Lagniappe 

By Saara Dutton

            Standing in the heart of the French Quarter, you see New Orleans as a slightly over-ripe mango: juicy, succulent, but just on the verge of becoming rancid. The buildings are alive, weeds growing lazily from crumbling bricks. Roaches, slow moving and fat eat yesterday’s forgotten crumbs. The air is hot, damp and gluey.  It feels used, as if it came from a balloon that someone deflated days after the birthday party.

You look at your girlfriend through bleary eyes. A slow stream of sweat trickles down her collarbone.  A recycled breeze blows, carrying the perfumed scent of a famous psychic at a filthy sidewalk café; the health inspector long since bribed away.

Your stomach grumbles. A low, nasty growl. You feel a slow, hot, wet fart steam through your butt cheeks. It dissipates into the muggy heat of New Orleans. You glance down at the sidewalk and notice a crawfish head, a broken string of Mardi Gras beads, dirty Band-Aid and a tarot card.

         You are thirsty, and remember the plastic milk jug filled with Mexican Holy water you have at home. A friend of yours moved out of a big dusty house on St. John’s Bayou, and needed to get rid of a few things. So in addition to the Mexican Holy water, you got half a set of encyclopedias, a tiny crystal vase, and a broken TV tray.  

         As you wander around, typical French Quarter scenes are unfolding:

Wisconsin tourists on Bourbon Street look bewildered as a man with his head inside of a plastic barrel starts to sing a Louis Armstrong tune. His baritone voice is beautiful and the acoustics in the barrel are excellent.

              United Cab drivers smoke cigarette after cigarette, lined up in front of the Monteleone Hotel on Royal Street. They talk about their ungrateful kids in college. You see a middle-aged conventioneer walking two steps in front of a pimply hooker in scuffed white heels. She frowns and checks her watch. The conventioneer does not open the hotel door for her. Neither does the bellboy.

         On Decatur Street, a skinny clown stops to re-affix his nose as a child complains that his balloon animal just doesn’t look like a dinosaur.     

You hear a clap of thunder and rain begins to pour, crushing flowers on the hats of carriage-pulling horses who clip clop past Jackson Square.

         You and your girlfriend take shelter in your favorite bar on Toulouse Street. It’s not your favorite bar because of the atmosphere (to be honest it’s disgusting and they can’t put locks on the bathroom doors because too many people were doing coke) but because of your favorite bartender.   

Her name is Libby and she has a mysterious scar above her lips, which are always painted shade of vermillion that the tube calls Flirt. She wears flowing sundresses, and her bra strap is always showing. She smells of chicory, jasmine and sex.

While you and your girlfriend drink Abita Amber and Ruthie the Duck Lady’s duck waddles behind the bar, you listen to Libby tell everyone about last night’s crowd;

              “Conrad Bourgeois came in here-you know, the butcher from Schweggemans. Said he had the money to pay for his drinks, but he’d have to tip with beef jerky.  I’m not kidding. So at 1am he leaves. Then 4am rolls around and the strippers from Big Daddy’s come over. They all have plastic bags stuffed with beef jerky.”

              Suddenly Ruthie the Duck Lady shouts, “Look out!” You turn around to see the skinny clown from Decatur Street pointing a .44 Magnum at Libby.

“Baby, you can’t leave me,” he pleads. “I love you. But if I can’t have you, no one can.”

Just then, the Wisconsin tourists pop their heads inside. The fanny packed wife says, “Look at this Bob, isn’t this cute. It’s a real old fashioned New Orleans bar. Oh no--Bob! That clown has a gun!”

         “Nobody move a fuckin’ muscle!” snarls the skinny clown. “Except you two. Get over there.”

           The Wisconsin tourists shuffle over to the corner.

The door bursts open again and the conventioneer from the Monteleone hotel runs in. He’s naked, chased by the pimply hooker. She’s wielding a knife. “Gimme my money you asshole!” she snaps. “I don’t care if you couldn’t get it up, a deal’s a deal!”

