Bathroom Monologue: O Lie Detector, O Russian Bride

It can measure your pulse, heart rate and the seven highest points of activity in your brain in any given microsecond. It can correlate this activity with astounding probabilistic accuracy to every pause and word that comes from your mouth. It can time the hesitations of every muscle in your face before they conform to expressions. It can read the directions your eyes go when they don’t look into hers.

It is the most advanced lie detection system in the world. Once, its unit took up an entire college lab. Now, through the miracle of cloud computing, it is available in the mind of every wife we sell. Standard. No charge.

It can be removed for a fee, though. Market testing found disabling it to be a premium feature.

Bathroom Monologue: The Strange Case of East Parish

Most operate in a simple way. They shamble towards smell or sound, and they bite whatever moves. If it tastes like flesh, they keep biting. One time they broke into Westers’ pantry. The Westers are vegan, but the zombies ate every last ounce of their chicken-flavored tofu. Noise, smell, the taste of flesh, shambling slowly and biting whatever they found. Most were simple like that.

During the outbreak, parishioner Rev. Calvin was helping evacuate local elementary schools. He was on his third, Fleetwood Elementary, when a sallow, middle-aged woman bit him. He looked so scared, but held the woman away from the others until police could quarantine her. When the authorities nabbed her, he got himself as far away from the flock as he could. His parish thought he’d run into the woods and gotten eaten.

Two weeks later, with the outbreak mostly over, people returned to East Parish and began opening places back up. When they entered the church, the pair of officers heard scuffling somewhere. They stood still, and it stopped. They talked, and it started again.

The two traced it to the confessional booth. Something was pawing at the priest’s door. They asked for verbal confirmation to no reply. One lost a coin flip and the other covered him as he opened the door.

It was Rev. Calvin, shirt soiled, but collar intact. He sat in the booth, his flesh clearly rotten. After a moment he turned and reached for them, at which point the officers slammed the door shut.

The officers were Catholic and couldn’t bring themselves to shoot a priest in his own confessional. And how had he even gotten in there? What sort of zombie enters a room, then closes the door behind himself? They’d never even seen a zombie sit down before. They peeked through the sliding panel on the other side, and sure enough, he sat at peace unless they made noise.

They put a sign on his door, warning that a zombie was inside, then went back to dispatch.

They asked around. No one in the department had seen a zombie that used doors. The idea of zombies working doors scared all of them, and they considered going and re-killing Rev. Calvin just to keep him from teaching this trick to other biters.

But he wasn’t a biter. Upon the return, there were no signs of any others, live or dead, on the premises. Zombies were pack creatures, yet Rev. Calvin had apparently been alone in his church since the outbreak.

A lapsed deputy was stationed to watch him, specifically to see if Rev. Calvin would eventually open that door. If he did, she was to shoot.

Except for when the deputy checked her cell phone, the zombie never made a noise. If it rang, he scuffled. If she talked on it, he scuffled louder.

People do dumb things if left alone. For instance, unrelieved of duty by the end of the day, the deputy entered the confessional. Rev. Calvin scratched at the screen partition until she said it had been six years since her last confession. He scratched less and less as she imparted things she’d never say elsewhere. She got so carried away that at the end, confessing that she’d left somebody behind during the evacuation, that she shouldn’t have, had been too scared to think straight. She got so carried away that she asked the zombie what to do for penance.

She went quiet, realizing how absurd she was being.

After a moment of peace, Rev. Calvin scratched at the screen again. If it’s to be believed, he scratched twice, making the sign of the cross.

If it wasn’t to be believed, there were other things to believe. The dead had risen, and maybe they could work doors. A family of vegans claimed that zombies had broken into their pantry and ate all their chicken-flavored tofu. Zombieism was, supposedly, making the leap to other species, and had replaced mad cow disease as a major farm scare. That farm scares were even an issue after the dead had risen took some of its own believing. So if you didn’t believe a zombie providing absolution, there were other things to do.

Rev. Calvin got a lot of visitors. First other cops, curious. Then civilians. One-by-one, and when they came in groups, only one entered the church at a time. Any visitor could tell you, it was something you had to do alone. There’s something about loneliness. People and zombies alike are social creatures, and being alone makes them do bizarre things.

Rev. Calvin had been alone for almost two weeks before receiving his first undead confession. He still hasn’t figured out how to open up the door and get out. Nobody’s gotten rid of him, either. In a post-zombie world, he’s kind of an attraction.

This story originally appeared at Alienskin Magazine. May they rise from the grave.

Bathroom Monologue: Amending Spring

It was one of those early spring days. One that opens with frost on the grass and old Mrs. Paisley’s feet propped on a heater, but by noon has all her motherless grandchildren fanning themselves and whining from heat. One of those very early spring days where the river out back runs too cold to swim in without catching ill, yet the silt banks are baked and cracked. One of those days when the kittens cry no matter where you put them.

You know what? Screw that spring day.

It was one of those summer days that’s hot and stays hot and nothing much happens outside of routine. One of those days several months removed from the mysterious drowning of Mrs. Paisley’s eldest grandson. Why was it mysterious? That day was simply too intemperate to bother explaining. No, it was one of those days where the entire incident had been explained, mourned over and put behind them. Everyone was okay.

It was one of those summer days without drama or intrigue. Enjoy.

Bathroom Monologue: Fucking Genius, A Monologue

“I think we hit a language barrier there. Don’t you have idioms on Mars? When she said, ‘You’re a fucking genius, Orville Williamson,’ she didn’t actually… mean that. You know?

“Please stop doing that.

“I mean, I’m lucky to pull C’s in Chem, and I always forget to text my girl back. As far as what you thought… well, my girl can smack that one down, too. I get it, you heard her say that and she’s my girl so she’d know, and you kind of want to learn about our anatomy, but that doesn’t make me the Wise One of Humping. I don’t think there is such a thing as a ‘fucking genius.’

“Hey. Let go. I said I’m not…

“Wow, that’s warm. Kind of nice.

“No, wait, stop that. At least in public. I’m trying to explain that there are very few actual experts of this sort, and while it’s flattering you’d see me as the first man ever worthy of…

 
“You know, I forgot what I was saying. Show me how that tentacle works again?”

Bathroom Monologue: The Cost of Fire

Redhelm rubbed his own biceps, unable to believe that fire was finally before him. The entire camp was lit up with the stuff, pits spewing cinders straight out of the ground. The barbarians flocked around them, holding out their hands and spits of meat to cook.

"I can't believe it,” he said, clapping the shaman on his shoulders. “We'd have frozen in this winter. How much did all this fire cost?"

