Mo’ Stories

sweat dripped down chef winters’ skull — or a’least it would’ve if skeletons could sweat. e’ery second mattered. ¿who said you ne’er use math ’gain after 2ndary school? he had to count 2 #s in his head: the # o’ stirs so that the ingredients — the carrots & potatoes, vinegar & basil, & spices that were unknown e’en to winters — while also counting the seconds till the torus-shaped platform would shake & drop from its place high up in the sky, during which he would have to jump to the next & start that count all o’er.

but to winters’ surprise, he made it to the end, up on the cliff @ the end o’ all land, & had made just the right # o’ stirs to create the most delicious o’ donut soups — delicious ’nough that great milliam released him from his hamster cage & let him flee free.

this was the life that she lived on that winding, self-devouring snake o’ heartless gray street: her bright red car plowing down smaller cars of other bright colors to collect their silver tokens & dodging larger cars that try to take her tokens — ¿& use those tokens for what? larger & larger cars.

she knew there was no end: as she was fattening her car up like a lion, others were growing theirs e’en faster. but she couldn’t just stop: she needed those tokens or she’d wither like a ghost, like the tiniest cars that couldn’t keep from losing all their tokens to the larger cars…

zah zanko, president o’ zanko’s breakfast factory, standing before the contestants in the middle o’ his personal bedroom, declared, find the golden toast & you will inherit my company.

& so the contestants looked in e’ery dresser drawer, under e’ery pillow, & in e’ery coat pocket in the closet, but none found the golden toast.

the ’lone exception was the contestant who seemed to not be present, ani lot, who disguised themself as a servant & asked zanko for his top hat to hang up, which he politely obliged. ani then searched the hat &, as expected, found the golden toast inside.

¡i award ani lot my company!, exclaimed zanko.

unfortunately, while ani lot was clever, they were not aware o’ the subtleties o’ social interaction & was unaware o’ the scheming machinations o’ their nephew, their next o’ kin, who would poison ani lot a week after they inherited the factory so that the nephew could have it for himself.

…but things turn less pleasant for our story o’ the advertising squirrel in 2024, where we run into the great tax scandal: it turned out that thruout the 5 years since the squirrel started their lucky promotional campaigns the squirrel had been taking a large portion o’ money under the table & hiding these funds in their deep cheeks. unfortunately for this squirrel, the boskeopoleon tax authorities were smarter than he expected & thought to search these very same cheeks, where they found mo’ than 50 million ₧.

& so the advertising squirrel would land 25 years in prison for tax evasion. they would eventually negotiate that sentence down to 5 years, but with e’en that # o’ years out o’ public view, the public would soon forget them. the advertising squirrel’s short career was essentially o’er.

¿what is the cause for so much o’ the population o’ wasabi woods to be able to only speak thru questions? ¿is what the scientists say true that it is caused by an obscure brain virus that shortcircuits nerves in the wernicke’s & broca’s areas o’ the brain that handle language so that all go thru the paths that ask questions? ¿& how did this virus spread? ¿are the rumors true that worchestershire woods intentionally spread this virus to wasabi woods as a form o’ secret biological warfare to undermine peace or is this just a conspiracy theory? ¿what — ?

nobody could figure out what was causing the squirrel to start barking out advertisements for lumina-brand dog food out o’ nowhere — an incomprehensible curse that drove the squirrel nuts, not the least ’cause nobody believed them when they claimed ’twas involuntary.

nobody, that is, till e asked dr. equinox, who quickly discerned the cause: 1 o’ the peanuts the squirrel ate had in it a microad lodged into it. dr. equinox guessed ’was probably a malfunction in manufacturing. in any case, after operating on the cheek whence the sound emitted, dr. equinox was able to locate the section with the bad peanut & extract it.

& from then on the squirrel ne’er involuntarily barked advertisements e’er ’gain — tho the publicity o’ the whole affair did land the squirrel some lucrative promotions with royal’s soup & iris-brand apparel that they would bark, for a price.

onyxoctobioflaxtogen, you have been such a good chemical to me in these last few projects, said the chemist dawn summers. ¿what kind o’ gift would you like?.

the blue onyxoctobioflaxtogen turned red & said, o, it’s stupid.

don’t be silly: ask for anything.

i don’t want to say it out loud….

so dawn leaned o’er to the vial so she could hear its whispers in her ear & dawn smiled & said, that’s not stupid @ all; that’s sweet.

& then she went o’er to the green hydroniactecryolinux & whispered to it, ¿how do you feel ’bout being with onyxoctobioflaxtogen? & leaned o’er to hear the hydroniactecryolinux’s answer, & when she heard it, she took the onyxoctobioflaxtogen & poured it into the hydroniactecryolinux’s vial & they both swirled & joined together in the deepest o’ reds.

the master’s day was going well till they heard a knock on their door & opened it to see a figure dressed in black, with eyes covered in shades, who, without delay, held up their badge & said without any emotion, cca. we have a warrant to inspect this premises for cookie leakage.

the master knew they had no choice but to let the officer in. now e could only hope that the inspector wouldn’t find anything.

unfortunately, after an hour o’ the master’s hope building, that was all dashed when the inspector found a spigot buried deep in the sitemap, spilling chocolate chip crunches right out into the seas, to anyone who visits the site.

with a shaky voice, the master said, we, ’course, give our visitors a warning asking them to confirm their acknowledgment that they may encounter cookies….

the inspector, staring down @ their notes ’stead o’ the master, said, ¿are these cookies necessary for doing the work they need done on the site?.

well, we need it for tracking — .

that is not included. i mean, ¿are these remains needed for them to complete purchases or any other work your visitors are doing on the premises?.

the master had to admit, no.

the inspector replied, you must wait till after the visitor signs your agreement before subjecting them to cookies. i’m going to have to write you a citation.

the inspector handed the master a sheet o’ paper with a bill o’ 20,000₧, & then went on their way.

the king o’ the tuberpoli laughed with derision as he heard his people read to him the file the inspector had on him — or as they called him, “big papa”. as much as he realized it benefited him, he couldn’t help a feeling o’ frustration @ just how out-o’-this-world the inspector’s interpretation o’ the tuberpoli was, mixing them up with their kind o’ mafia, as if they were interested in their useless green paper.

seeing this mismatch o’ emotions themselves, the tuberpoli assured the king that their campaign was working wonderfully. their roots were spreading all ’cross the uppercrust & they were already spreading their population ’long the barren fields.

tho meztli could already feel the sharp, cold diamond o’ knowledge sitting in her palms, she knew that that was less than half the task. ’twould take 5 times as much struggle to figure out how to crack it open & release for her that addictive tonic o’ sweet, sweet knowledge.

she tried all the most destructive tasks she could devise: dropping it from the tallest o’ buildings, putting it in the enter o’ the biggest o’ explosions… but the diamond was as solid as e’er.

finally, after wandering the crepuscular webs, she found the secret to opening this diamond: boiling it @ 215° C with salt.