         Libby pulls out a bow and arrow from behind the bar and points it at the pimply hooker. “Drop the knife. It’s bad for tourism when conventioneers get killed in this town and since the locals tip in beef jerky, I need the tourists.”

         You look at the bow and arrow, the gun and the knife.  

         Do you:

    A.   Jump over the bar and grab Libby’s bow and arrow, copping a feel in the process.

B.   Kick the skinny clown in the nuts.

C.   Offer to pay off the pimply hooker.

ANSWER A: You leap over the bar, grab Libby’s bow and arrow with the right hand and grab one of her tits with the left. The skinny clown shrieks: “You filthy bastard! Get your hands off her!” He starts firing randomly. One bullet hits the conventioneer in the bare ass, giving him a heart attack. He dies instantly. Another bullet dislodges the chipped chandelier, killing the tourists from Wisconsin, shattering their cameras and squashing their fanny packs. The next three bullets manage to kill Ruthie the Duck lady, your girlfriend and the pimply hooker.  Libby leaps back, accidentally drops the bow and arrow and slams into the cabinet behind the bar. It topples over onto her as bottles of booze come crashing all around. You dodge the cabinet, grab the bow and arrow and aim it at the clown. He shoots you right between the eyes. You’re dead. The clown hoofs it out into the sultry New Orleans night, followed by Ruthie’s duck, the sound of Zydeco music filling the air.

ANSWER B:  You kick the skinny clown square in the nuts. He drops the gun, which slides over to the tourists from Wisconsin. The wife picks it up. “Look Bob, a real New Orleans gun!” she says. The gun accidentally goes off, going straight through Libby’s throat, ricocheting off the bar, boomeranging back and killing the Wisconsin wife.  Just before dying, Libby releases the bow and arrow, killing the clown. The clown slumps over onto the naked conventioneer, giving him a heart attack. He dies instantly. The Wisconsin husband grabs the gun, which goes off again, killing Ruthie the Duck Lady.  The pimply hooker leaps up and stabs the Wisconsin husband 12 times and says, “That’s for killing Ruthie the Duck Lady, you piece of shit!” You’re about to grab your girlfriend and get out of there when she gasps, “Honey, I think the beer was poisoned.” You both die a horrible beer-related death. The pimply hooker surmises the bloody scene, scrambles over to the cash register, grabs a fistful of cash and tucks it into her purse. She saunters into the sultry New Orleans night, followed by Ruthie’s duck, the sound of jazz and laughter filling the air.

ANSWER C: You make a grab for your wallet to pay off the hooker. The skinny clown says, “I said nobody move!” and shoots you dead. Libby raises her bow and arrow and the pimply hooker leaps at her, slitting her throat. “Don’t you touch him! His balloon animals are works of art!” Libby slumps to the floor. The clown shrieks, “You killed my Libby!” and starts shooting up the joint. He shoots the pimply hooker, then your girlfriend and moves on to the Wisconsin couple bellowing, “I fucking hate fanny packs!” Another bullet ricochets off the bar and hits the naked conventioneer in the penis. “Not my penis!” he cries. The pimply hooker looks up from her pool of blood and gurgles, “What do you care, it doesn’t work anyway,” before dying. The conventioneer grabs her knife from her dead hands and says, “Life isn’t worth living without my penis,” and stabs himself in the chest. Ruthie the Duck Lady ambushes the clown with the bow and arrow, spearing him in the right temple. She rips it out and spears him in the left one too, just to make sure he’s dead. Dropping the bow and arrow, she grabs her Mint Julep and wanders out into the sultry New Orleans night, followed by her duck, the sound of a brass band filling the air.

Choose Your Layoff Adventure

By David Silverman

Dear Employee,

In this time of economic uncertainty, we are pleased to announce that a plan has been developed to solve our financial challenges. This plan was developed by our consultants Slash, Burn, and Petersen, and all it takes from you, our valued employees to pick a number between 1 and 33,205 and your favorite extreme sport.