The wizard shrugged his bearskin. "Me? Nothing. I put it on your tab."

"You did?"

"I did."

Redhelm frowned at the old man. "How generous."

"Of you, yes."

"Who do I owe?"

The wizard inched closer to the flames. "I don't like to speak his name, but tomorrow you'll have Hell to pay."

The Adventures of Raptor Theropod

"RAPTOR!"

No answer.

"RAPTOR!"

No answer.

"What's gone with that boy, I wonder? You RAPTOR!"

No answer.

The old pachycephalosaurus pulled her spectacles down and looked over them about the room; then she put them up and looked out under them. She seldom or never looked THROUGH them for so small a thing as a theropod; they were her state pair, the pride of her heart, and were built for "style," not service--she could have seen through a pair of stove-lids just as well, had steel been invented in the Cretaceous period. She looked perplexed for a moment, and then said, not fiercely, but still loud enough for the furniture to hear:

"Well, I lay if I get hold of you I'll--"

She did not finish, for by this time she was bending down and punching under the bed with the broom, and so she needed breath to punctuate the punches with. She resurrected nothing but the cat.

"I never did see the beat of that dinosaur!"

She went to the open door and stood in it and looked out among the tomato vines and "jimpson" weeds that constituted the garden. No Raptor. So she lifted up her voice at an angle calculated for distance and shouted:

"Y-o-u-u RAPTOR!"

There was a slight noise behind her and she turned just in time to seize a small theropod by the slack of his roundabout and arrest his flight.

"There! I might 'a' thought of that closet. What you been doing in there?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing! Look at your hands. And look at your mouth. What IS that truck?"

"I don't know, aunt."

"Well, I know. It's jam--that's what it is. Forty times I've said if you didn't let that jam alone I'd skin you. Hand me that switch."

The switch hovered in the air--the peril was desperate--

"My! Look behind you, aunt!"

The old pachycephalosaurus whirled round, and snatched her skirts out of danger. The lad fled on the instant, scrambled up the high board-fence, and disappeared over it.

His aunt Pachy stood surprised a moment, and then broke into a gentle laugh.

"Hang the dinosaur, can't I never learn anything? Ain't he played me tricks enough like that for me to be looking out for him by this time? But old fools is the biggest fools there is. Can't learn an old dog new tricks, as the saying is. But my goodness, he never plays them alike, two days, and how is a body to know what's coming? He 'pears to know just how long he can torment me before I get my dander up, and he knows if he can make out to put me off for a minute or make me laugh, it's all down again and I can't hit him a lick. I ain't doing my duty by that theropod, and that's the Rex's truth, goodness knows. Spare the tail and spile the child, as the Good Book says. I'm a laying up sin and suffering for us both, I know. He's full of the Old Scratch, but laws-a-me! he's my own dead sister's hatchling, poor thing, and I ain't got the heart to lash him, somehow. Every time I let him off, my conscience does hurt me so, and every time I hit him my old heart most breaks. Well-a-well, dinoman that is born of din woman is of few days and full of trouble, as the Scripture says, and I reckon it's so. He'll play hookey this evening, and I'll just be obleeged to make him work, to-morrow, to punish him. It's mighty hard to make him work Saturdays, when all the boys is having holiday, but he hates work more than he hates anything else, and I've GOT to do some of my duty by him, or I'll be the ruination of the child."

Raptor did play hookey, and he had a very good time. He got back home barely in season to help Jin, the small colored jintasaurus, saw next-day's wood and split the kindlings before supper--at least he was there in time to tell his adventures to Jin while Jin did three-fourths of the work. Raptor's younger brother (or rather half-brother, for there were many eggs in that nest) Sig was already through with his part of the work (picking up chips), for he was a quiet sigilmassasaur, and had no adventurous, troublesome ways.

While Raptor was eating his supper, and stealing sugar as opportunity offered, Aunt Pachy asked him questions that were full of guile, and very deep--for she wanted to trap him into damaging revealments. Like many other simple-hearted souls, it was her pet vanity to believe she was endowed with a talent for dark and mysterious diplomacy, and she loved to contemplate her most transparent devices as marvels of low cunning. Said she:

"Raptor, it was middling warm in school, warn't it?"

"Yes'm."

"Powerful warm, warn't it?"

"Yes'm."

"Didn't you want to go in a-swimming, Raptor?"

A bit of a scare shot through Raptor--a touch of uncomfortable suspicion. He searched Aunt Pachy's face, but it told him nothing. So he said:

"No'm--well, not very much. My species is not amphibious."

The old pachycephalosaurus reached out her hand and felt Raptor's shirt, and said:

"But you ain't too warm now, though." And it flattered her to reflect that she had discovered that the shirt was dry without anybody knowing that that was what she had in her mind. But in spite of her, Raptor knew where the wind lay, now. So he forestalled what might be the next move:

"Some of us pumped on our heads--mine's damp yet. See?"

Aunt Pachy was vexed to think she had overlooked that bit of circumstantial evidence, and missed a trick. Then she had a new inspiration:

"Raptor, you didn't have to undo your shirt collar where I sewed it, to pump on your head, did you? Unbutton your jacket!"

The trouble vanished out of Raptor's face. He opened his jacket. His shirt collar was securely sewed.

"Bother! Well, go 'long with you. I'd made sure you'd played hookey and been a-swimming. But I forgive ye, Raptor. I reckon you're a kind of a singed mammal, as the saying is--better'n you look. THIS time."

She was half sorry her sagacity had miscarried, and half glad that Raptor had stumbled into obedient conduct for once.

But Sigilmassasaurus said: "Well, now, if I didn't think you sewed his collar with white thread, but it's black."

"Why, I did sew it with white! Raptor!"

But Raptor did not wait for the rest. As he went out at the door he said:

"Siggy, I'll lick you for that."




If you couldn’t tell, this story is not original. This is the opening of Mark Twain’s The Adventures of Tom Sawyer with some dinosaurs swapped in. If I hadn’t just said that, it would be blatant plagiarism. Was it blatant plagiarism until you read that? Regardless, it is Monica Marier’s fault for her comment on the #replacemanwithvelociraptor post, asking me to subvert some full-on classic with a velociraptor. I presume anyone who read this far figured it out. Please Comment with what point you figured it out. If you skipped down here in confusion, Please Comment that you cheated.

This post is in no way meant as offense to the late Mr. Twain. It’s meant as offense to Seth Grahame-Smith.

New Rule for the Game - Audio Redux

This originally ran a few months ago. Since then Max Cantor sent in the following cheerful recording that I wanted to share for #spokensunday.

