Mo’ Stories

Rodd was ‘specially miserable in these later years, now that all o’ his friends had already ‘scaped. But that didn’t keep him from his 16 hour workdays laying brick after brick, every day–as much o’ertime as he could get, which his employers & owners hungrily took.

He knew they wanted to get as much work out o’ him as possible before the public’s attention began to waver. He didn’t care: he just wanted control o’er himself finally.

Still, during the heart-crushingly tedious summer days that ne’er seemed to end, he’d constantly curse whatever god gave him the rare luxury o’ being born with golden skin–& thus a much higher price for emancipation.

“¿Do you want this 1?”

He nodded grimly.

The executive ‘side him put a hand on his shoulder & with a grin said, “No time like the present.”

Without raising his scowl from the floor he rose, slipped his feet into the glowing orange boots, & tied said boots with a deliberation neither fast nor slow.

The assistant bowed his head & said, “¿Are you all ready?”

The executive took the remote control from the assistant & said, “We sure are. I must say that I hate to do this to you, Roger; but if I don’t de-encenticize the breach o’ official guidelines… total anarchy. Now dance.”

The executive pressed a button & Roger began dancing while steam rose from his feet. His face gradually fell into a cringe, followed by howls that startled the other shoppers & caused them to scurry outside.

Finally, Roger collapsed onto the linoleum floor, panting his last breaths.

“This’ll ne’er work,” the pink monster said with sharp whispers.

“It won’t if you don’t shut up,” Rocky shot back with equal sharpness.

“¿What’s that noise?”

Rocky cursed as he dug himself into the ketchup-soaked burger wrappers & cardboard cup holders, only to peek outside & see the pink monster frozen. He reached a paw out & yanked the pink monster down inside, & slowly lowered the lid o’er them.

Outside they could hear the idle scratches o’ feet on pavement. Poking his head up just ‘nough to see out the thin slit, Rocky saw a man with smeared make up all o’er his face & carrot-orange hair tufts, holding a huge cleaver & a million-kilometer stare. The man paused for a minute, seeming to not e’en breathe, & then turned & walked ‘way.

The pink monster began quietly coughing & heaving. “Ugh…”

“Welcome to the raccoon life, buddy,” said Rocky. “That fancy marketing job o’ yours is starting to look much better, huh.”

But the warmth o’ the cool night & its warm waxing-gibbous moon & its slick-black grasses & reflective gray waters was ruined by the migraine-inducing silence. A bloodshot eye popped out from ‘hind 2 wing feathers. Finally, with tears, it began squawking.

After a few minutes, a hushed voice replied, “Sorry. We forgot.”

& then the goose’s eardrums were strummed by the soothing sound o’ the grasses ruffling into each other & the sight o’ their black lines swaying in hypno. Hearing this, the water began gurgling.

The goose lay its head down & soon plummeted into snores so strong, it’d ne’er wake from them.

“Look, I just want it fixed, ¿all right?”

But the new technician knew that techniquing required mo’ than just screwing round nuts. ‘Twas futile to try jamming bolts where they don’t belong.

He tried to calm the tenant down & sent him ‘way to relax while he stared inside through the window so he could see the bolt sitting on the counter–its natural habitat–& planned for how he might naturally integrate it into the hole in the metal shelf ‘bove. He kept his pencil on his spiral notebook, ready to scribble down notes the second it did something notable.

But they couldn’t rest now; there was still 1 vital question that needed to be answered.

Executive Leader Madame Macadamia strode up to the WWPO stump with pure bliss on her face. The rest o’ the ministers chattered excitedly to each other.

Then Macadamia held her arms up & they all quieted down.

“All right, I know we’re all excited ’bout our victory o’er Worcestershire; but we’re not done yet. We have a vital issue that must be decided ‘mong us now: in which direction shall the bell start ringing, ¿left or right?”

The WWPO devolved into chaos as arguments heated & heated up.

& that was how the ensuing Wasabi Woods Civil War begun.

The pale fog accentuated the stillness o’ the air, ‘long with the remnant stench o’ morning rain.

But every so oft she could hear the snap o’ a bending bough & felt herself shake mo’ than the pink petals she exploited for cover.

Here we saw the give & take o’ the fog: though, she figured, it hid her from… whatever that thing was, it also hid it from her sights, so that all she could do was sweat in the chilly air & listen to the thing’s movements without knowing what they meant–like it constantly screaming, “¡I’m coming, & you can do nothing to stop me!”

They say she’s still caged in that acre-wide cherry blossom net.

“¡You’re going to cause this thing to explode!”

“It’s the only way to get out o’ this arctic with such li’l petrol–now, ¡shush!”

Yankee Kong grit her teeth as she glued her eyes to the white wasteland before them, registering snowbergs in mere milliseconds before they narrowly passed their igloo after she tossed it to the side.

But her mouth fell into a frown when the igloo didn’t explode, didn’t catch fire, but merely sputtered to a stop. She flew out & tore its shell off to see a smoking collapsed heart inside.

Then she & Gorilla Kong wrapped their arms round themselves as the chilly mist surrounded them mo’ tightly.

The waves grew arms so they could wave, digging into the dirt’s size so it could get its mology & its salty quantum mechanics caused by rumbling wheels o’ the president ’twas waving @ as it rode by.

The president was a bug on a buggy & it bugged me. That’s why I shot its hat off–to prove that there was ‘nother shooter inside me & that I was an inside job inside the want ads adding to my wants.

Then the president had me executed with its execution branch, & then drank my soda, which was my blood.

But I carried on.

‘Twas the ol’ tale: Titanium Ant & Bronze Deer stared @ each other through the force field like headlights in deer, which was in the deer, dear.

Sure, Titanium Ant had a heart made o’ metal that couldn’t be choked by lightning cords. But it still melted with love it couldn’t hug.

So they stood there for eternia, which is e’en longer than an eternity, which is why I typed it ‘stead.

The people called them statues, & then they became statues, since they were already acting like statues pretty much, anyway, & wanted the tax cuts. Then the people called the clouds showers o’ chocolate, & the clouds told them to fuck off.