Yes, we were surprised it would be that easy as well, but SBP assures us that this methodology has worked well for GM, Lehman Brothers, and Dick Cheney’s staff.

Please respond to this email with your number and extreme sport and we’ll let everyone know the results in the coming weeks.

Best of Luck,

Justin Timberlake (not the singer)

SVP HR

You answer the email and get this response:

Dear Employee,

Thank you for your timely response. You have selected employee number ______, who is our current CEO, Rod Stewart (not the singer). You and Rod will be paired in a duel to the death of your selected sport ____________. The survivor will remain employed.

The match is scheduled for Monday morning at 6:30am. Please be prompt as we have matches scheduled throughout the day.

You arrive at the office at 6:30am. The cafeteria area has been turned into an impromptu cage match arena where you will compete in __________ with the Rod Stewart. The folks from accounting have been given the front row seats, where they sit with excel spreadsheets that are linked to a large overhead thermometer sign like they have on the Jerry Lewis telethon. The sign says, “Money Saved” and the thermometer level is at “$6.2 million.”

As you walk in, the SVP of HR says to you, “I hope you win.”

“Thank you,” you say, not sure how the SVP of HR knows who you are and then you see large photos of yourself and the CEO being carried aloft around the cafeteria area/arena by bikini clad women.

“I’m just saying,” the SVP says, “If you win, then we’ll hit the target of  $10 million in savings, and the layoffs will stop.”

You don’t know which you object to more, the fact that your job means only as much as your ability kill the CEO, the fact that the CEO apparently makes almost $4 million dollars, or that your picture that the bikini ring-girl is holding up is the one from your badge that was taken the day you were so hung over. Really, you look like shit up there.

The match begins and before you enter mortal combat you ask the payroll clerk who’s about to lock the door and keep the two of you separated from everyone by the glass walls of the cafeteria area. “It’s not really to the death, is it?”

“We got a waiver from the SEC,” he says. And then he makes an exasperated look when you stare and says, “It’s not really cost savings if we have to pay your accrued vacation.”

It’s then you notice the EMT workers and their supply of body bags. Creepy for a “choose your own adventure, right?”

Then it’s just you, the CEO, the minifridge, and the machine that makes the worst fucking coffee in the world cause it uses those little pre-measured capsules that just suck so bad.

Do you

E. Offer the CEO a compromise to fake your own death so that this can end amicably.

F. You choose to release the tigers.

G. Fight!

E. You try to make it look good, but the CEO doesn’t seem to be interested in appearances. He punches you in the face with the coffee maker. It’s not really in the rules of  _________, but it is effective. You go down hard. As he smashes your skull you, you think, the coffee in the capsules itself isn’t so bad, and the machine just boils water, so why does it taste like piss? Then you think, he’s really hitting me hard. Then you die.

Really, that’s  it. No backsies. The hard truth is that CEOs suck and totally just don’t care if you drive a crappy VW Golf and they jet around in Gulf Streams and have sex with each other or whatever they do that you can’t do cause you’re poor. That truth doesn’t matter to you because, as mentioned. You are dead. The End.

F. There are no tigers. Who said there are tigers? And you believed him? Really. Come on. Tigers. As if. However, because you seem to be hallucinating as you keep pressing a the button on the coffee machine and shouting “Release the Tigers, Release the Tigers!” The CEO doesn’t know how to react. As it begins to dawn on him that even if you are retarded that you need to go down, baby, down, the head of HR rushes in and shouts at him, “American with Disabilities!”

The HR guy pulls out a person-sized canvas bag and dumps it over your head. You come to in a nice office with an Aeron chair, two, no three computer monitors, headphones, furniture with no sharp edges and a plate of spaghetti.