To listen to Max's recording of "New Rule for the Game," either click the triangle in the left to begin streaming audio or click this text to download the MP3.

“Some day in the future we are all going to have microprocessors in our heads that record everything we say and do. We’re going to pay for the privilege because it’s going to do all sorts of radical stuff, like auto-friend hot girls you pass on the street and get you the best discounts on the music you just heard. It’s going to do something else, too. It’s going to log everything you say, so that when you use “qoph” in Scrabble, I can check if you’ve spoken it in the last five years, and if you haven’t, you lose those fucking points because there’s no God damned way that counts.”

Bathroom Monologue: Skepticism about Telepathy

Arguing telepathy with this skeptic was confounding. He was sure he knew everything I thought and wanted to tell it to me before I said it. And then the conversation was over- like magic.

Bathroom Monologue: Shameless

They had to be newlyweds or serial killers. Cheryl preferred them to be newlyweds, two kids who had never experienced the carnal and found it extremely to their liking. When they finished, she'd knock and ask them to please move the bed six inches away from the wall. She couldn’t nap with all that unnecessary shared thumping on her bedroom wall.

An hour of unnecessary shared thumping later, she wondered if it was a couple at all. Perhaps there was a washing machine up against that wall, one that squeaked like two pairs of panting lungs. She turned up her surround sound and attempted to lose herself in a blockbuster movie of swords and stubbled men.

Two hours of unnecessary shared thumping later, she questioned how many washing machines had such a long cycle. What kind of stains would require that kind of intensity?

Three hours of unnecessary shared thumping later, Cheryl had a mindful of stains that might require that intensity. She clutched her aching back and banged on the wall with a broom. Unsurprisingly, they didn’t seem to hear.

She banged on their door. The bedsprings were audible from the hallway. They didn’t cease. The next door down opened and wrinkled Mr. Parkins squinted out, glaring like he didn’t want her to ruin this stereophonic delight for him. Mr. Parkins was a widower, and the only one who buzzed her up when she forgot her keys.

She hung her keys on one of the coat hooks. They bounced to her new neighbors’ tempo. Cheryl stared until she considered calling Mike. See what he was up to tonight.

Or who he was up to. No, she wouldn’t give in to that son of a bitch. He owed her the apology. Besides, her back was killing her. She rubbed at the pinched nerves.

Halfway into The Two Towers, Cheryl wondered if they weren’t escapees from a nymphomania clinic. Around when Gimli said to toss him but not to tell “the elf,” she thought better of it. No, given how many hours it had been, she doubted they could have mustered the will to run this far before crumpling to the grass and rutting.

Around when Ian McKellen saved the day, there was a minor miracle. She realized she was more annoyed at the idea of the inconsiderate lovers than the noise. In fact, it fit very nicely into the beats of the soundtrack. It was as good as white noise.

So she did something stupid. Something Mike would have called stupid, but he was the sort to get caught in the dish room with a waitress. Bracing her back for the pain, she pushed her bedposts flush against the drywall. It commenced trepidation immediately. The mattress felt like a hundred vibrating fingers under her aching spine.

It was the best sleep of her adult life, and the next morning her neighbors were whisper-quiet. Either that or she’d built up a tolerance.

Remembering Frank Muller: John’s Inspiration for Narration

 Frank Muller and his daughter, Diana, in studio. Courtesy of frankmullerhome.com

This would have been Frank Muller’s 60^th birthday. Muller passed away in 2008. Though he never wrote a book, he was one of my largest inspirations in literature.

Muller was one of the greatest narrators of my lifetime. He was a stage actor who only happened to see a notice for narrators in the lobby one day. He wound up reading hundreds of books for cassette and CD, sadly losing his voice just before the rise of Audible and podcasting. His breathy, almost contemptuous reading of Melville’s Moby Dick was the only way a teenaged John Wiswell got through the entire thing.

A Muller impression is difficult to build. The words roll across the roof of your mouth more than they do your tongue. Wind comes from the top of your throat, rather than the bottom where your lungs and all the active parts rest. Your mouth becomes a nasal passage. Sentences begin strong and end almost in whispers. Every ‘w’ and ‘n’ is a potential place to stretch. When you realized that voice has narrated Thomas Harris’s Silence of the Lambs, you reached for your credit card, because holy shit. He read Hannibal Lecter like that?

I don’t hide my fondness for audiobooks. They’re good in the car, while you clean, and sometimes I’m simply in the mood to listen rather than read. At this stage I enjoy picking them up for books I’ve read, so I can hear how other people interpret voice (and often, to argue with their choices). At thirteen, when I was bedridden and often didn’t have the strength to sit up, people like Mr. Muller brought me the world. They read me legal thrillers at noon, Horror stories at dusk, and could you please, I know it’s 1:30 AM, but I can’t sleep and I’d so like to hear the Battle of Helms Deep one more time. Mom scooped them up from the library every week to help bide my time. Even when I got walking again, I’d take his recordings out to listen to time after time.

He built his cred with me by voicing some of the best John Grisham and Stephen King titles. Runaway Jury. Different Seasons. His The Ballad of the Flexible Bullet might be my all-time favorite narration. Though likely good money to Mr. Muller, they were his ‘in’ for me. I enjoyed them so much that if he was reading Remarque’s All Quiet on the Western Front, I’d give that a shot as well. Muller enjoyed bouncing between from classics and contemporary literature, claiming the variety of work recharged his batteries. His was the rare class of professional narrators, like John Glover, whom could convince me to pick up an audiobook through name value, something typically reserved only for authors.

In 2001, Mr. Muller had a motorcycle accident. He was thrown across the highway and landed on his face and chest. The helmet potentially saved his life, but his body was racked and his heart stopped multiple times in the hospital. He was disabled for the rest of his life, and never able to narrate again. Lingering complications followed him to his death.

His was one of the few celebrity deaths that actually shook me. I’d wanted him to read my books. Until college I internalized everything I wrote, seldom reading it out loud, more often imagining his voice in my head. Whenever I got off my ass to finally pen those epics I had hidden in me and made excuses not to write just yet? Well, he was supposed to record those. It was one of those big dreams, third only behind making inexplicable millions of dollars and entertaining other bedridden children with my works.

Now even if I wrote them, even if they were great and successful, his voice wouldn’t be there to bring them to life. It was about then that I began saying everything I composed out loud to test its quality. It’s good exercise for writers, especially developing ones – you catch more qualities of grammar and implication. I kept at it, though, because I was so nervous in front of recorders or audiences. During a class reading, I’d stare at the page for safety. God forbid I missed a word.

