As was Brian, screaming all the way as they lowered him into the boiling water.



One as nuts as the other

When the Southern History Society heard that up north they were tearing down statues of Confederate figures such as Robert E. Lee and Jefferson Davis and renaming roads and schools named after them, the Society agreed that, if the Yankees could try to erase southern history, they could try to do the same to the north. Any Confederate figure associated with Mr. Lincoln would go, including anything commemorating Grant or, cursed be his name, Sherman.

Sadly, all they could find were tributes to Cary Grant and the Sherman who served with Mr. Peabody in his Wayback Machine. Still, the Society eradicated every one of the tributes. So there!



Illegal alien

My mother always said I was an alien, born in some distant solar system and adopted as an infant. She begged me not to get hurt, as Earth medicine couldn't help me. Each of my transgressions would merit a heavy sigh and a "I should never have rescued you from that orphanage." Low grades, fighting at school, sassing back to her - I got the alien speech. Gives a kid a complex, I tell you.

Of course, I'm no alien. I got cut badly when I was 12 and I bled as red as you. My sister, on the other hand... Yep. Total extraterrestrial.



Now yer cookin'

Mary recognized the smell as soon as she opened the door. She worked as an EMT and was trained to detect even small odors of gas. Her training told her to leave the house immediately, find a safe place, and call 911. She debated doing that but, against her better judgment, she stayed put.

"Har-OLD!" she bellowed, opening as many windows as she could. "Don't you notice that overpowering smell? I told you to do something about it the last time this happened!"

Her husband appeared in the doorway. "Sorry, dear. I filled up the tank today, and you know I can't resist those 7-11 burritos."