There is a post it note on the spaghetti. It says, “You have been assigned to functional services. Your job consists of eating spaghetti and making photocopies. Please do not sue us.”

From the next office you hear a voice shouting, “Release the tigers, release the tigers.”

The end.

G.  Not in keeping with the rules of ________, you grab 30 coffee capsules and, in rapid succession, bite them open and swallow the bitter contents. Then, like some java-juiced Popeye your muscles swell with caffeine and your mind and focus sharpens. Time dilates and you find yourself doing that Matrix stuff where you move really fast but everything goes really slow. If you were older, you would be making metaphors with the Six Million Dollar Man or Woman, but you’re gen-X and you have no idea what that is.

You grab the CEO by his lapels, he tries to grab you back, but at your level in the company you don’t wear lapels. You have a collar, but when Rod grabs at it, it tears off in his hands because you bought this shirt at T.J. Maxx. You spit moist coffee residue from your mouth into his eyes and then head butt him like you saw in some other movie that probably had Vin Diesel in it or maybe the Rock. You can’t remember. You don’t care. The CEO is dead. You are the new CEO. You pass out.

In the coming months you have your firm buy Jagermeister—the entire company. Wall Street hails you as a genius and you live for fucking ever. Really. You never ever are going to die. You rock. Totally. The End.

Call Me Capt. "O," Baby
by David Serchuk

(Editor's note: I didn't fill in the superscripts for all my Tweets. Please use the powers of your imagination.)

You know, I never thought these Tweets to the editor were actually real. Until something happened that sure changed my mind. LOL!

4:58 p.m. May 28, 2323 from Captain’slogTwitfeed

I was having a drink at the bar of my space station, The Emperor Obama, when I felt something odd. I’d been slipped my own roofie! OMG!

5:05 p.m. May 28, 2323 from CaptainslogTwitfeed

I looked to my left, and my right. The usual riffraff, Svetlana the six armed Alpha Centurian, the bartender Yeck, no immediate suspects.

My clone Jack was beside me sipping space tea, as he is on the job. Somehow this had all gone right by him. What else is new?

Before this it had been a quiet night in the life of Capt. Adam O’Shaughnessy. As per my recent routine I was hunting for interstellar ‘poon.

Funny thing about today’s roofies, they leave your body alone but your mind travels to the local nearest wormhole. For hours! LOL!

BTW, I’d been single a month since my sixth wife Mona left me. She said I was really married to my job. Like she’d know about work!

@Jack – Yes, I know buddy, I still had you. But you’re me, so that doesn’t really count.

Let me describe myself in a few, very few, words. Let’s just say the ladies like a man in uniform. Or better still out of one: ROTFLMAO!

I’m athletically built and depending on your gravity field I weigh either 200, 55 or 4000 kilopounds.

@Mona O’Shaughnessy – No, I’m not lying. I’m telling you, your gravity scale was set for Saturn, not Earth units.

Some people! They divorce you, but keep on following. Find a new Twit to hit!

Soon things got bleary around the edges, kind of in a pleasant way, at least initially. But I needed to get out of there. Something was off.

I walked to the teleporter and barked at the control jockey to beam me to the captain’s chambers. I needed a safe place to ride it out.

Soon I materialized in my chambers. I took off my uniform and walked to my gravity pod for some shuteye.

To my shock and awe I saw I was not alone -- crawling on my space sateenate sheets was a woman I had never seen before. In just a bra and pa

Nties! Damned Twitter, the only technology to survive the 21^st century and you’d think someone would finally up the character count! L

She slithered to me, Capt. O’Shaughnessy? You can call me Capt. “O” baby, I said. She laughed, and peeled her face off! OMG!

To reveal an even hotter face underneath. They’re called SkinSlides™. U can buy them in the Obama’s gift shop.

In fact I was on my 4th face of the day. This one modeled on High Priest Timberlake.

She got closer, “I have a very special message for U,” she said. “What’s your name?” I asked. “My name is not impt,” she said.