It is not exaggeration to say the loss of Mr. Muller’s talent spurred me to embarrass myself. I took storytelling classes. I talked publicly about my sickness, family and mythology. I performed work in front of more groups, including my least favorite audience, children. I took out books I’d never seen before and read them out loud to test how voices arose. It was a crash course to getting over my own awkwardness, stutters and issues. There were hours when the syndrome would fog my brain and leave me unable to complete sentences. At my best, I still tripped. You don’t know how reassuring it was to read Muller telling Ric Johnson, “I find myself making every conceivable mistake at some point or other. That's why take 2 was invented.”

There's been a little success. The Possible Origins narrations are one of the most popular features on this site. Last year I got my first requests to do book recordings.  If I'm so fortunate, maybe one day I'll narrate my own audiobooks, or maybe I'll be the recipient of someone else's talent. But today I won't record anything. Today I've got Muller's Great Expectations, and I'm in the mood to listen.

Bathroom Monologue: The Merits of Factual Inaccuracy

"My films have come under a lot of fire in recent years. People say I’m inaccurate to police procedure. It’s true, in that movie that Cracked now mocks, I wrote that it took three minutes for the FBI to trace a call when it actually only took a few seconds. And the sequel is now blamed for starting the urban legend that an undercover cop has to say he is if you ask him. Cops smirk at that. They know it’s not true, and told me so on my ride-alongs and interviews. I researched thoroughly to help my writing. The three-minute rule was simply more dramatic, which is why so many other screenwriters copied it without checking. That’s not the only reason I wrote things like that, though. My movies are full of inaccuracies like that on purpose. If there is some copycat who takes my serial killers for inspiration, or I want him to try and burn off his fingerprints or mail a note full of letters cutout from magazines. I want him to think he can stay on the phone line for one minute without getting caught. Now they say movies and videogames don’t really influence people. That’s fine. When undercover cops make fun of me for getting it wrong and demean some jackass dealer who thought they had to expose themselves – well, I’m proud."

Bathroom Monologue: Possible Origins for Him. 13.

To listen to today's story either click the triangle on the left to begin streaming audio or click this text to download the MP3.

Ahem. Is this on? Mm. Good.


There’s a lonely island near Lesbos. It’s the birthplace of theatrical humor, of soap boxes and one-man shows. That last, because they are all one-man shows. The island was populated exclusively by the male gender, because stand-up is a tough business for the ladies. And because they were mostly the social-critic kind of stand-up comedians, they were largely unfuckable and perilously homophobic. This left them loveless and childless. Many was a night, after their sets, when they would stare up at the stars and pray to gods they’d just mocked for being irrational to give them a child. One uncynical open mind.

And the gods, in their infinite cynicism, sent them a single child. And not any old child, but one imbued of many divine gifts.

The charisma of Richard Pryor.

The guile of Andy Kaufman.

The misanthropy of George Carlin.

Somewhat sadly, the complexion of Jim Gaffigan.

They adored this gift, because there’s nothing funnier to a bunch of Bill Hicks wannabes than a baby that heckles when he's offered a pacifier.

Their island was alone forever. An experimental fighter pilot crash landed amidst this sausage-fest. She was something of a bombshell, and that meant all the boys were after her. Except the actual boy. He was a little disappointed to lose their attention so quickly. The boy conspired to keep her unspoiled and unsoiled, since what’s better for a social-critic comedian than frustration?

The boy even helped fix her plane with aeronautics knowledge he’d picked up while his guardians had been mocking airline food. The two escaped this snarky isle to the modern world, where he promised to spread their way of life – without them, because really, what a bunch of assholes.

Bathroom Monologue: "#changemantovelociraptor" -Lou Freshwater

Of Mice and Velociprators by John Steinbeck

Wise Velociraptor's Fear by Patrick Rothfuss

A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Velociraptor by James Joyce

My Velociraptor Jeeves by P.G. Wodehouse

  

The Amazing Spider-Velociraptor

All the President's Velociraptors by Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein

The Velociraptor Who Knew Too Much by G.K. "Openin' Doors" Chesterton

The Descent of Velociraptor, and Selection in Relation to Sex by Charles Darwin

The Velociraptor in the Iron Mask by Alexandre Dumas

"A Good Velociraptor is Hard to Find" by Flannery O'Connor

The Invisible Velociraptor by H.G. Wells

Velociraptors Are From Mars, Pterodactyls Are From Venus by John Gray

Death in Venice by Thomas Velociraptorn

Bathroom Monologue: Wrestler in Black

To listen to today's story you can click the triangle on the left to begin streaming or click this text to download the MP3.

"You see that man in the corner? Seems like the type to sit in corners, doesn’t he? Black singlet, black boots. I think that’s mascara around the eyes. You’d never think that last year he was the most colorful character in this locker room. Had lime green tassels on his armbands. Came out to Rush, high-fiving everybody.

"Hard worker. Was then, anyway. Got onto his first shows offering to set up and tear down the ring. Worked the merchandise tables for the privilege of wrestling for free. Never understand why marks want so bad to fall on their heads. You’ve got to pay my ass to get me here.

"I was there the afternoon he got lucky. Was some big Japanese star, come over to the States on an excursion. That’s Japanese for “easy money.” This guy, don’t want to name him, was showing off to the rookies. Showing them his most dangerous moves and holds. That sulking man over there? He laughed at the name, of Rear Naked Choke. It is kind of a silly name.

"So the Japanese star invites him to try escaping it. Kid says, 'Sure.'

"Japanese star stands behind the kid. Wraps an arm around his neck. Braces his wrist with the other. Legs circle the kid’s waist, drags him to the ground. Kid’s got no leverage. Thrashes around, throws meager elbows into the guy’s side. His hand went up like he forgot it was there. Faraway look in the eyes and all that. Thought he was doing a bad job selling it until we realized why he wasn’t moving. Even his ribs had stopped working.

"Crap show like that, the only medic on sight was on the other side of the building. Kid might have been dead three minutes before they brought him. Pounding on his chest on a canvas mat he’d rolled out earlier that day. It was a miracle when he started sputtering again.

"After getting flashlights in his eyes and saying the day of the week, he rolls out of the ring. Staggers behind the curtain with the same glassy eyes he’s got now. He didn’t make a stink. Nobody complained. Japanese star finished his excursion. Went home. Is on TV there, I hear.

"Kid went home. Came back the next weekend for the show, with that getup. Thought he was trying to play us at first. Says he doesn’t want entrance music. Comes out to awkward silence. Even the fans who like to chant nonsense felt it eventually. Where once he was flying around the ropes, now he moves all methodical.