“You got that rite,” I said. I unhooked her bra, to reveal astonishing, full boobs. Then I slid her panties down her hips.

"Your life’s in danger," she said, helping me strip her naked. She then asked, "why’s he here?"

Jack? He’s my decoy. Why?

@Jack – Decoy as in best friend!

She looked at me and Jack. So, are you two the same in every way? Every way, I said. She opened my fly and started to take out my rock hard

Right then I traveled into the wormhole! OMG! It was interesting, lots of colors and some fine dining. But bad timing. LOL!

When I came to, there was blood, blood, everywhere! The lady was mutilated, ded!

Jack cowered in the corner. I held a massive, bloodied knife. And I was covered in blood.

OMG! WTF? OMG! WTF? OMFG!

But I’m no killer. Right? Right? I asked Jack what happened. But his mind was blown. No answer.

I looked at the woman, it was an ugly. Suddenly I heard sirens ringing. The KBR Copz were coming, and now!

We had to go! I threw Jack and I in the shower, to wash away the blood. Then some clothes sealed themselves on us as I chose new faces.

You know, incognito. I picked Average Caucasian Worker Drone for both of us and grabbed my pulse pistol, cell phone and we ran for it.

I tried to call my lawyer but my Cingular minutes were maxed and my reception was crap, as usual. I should drop them.

Grabbed Jack’s iPhone, it worked. The 1,111,111 G Network really is an improvement on the old 1,111,110 G Network.

Tweet To My Lawyer Myron Greenglass: Help?

As we ran I heard the KBR Space Copz, busting the door. It was open. What we get for privatizing the police 300 years ago. L

The hallwayz were abuzz as everyone’s personal reality show was interrupted by a newsflash that I wuz wanted for murder. No LOL.

I know this because it interrupted my own reality show Captain’s Log Cuties. But only over the closing credits …

So I don’t what happened to me yet. J

We ducked the roving cambotz but a bigger problem wuz getting off this level, as security does a scrotum scan each time.

I needed to create a big, big diversion. And I knew just the way.

As we approached the bottleneck for the next level, I saw the guards, in front of the sweet freedom of the entryway.

As Capt. I know they would be armed, but not well trained, thanks Blackwater. If I can get past them and teleport out I have a chance.

MPs were everywhere, as were cambotz, and armed guardbotz. Two guards were infront of the portal, waiting for scrotum scan alarms.

But I had an angle. It’s good to be capt, sometimes, and better to get ahold of the deadliest substance ever known to man.

Which I had with me, LOL! So I covertly lit my ace in the hole, a cigarette, and threw it on the floor.

The place went nutz. Guards swarmed the cig, cambots flashed, grown men cried at seeing an actual, real, burning butt.

A giant ashtray dropped from the ceiling as foam fire retardant filled the hallway. It wuz chaos, it wuz perfect, it wuz perfect chaos! :-O

How did I get something so toxic that owning one has been punishable by death since the Marlboro Convention of 2023?

Don’t you wish you knew? ROTF. Getting a lighter wuz even harder. LOL! But that’s why I’m capt.

@Myron Greenglass. You’re dropping me because I smoke? Space CockSUCKER!

In the panic we slipped through, no one saw. I knew where to go, the dockz!

My own little hotrod was sitting there: The Lightening Pigeon XML. Capable of five warps speed, highly armed and with a Space Jacuzzi.

I hopped in the seat, and hit the gas, we busted out as guardz, shot at us, and cambotz flashed. Write me a ticket assholez!

JACK, you TWEET. I’m flying!

Okay. Jack here. Capt. O flew flew very fast as Blackwateries came for us. They was all cloned from Dark Magus Cheney’z preserved brain.

Even so I always liked them, but soon Capt. O, fired on them anyway, he’s the best pilot in the Star Squadron.

I can’t drive.

As we took off, two KBR Copz fired on us, hey, they almost hit us. Jerkz!

One hit us, bounced off our deflector shield, but it rocked the Pigeon. Tell you the truth, she ain’t running so good.

Capt. O forgot to rotate the wings, it’s low on hydro and the AC broke. BTW, I told him to not buy domestic.

He said it would help something called “the bailout” ??? WTF? I don’t know what that means. LOL.

Then Capt. O slammed on the breaks and the KBR Copz overshot us, then we wuz chasing them!

Now, he flipped on the Pigeon’s frizzing device, which makes objects in the rearview mirror look further away then they appear.

Now it wuz our turn. Capt. O opened a volley of missile shot and it hit the left wing thingey of the Copz, making them spin out.

Then the other guy got what Capt. O calls his “Dickface Seeker” missile, which blasted him to next weeks satellite.

Sorry Blackwateries! Safe, for now, Capt. O launched into the hyper drive lane, and hit auto pilot. He rulez! Out Loud Laughing!

Capt. O back again! I told Jack not to touch anything and went back to my chambers.

To my amazement what did I find there? A hot, stacked chick. To quote our one true Lord, Savior and Redeemer: Hammer time!

She rolled to me. “My name is not important, but I am a slave woman from a small suburb just outside of Betelgeuse.”

Her hair was so thick, her breasts so full, her hips so wide her skin so green.

"Your life is in danger" she said as she started to undo my flybot 2000.

NSS I said, as I undid her retro-styled bra. Late 23^rd century lingerie gets me hot. Call it a fetish. 

No, I mean it, she said as she unzipped my face.

I know, crazy day, I answered as I lifted her hips to remove her panties. They said “Mind The Gap.” Was this all some joke? L

She looked damn sexy. And yes, she was a natural green. I couldn’t wait to dive into her wormhole. LOL!

Suddenly Jack burst in. Capt. O, we have a problem. Space pirates are boarding the Pigeon!

Jack, didn’t you set the space deadbolt? You forgot? Crap sandwich!

I threw a gun at the green bitch, and said we had to fight. She looked damn sexy holding it, as her nude body did the zero-g Jello shake!

Ka-pow her head was split open by a bolt of light! Smoke and wirez go everywhere. She was a bot? What? 

I fired back blind, no time to think, as the pirates boarded. Just then the Pigeon got rocked, the Copz!

Soon the Copz were materializing on board, now there were six people trying to kill us. I threw the pistol to Jack. Let’s lol!

I fire and hit one pirate, his brain explodes, Jack hits another, but we're outgunned. It’s mad chaos!

There are only three ways out of this: we can fly into the MacArthur wormhole, fight it out on the Pigeon or try to land on the mutant planet Mutoid.

What should we do?

ENDING ONE

My thoughts exactly, fighting to the bridge, I nose the Pigeon to the wormhole as pirates fight copz who fight them and then us.

The Pigeon starts to shake to pieces as we're covered in blinding light, an oxygen mask drops from the ceiling, no use.

I look at Jack, this could be it, pal. There was a blinding flash, I felt torn apart and slightly sick. Then I became infinite.

She looked at me and Jack. So, are you two the same in every way? Every way, I said

Whoa! I wus back in my quarters and back in time! And hopefully NSFW! LOL!

She opened my fly and started to take out my rock hard pistol. Nice weight, she said. Thanks, it’s Martian steel.

I know, she said, I got it for you. Then she stands up, nude, pointing the gun at me. You know, I didn't mean when I said it was a no-fault

Divorce! Mona, it’s you! Yup, she said. Come on in Myron!

Soon my attorney Greenglass enters. Then he unzipped my wife’s SkinSootTM, and she stepped out, dressed, too bad. No LOL.

Hi Jack, he said. Caught you with your pants down? WTF?

But why I asked? Two words she said: life insurance.

What about it?

Mutual of Nebula wasn’t going to pay anything, she said. We all know they take out smokers and execute them.