"Nobody’s had a three-minute conversation with him all year. Works his match. Takes his money. Goes wherever his home is. Is he playing the character to you and me? Other wrestlers say so. But they sure look nervous when he wraps his arm around their necks on his finisher. And they aren’t that good at acting."

Bathroom Monologue: Try a Sugar Pill

Do you suffer from Dry Mouth? Restless Legs? Do you wander your kitchen at two in the morning, scrubbing the counter for what might be residue, even though you rationally know they’re just bumps in an old surface?

Try Sugar Pill. In clinical studies, Sugar Pill did not cause shortness of breath, rectal bleeding or severe ulcers. Sugar Pill has been proven to not cause drowsiness, anxiety or violent marital strife. In some cases Sugar Pill did not cause stroke or stroke-like symptoms. People with heart defects complained of no change in their dispositions.

Sugar Pill works using a revolutionary technique called “your digestive system.” It goes to the same place where all the food does, and stays there. Sometimes it makes friends. It never makes side effects that are way scarier than what it’s supposed to cure.

You can operate heavy machinery while using Sugar Pill. If you're diabetic or may become diabetic you should talk to your doctor before trying Sugar Pill. Ten out of ten doctors claimed sugar pill had no negative side effects. More than ten doctors were unavailable.

Bathroom Monologue: He Wasn't Ready

He banged on the bedroom door again, louder this time so maybe Grandpa's hearing aid would pick it up.

"For the second time, Mom wants you in the car. We’re late."

The door swung inward. There were a lot of surprises behind the door. Grandpa in only tighty-whities and a silver crucifix was one. The look of animal revulsion in his face was another - he'd looked a hundred kinds of pissed in his existence, but never this way. And then there was the gun, the ancient service revolver that Grandpa pushed into his grandson's breastbone.

"You know what happened when I wanted my mother? She died having my third sister. When I wanted food, the world gave us a Great Depression. When I wanted to stay out of it, the Japs bombed us and the draft was on. When I wanted to finish school on the G.I. Bill, she got pregnant."

"Grandpa, what the f--"

"You fucking swear at me in the house I bought? When my first boy was born and I had his room set up for sports-everything, then he came out with only half a foot. When we were supposed to take a second-first honeymoon to Niagara Falls, Sissy got the measles."

He didn't even try to interrupt now. He raised his palms, imitating a submitting bank robber. Maybe it would get the crazy old man to lower the gun.

It didn't.

"When I told your grandmother I didn't like smoking, she said she needed something to cut the stress. When I asked her to see Schmidt about that cough, she said next month.” He stamped his heel on the redwood planks. “When I got down on this floor and begged her to take the chemo, she said it wasn't dignified."

Grandpa shoved the muzzle into him like a steel finger, sending him far into the hall. The old man retracted his gun, rubbing it across is sagging chest.

"No. I will go to the funeral when I am fucking ready. I see you once a year, and the next time will either be Christmas or my God-damned funeral, so if I hurt your fucking feelings, go sulk in a corner." He actually pointed to one, with the empty hand. "You go there and you wait for me to be ready."

He withdrew the hand, catching the edge of the door and closing it behind himself. His grandson stood there. He heard the radio flick on inside the room. Tinny AM music belting around him, the grandson pulled out his phone. He leaned against the corner and texted Mom.

“gp needz 1 min”

Bathroom Monologue: "Life is not a support system for art. It's the other way around." -Stephen King, On Writing

“Because if life were a support system for art, then you could just go on life support. And with a support system for the support system for your art, you could paint forever. Film endlessly. Write boundlessly. And then there would be way too many paintings and movies and books on the market, and people wouldn’t want them as much. They’d only want the endless, boundless output of their favorites, and we’d clone choice authors. We’d have casks of Jonathan Swift and James Joyce. Can I interest you in a 2018 Rudyard Kipling? It was a very good year, and he even wrote his own label in the form of a clever poem. Yes, 2018 was a splendid venture, the year we cloned and life-supported so many of him that we had to take out one of Saturn’s moons to store the author-vineyard. Three years later, HarperCollins bought two planets for their two big gets, because Dorothy Parkers are from Venus, but David Sedari are from Mars. Entire planetary surfaces devoted to imitations of authors on uppers, tubes in those nostrils and electrodes in their ventricles. A million hairless apes chained to typewriters, fed nicotine, sugar and romantic disappointments. All for the art of it. All support from life.”

Bathroom Haiku: Uneven

symmetrical masks

shot at angles, from outside

we look uneven

High Book Prices Are Good For You

Last week Patrick Rothfuss and DAW Books released Wise Man’s Fear. The hardcover went for $29.95 in U.S. currency, though you can get it from Amazon for $17.47. Their Kindle edition is $14.99.

In two weeks John Scalzi and Tor Books will release Fuzzy Nation. The hardcover will run you about $24.99, though you can pre-order it from Amazon for $14.10 – or pre-order the Kindle edition for $11.99.

What bothers you about this pricing scheme?

A) Some major authors are demanding significantly more per e-book than smaller writers can. With the wealth of 99-cent titles, charging more than ten dollars for something they don’t even have to print looks greedy.

B) Price cutting by the likes of Amazon and Wal-Mart are moves smaller book stores cannot possibly match. It will contribute to an industry with fewer lit-devoted retailers and where many authors get paid even less per book than they used to. After its competition is broken down, nothing will prevent Amazon from hiking their royalty fees, thereby screwing over the authors that are self-publishing with them.

C) All those 99’s are deliberate lies. $11.99 is actually twelve bucks and we all know it.

I’m probably the only one who immediately jumps to C. It’s a deceptive mathematical practice invented by think-tanks to dupe you out of way more money than just a penny or dollar.

Many people stop at A. Zoe Winters earned an onslaught of complaints for “putting a price” on her readers when she dared suggest charging less than $3.99 cheated many writers. There is a frustrating hoarder-class of readers who only want things that cost a dollar or less. They are the extreme reaction to an inexpensive market.

I endorse Rothfuss and Scalzi charging so much for e-editions. Cheap shouldn’t be the standard for our industry. However unfair people may call the pricing schemes, Rothfuss hit #1 on the New York Times Bestseller’s List in that first week. What his class of author charges makes up the price ceiling for the industry. His $14.99 gets divided more ways than the profits of a typical 99-cent Smashwords release, but that’s not the salient point. This is the most that my work is allowed to cost.

That ceiling has multiple affects. It makes less expensive e-books look alternately like bargains or cheap trash. Of course, the glut of bad prose in the 99-cent region is just as responsible for the trash aura, and if you’re self-publishing at this price range, you’re doing it to capitalize on a low barrier for purchase. Whatever word-of-mouth and word-of-Twitter you can muster work better with impulse-buy pricing. The higher price of a Rothfuss or Scalzi book serves as a buffer, because none of us will compete well going dollar-for-dollar against the titans. Charging the same does not give you the same level of hype. Even if you’re better than they are, they bring a fandom with wild expectations and exaggerated reactions. You, as the breakout writer who only charged $2.99, aren’t held to the same unfair standard, and have a better chance of winning audiences over. It's the loss leader strategy that looks better the higher top authors charge.

Smart authors play with their pricing. If two hundred copies move at five bucks a pop, how many might move at four? Or three? But you can only charge that in this publishing world. If Stephen King’s next 1,000-page Kindle edition lands at $2.99, good luck charging more for your 300-page novel. Now James Patterson, Stephanie Meyer and the inevitable next Harry Potter book are impulse buys.

It’s only in our publishing world, where known authors can charge $15 on every Nook and Kindle, that you can safely float up to $4.99. At $4.99 your novel grosses five times the profit of the 99-cent bargain, while only costing about one third of your most powerful literary competition. That looks more reasonable to a reader in this marketplace. And you’re free to descend further and perhaps take off at 99-cents. We have the millionaire success stories, and I have nothing against selling at that price, or dipping there for a temporary sale to spark more interest. But for many writers it will be two hundred sales at one buck or five, and two hundred copies at five bucks a pop adds up to a doctor’s visit for your daughter.

The reader demand for cheap e-books is more interesting when contrasted to other reader actions. Contrast our debate with a recent Rutgers University controversy. The university paid Reality TV star Snooki $32,000 to speak, while paying famous author Toni Morrison $30,000. There was massive outrage that the writer wasn’t getting more money. If you were angered that someone from Jersey Shore got more than a hardworking author, then ask yourself: do you only buy books that are priced low and thereby send less money to the author?

Again, I chose C. My objection was that both were going to make more off of one talk than most authors will from book sales this year. You might be surprised how few writers, even bestsellers, make $30,000 in a good year.

Since January I have been working on one novel. I’ve pushed myself so hard that I’ve become physically sick from it at least three times. It will be two more months before the rough draft is complete, at which point I’ll have to edit strenuously to get it into first draft state. Then I’ll beg the smartest people I know to give me a few rounds of criticism, and I’ll tabulate the results for several rounds of revision and polish. If I’m lucky, the fourth draft will be the final, complete sometime around winter. I want you to know that I am earnestly racking myself to make this book worth your time. When I edit the day’s words, I’m thinking about the time you’ll have reading them. Whether you’ll pay five bucks, or one, or take out of a library – that’s not on my mind. That’s honestly why it disturbs me when I come up from my writing hole and read derision for authors who manage to make a good living.

If you sincerely believe the fruits of my labors will only ever be worth reading for $0.99, then I question what our relationship is. Maybe this novel will be self-published. In November, my market strategy may show that 99-cents is an optimal price (God willing, I’ll have the integrity to charge an honest $1.00). But if I get a big break with the Big Six, I’ll be relieved that everyone involved can make a profit from our pricing. And if I don’t get that break, I’ll still be glad that the market has room for a story that costs five bucks. That niche can only exist because there is a high standard of value from the market leaders.

Bathroom Monologue: Methinks, OR, "The lady doth protest too much, methinks." -William Shakespeare, Hamlet

"Methinks the lady doth protest too much."

The Lady Winchester touched her stately bosom. "Did he just accuse me of the murder, or say I’m complaining too much about the way his insane family’s behaving? "

Her butler answered with trepidation, "Would one offend you less, madame?"

"Well one has some grounding rational fact. I was nowhere near his ruddy father when he was stabbed."

“I believe he was poisoned.”

“More’s the reason I didn’t do it. I didn’t even know the royal limp-dick had died. I’d know how if I knew it at all. Now is his brat saying I killed him, or complaining I bitch too much?”

“The Prince is disturbed, madame. I don't even think he was referring to your ladyship.”

“I’ll disturb him more. Sue for defamation.” Her plucked brow wriggled. “See how he does without his inheritance.”

“Which would the lady prefer he had suggested?”

“Now, I think the murder. Slander could bring us in… well, how much did the whelp inherit?”

“Mostly grief. I think Claudius got the rest, including his mother.”

“He wanted his own mother?”

“I think he wants his father.”

She swatted him across the face. “That’s incestuous, homosexual and maligns the dead.”

“Pardons, madame.”

“You don’t say that sort of thing out loud. He could sue.”

Bathroom Monologue: Easter Basket Vs. Exercise

"No, Jacob. I know you want your Reese’s, but they’ll spoil your appetite. And I know you want your Reese’s more than dinner. Honestly, they taste better than what Mommy’s making – but that’s because they’re evil. What you need are raw vegetables, dark green lettuce and fresh radishes. Now, I know they taste like dirt. They came from dirt. But they’ll give you more energy and build muscle mass so you can run two miles and do half an hour per day on the elliptical like me. Don’t you want to be big and strong and perpetually sore from exercise, just like Daddy? Many nights you’ll be left too tired to do more than watch Idol, but imagine how good you’ll look, and it will add years to your life. Seven, ten, maybe thirteen years. Thirteen more years of eating meals you hate, exercising until you ache all the time, and mild condescension towards those who sag more than you do. That’s much better for you than eating Easter candy before dinner. Now give Daddy those Reese’s."

Letters to Nevertorial: Chicken Big

Your paper commits a cardinal offence all too common in our society with the claim, “Homeowners scurry like chickens fearing that the sky is about to give way.” (“A Third Mortgage Crisis,” April 18th). Your article made passing reference to the popular story of “Chicken Little” as though it were as erroneous as natural selection or Siddhartha sitting beneath a tree. Isn’t it suspicious that the story of the sky falling is so widespread? Positively everyone knows of it. My family does in particular, for in 1963 two of my great aunts were slain by falling bits of sky. The family lost most of the farm and is still awaiting the promised government funds to rebuild. The wait is its own indignity. Your paper’s pretending we were never struck, or that only chickens bore the weight of this tragedy, is egregious.

"The Sun Belt" at Flash Fiction Online

Today's story is at Flash Fiction Online. It's "The Sun Belt," about our sun's intentions in making our little spherical home.

This is my second pro-rate sale. I'm very excited and am grateful to any readers or commenters over on FFO. You can read the story by clicking here.

Bathroom Monologue: Pitching In Without Fingers

One guy, Gilee, was very interested in their little prison reformation movement. He was enthusiastic about their tolerance of tolerable religions and philosophies, and quite happy to take nightwatches. Beside the positivity, he had one quirk: he never took his hands out of his overalls. This raised suspicion since Gilee claimed to have been a masseur before being imprisoned. He’d offer anyone a massage after a hard day, but no one took him up on it. Not until Berren, who having been jailed for politics, was all about comfort.

At least a dozen people watched it through the crack in the door, like a curious totem pole, trying to see what was up with Gilee’s hands. That’s when they found out that he didn’t have hands. The wardens had cut off his fingers, you see, leaving him only with palms. He was eager to do his part, though, and Berren was glowing when he emerged from the makeshift parlor.

“Could have used his thumbs more,” he commented, “but it was great. Felt like tiny feet running laps on my back.”

He just about threw up when he turned and the masseur waved to him, but afterwards Gilee got a lot more business. Word-of-mouth travels farther than vomit-of-mouth. It's a wonder.

Bathroom Monologue: Men in Reflective Houses

 This story was written from the above photo prompt,
provided and taken by Icy Sedgwick.

 

Tidwell and Aloysius liked to people-watch in-between meetings. By streamlining charts and skimming facts in their 10:10 meeting, they were granted a brief reprieve for this hobby before their customary 10:25 consultations. They would share one third of a packet of whole wheat saltines and ogle the aging joggers and purposefully striding suits on Main.

It was 10:17 as the man crossed before the Brightsides Building, dragging rolling luggage behind him. The Brightsides was unique for its many reflective windows, casting a near-perfect image of the brick establishment across the road. Tidwell and Aloysius’s brick establishment. The only thing that prevented it from looking real was the crisscrosses of molding between the Brightsides’s panes.

The man stopped before one pane. A breeze took his blue tie in a direction, and he declined with one hand. He walked toward the pane, shading his eyes as though focused on something behind the glass.

"Probably had a bender last night,” proffered Tidwell. “You think he's looking at himself for the first time this morning?"

"Must be. Those trousers haven't been ironed in weeks."

Tidwell couldn’t make out whether or not they’d be ironed lately.

The man walked a few panes down, to where the Brightsides reflected the image of a window from the other side of the street. He craned his neck, seeming to peer inside the window-within-a- window.

“You see that?”

"Probably just trying to see if his wife's working inside."

"Maybe she's sleeping with somebody in there and he's spying."

"Disheveled for a spy."

The man pulled a wallet from the luggage and shuffled through it for something.

"Is he counting cash?"

"Maybe he's going to buy the Brightsides."

"Hope he stocks up on glass cleanser."

The man nodded at his cash. He walked down past the doors of the Brightsides, to where their brick establishment's doors were reflected. There he stopped, turned and reached. Tidwell lurched, thinking he was about to see a nutter punch through the glass. Glare flew up from the Brightsides and both men shielded their eyes.

Just as he brought his hands down, Tidwell thought he saw a door swinging shut. He blinked his vision back to 20/20 and saw that no, it was only the image of a door. That door was still trembling as though having just shut, though.

Tidwell turned to face their brick establishment, to see if a man had entered there. But no – the secretaries were standing in that door, sharing a smoke.

Aloysius followed his eyes. He asked, "Did he just walk through that window over there?"

Tidwell scratched his balding head. He scratched harder when he saw that man with his luggage passing behind the windows - the windows of the reflected brick building. The two businessmen rose from their bench and waddled down the sidewalk, eying both the man within the reflection of the Brightsides, and their own establishment’s windows. There was no frumpy-trousered man in the latter. Only some secretaries, who shot them derisive looks.

Tidwell asked, "What was all that about?"

"I don't know. But I hope he doesn't intend throw stones."

Tidwell punched his friend in the shoulder, then crossed the street.

Bathroom Monologue: “Your scene is not a scene if….” –The Intern

-Your scene is not a scene if it has wheels and flies.

-Your scene is not a scene if it's tough enough for a man but designed for a woman.

-Your scene is not a scene if it’s redeemable for ten cents in Michigan.

-Your scene is not a scene if it’s the participle form of "to see."

-Your scene is not a scene if it's a condescending blog post.

-Your scene is not a scene if it’s supportive, reclines into the reader behind you, and can be used in a flotation device in the occurrence of a plot device.

-Your scene is not a scene if both P is true and ~P is true.

-Your scene is not a scene if Microsoft Word doesn’t underline anything in green.

-Your scene is not a scene if it's only a vehicle for conflicts designed to attract cheap readers.

Bathroom Monologue: On Polyamory and Gluttony

I would probably respect polyamory if it did more than merely triple the times people cry at me about their love-lives. Being single but obese, I liken it to food. The polyamorist is like a man who lost his meal.

If Tadd loses his dinner, I'll go, "That's terrible. You'll starve. Let’s got hunt you down a nice girlsteak with eyes only for your A-1 sauce."

But if Werner loses his dinner, I go, "Shut up. You have two other dinners living in your studio apartment."

"But they're not the one I lost!" Werner sobs with all the heartbreak of Tadd McOnedinner. And being unfortunately not heartless, I console the poor Werner all the other polyamorous schmucks.

Unfortunately five weeks later, I console Werner again when he breaks up with his second dinner. Let's call her a Pot Roast. You see ever since he broke up with the Taco Kit Bitch, Pot Roast has been less emotionally available. And when he started hanging out more with the Cinnamon Bun Twins, Pot Roast almost seemed to be jealous, and then they had less sex, and now he's crying again while I'm trying to calculate just how many women he's still eating.

Fucking. I mean “how many women he's still fucking."

Three Bindle Stiffs Audio Recording

This was originally posted a few weeks ago. It followed a challenge to use one hundred unusual words in one story. After several requests, I've stayed up past midnight trying to record a coherent audio version of it. You better damned well enjoy it.

To listen to the audio version that you damned well better enjoy either click the triangle to the left to begin streaming audio or click this text to download the MP3.

There were three bindle stiffs at the docks - let us call them Jackanapes, Factotum and Callipygian, for that is what they were. A homeless threesome, gathered by the loquacious Jackanapes, a louche scofflaw, supercilious about himself and curmudgeon to all other matters.  Factotum was his manservant, as a factotum must be to someone, an aimless ragamuffin with nothing beyond size to his credit. More interesting than this oaf (and more interesting to the oaf) was the bodacious Callipygian, one lady concupiscent and rivaling Factotum as a flibbertigibbet.

Now Jackanapes proposed some minor skullduggery as pertained to the Captain’s Quarters, a local tavern. Within was an ill-gotten goblet, periwinkle festooned with opals and inscriptions of ancient Australian gobbledygook. It simply begged liberation. Liberation into Jackanapes’s possession, of course.

The Beerkeep, once a bold and raffish scalawag, was now pusillanimous and lackadaisical, scarcely lifting his head from the countertop. His wife, let us call her Harridan, was less easily hoodwinked. A cantankerous termagant, heart tainted by broken promises, face tainted by carbuncles of particular effluvium, and given her abstemious nature, not too pleased about living in a bar. The Beerkeep was broken, for if he complained she was no longer a nubile sylph? Well he didn’t have the washboard belly of the swashbuckler she’d married, either.

So our mendacious tatterdemalions infiltrated on Discount Ale Night. Callipygian strutted across the bar and whispered obsequious debauchery into Beerkeep’s good ear. Into the left, she osculated. Broken men are so easily finagled.

Meanwhile Factotum elbowed through the crowd like a willy-nilly whirligig, knocking the pint and the hat from a haberdasher. The haberdasher caterwauled, and Factotum responded with brazen fisticuffs. Our ignoramus spun him widdershins, spilling the gallimaufry from his cup. Gawkers flocked with hullabaloo. The ribaldry instigated such a kerfuffle that even Harridan peered its way. So was the plan: to obfuscate by infidelity or ruckus.

Harridan shrieked for her poltroon husband and barged in to squelch the catawampus, only to be struck by a flailing hat-seller. She was knocked to the floor while the Beerkeep was drooping to the bar top.

Amidst the folderol, Jackanapes slithered behind the bar. He paused an instant to bask in the resplendent chalice – then skedaddled. For you see, his hornswaggle was on four people, not two.

The conspirators didn’t remark Jackanapes’s absquatulating immediately. The Beerkeep was looking for tongue before Callipygian came wise. Poor Callipygian and Factotum looked at each other flabbergasted; neither had prognosticated his exit, nor their own exit strategies. Beerkeep roused and squawked that his spiffy cup was gone, and the crowd doubled in size with accusations of subterfuge. Imbroglio flummoxed our lummox, while Callipygian babbled defensive rigmarole.

Perspicacious Harridan recognized that while they might be in cahoots, it was cockamamie balderdash that they’d carried off the cup. They looked as lugubrious as Harridan on her wedding night, and neither had any goblets bulging underneath his or her corset. Pushing through the ballyhoo she took each by an ear, twisting and demanding explanation. She’d forgive their peccadillo in return for their mastermind. They responded with mumbling and borborygmus.

Malarkey, she accused. Hadn’t they served hortatory to these shenanigans? To play Jackanapes’s factotum for so long and left clueless?

Factotum let out a paroxysm of obloquy. Their original hideout. The docks! With boats to abscond, or as Callipygian hypothesized, merchants to entice. Sooner than Harridan could summon a steed, rambunctious Factotum tossed both ladies over his shoulders and bolted for the seaboard.

Now Jackanapes possessed a foible of confidence. At safe distance, he gallivanted and lollygagged, whistling orotund tunes and regarding the foofraw of his ill-gotten doohickey. What fortunes flagitious life afforded.

So taken was he by his own hijinks that he was tackled higgledy-piggledy from behind. Two ladies and one ex-factotum began beating him about the head and shoulders. They were at loggerheads immediately, and at the fusty hoosegow ten minutes later, one man incarcerated on two counts of “jiggery-pokery and maleficence,” and a farrago of lesser charges. He was left with no cups or opals, only a two-bit pettifogger to hear his hokum. So was his comeuppance.

Harridan’s comeuppance came up at auction for the stupid cup. Proceeds went to her own copacetic hodgepodge of a juice bar and a dance parlor. Her star dancer took in a wealth of tips, and they were both generous to the hulking (if dull) bouncer. She hired her own husband two months later as Juicekeep, after her competition put him out of business. There may be a word for that sort of thing, but I don’t know it.

Bathroom Monologue: Nessy Gets Voted Out

Ugopogo, Kraken and the giant squid brigade all voted Ye.

None voted Ne.

"Then it's agreed," said Champ. "The Loch Ness Monster is henceforth no longer recognized as real."

Bathroom Monologue: Fantasy of Disablism

“Some days I just think giants are racist against dwarfs.”

“What? Some of my best friends are dwarfs.”

“That's what you always say.”

“But you're one of them. We hung out all weekend. I let you swim in my gin until you got drunk.”

“That was demeaning.”

“It was your idea! Are you reading that crazy blog again?”

“You won't even let us drink out of the same water fountains.”

“You are reading that shit again! Dude, you’re physically unable to drink from our fountains. I'm bigger than your house.”

“Perhaps I could afford a bigger house if I was paid the same wages. A giant dwarf house with plenty of water fountains.”

“The city commissioned ones that were height-appropriate.”

“A step-ladder! A simple step-ladder and I'd be able to use the ‘normal’ water fountain like the rest of the giants.”

“It'd take a staircase.”

“Do you know how many staircases in this city were built by dwarfs? We make up seventy percent of the engineering workforce and spend all our time on projects we’re never allowed to use.”

“That’s because your thing takes less time to build. It’s smaller.”

“Why do we have to have different things? Why can’t we drink from the same thing?”

“You'd fall in and drown.”

“Two dwarfs did drown in giant water fountains just last week. If we were valued as equal citizens, that wouldn't be possible.”

“Nobody thought dwarfs would be dumb enough to climb all the way up there.”

“So you do think we're of diminutive intelligence. Why don't you go ahead and call me less of a person?”

“Diminutive in height. In height! It's a technical term.”

“For the lesser race.”

“Stop talking like that. It makes me feel…”

“Small?”

“Stop that.”

“Admit it. You're biased against non-gigantic peoples.”

“I'm certainly heading in that direction now.”

“Have you ever tried drinking from our water fountains?”

“No, because I’m too large. And I have bad knees.”

“Don’t pretend you’re the oppressed one here.”

“You think I don’t want to drink from all the water fountains? The lines move quicker on yours. Giants take forever. You dwarfs look so much happier. Sometimes I wonder if it tastes different.”

“You’re shirking the issue!”

“I lie awake nights thinking if only I was non-gigantic enough to taste that water. To chatter with those chipper little girls. There’s no talking in the line for the giant water fountain.”

“You’re calling us a jolly wee folk? Why don’t you compliment our pointy hats next? You bigot.”

“Giants don’t get to wear hats. There isn’t enough material. You ever think about that? You ever been unable to wear a hat because that much cotton could outfit sails for three dwarf tall ships?”

“Hey, listen here…”

“No. I don’t want to hear it. I’m going to go get a drink.”