Of course, I said. It’s been that way for centuries. So what?

That means no payments, she said. What’s it matter to you? You’re out of my will and it’s going to Jack! ROTFLMAO, twice!

She smiled. If I were you I would stop rolling on the floor laughing my ass off, she said. I was still in your will. It was never changed.

Greenglass, I told you to change it months ago. Yeah, he said, but Mona and I made a deal. And then he tongued her? BTW, gross!

Mona said and you were going to leave it all to clone boy? He was fruity for you. Then she LOL’d us!

Bitch, no one LOLs Capt. O and Jack! At this Jack went nuts, crushing Greenglass’s head like a grape.

I knocked the gun out of Mona’s hand, as we fought for it Jack came up with a butcher knife and stabbed her 38 times.

Until we couldn’t recognize her. 

Shocked, we looked at the carnage, then put Greenglass in a plastic tarp and threw him in the guest bedroom.

I took the knife from Jack’s hand, as the sirens rang. Murder for non-insurance related reasons is a capital offense.

We were going to have to figure it out. I opened Mona’s purse and grabbed some smokes. She’d got me started after all. LOL!

ENDING TWO

Yeah, fighting it out only made sense. I wheeled and blasted away a pirate, Jack cracked one over the head, they kept missing us.

But one, dying, hit the controls and it shifted the Pigeon to a wormhole just the same. Dammit!

Soon we started to tailspin into the vortex, all these colors started to bleed into one, and I found my mind melting into Jack’s.

Suddenly it was very still and calm, everything was gone, the ship the fight. It was just us and the universe.

Jack smiled, though I couldn’t see it, and he laughed, though I couldn’t hear it. Our minds wer one.

Now I see, I said. Yes, he answered, this is the answer to everything, to life itself. LOL.

Adam, he said, you are the clone.

Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!

Then he adds, and you were my decoy.

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

The cigarettes, I finally said. You’ve been running the black market the whole time.

He smiled, and they all thought it was you.

But the girl, I said, who was she? Why’d she die?

An addict, he said, they used to be called smokers. She didn’t know about me.

Why’d she say my life was in danger?

She thought it sounded hot. But when she saw us together I knew she had to go. And I pinned it on you!

The roofie, I said. Yes, he answered. That was me too. I slipped it to you.

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

And I thought you was so dumb the whole time, I said.

I know, right, he said. LOL!

Soon we snapped back to the bridge of the Pigeon. Lights were flashing, everyone was dead but us, smoke was everywhere.

And Jack stood, holding a pulse pistol at my chest. Sorry Adam, it’s been fun. But there’s only one Jack. Double LOL!

Bastard, I said, MY … NAME … IS … Captain O! LOL!

Right at that moment the 50,000 Light Year extended powertrain warranty on the Pigeon’s transmission blew out! Fucking American ships!

Sending us both hurtling to the side of the ship, as hell breaks loose!

I grab the gun in the chaos and point it at Jack. Joke’s on you Jack I say. Now, hands up.

He looks at me. You can’t kill me, he says. I have all your memories. You are me, I am you.

In that case, I say, I’ve got to lay off the narcissism. Then I rip him to shreds with the pulse pistol.

Instantly, ratings for Captain’s Log Cuties skyrocket and I’m picked up for another season.

But Jack’s show got cancelled. But then, there’s always reruns. Lol.

ENDING THREE

The Pigeon started a death spiral as some copz blasted its fuselage. The mutant planet Mutoid was close if only …

We could reach the escape pod.

I grabbed Jack and backing out we closed the hatch behind us, locking it. The pod was in the emergency dock, ready to go.

We got in and punched the buttons for Mutoid. Then we rocketed out, too small for the scanners from the Copz to notice.

But they would catch up soon enough. L

Burning through the atmosphere Mutoid’s air traffic control keeps asking us to indentify ourselves, but we don’t. We ain’t stupid, LOL!

But I know a few tricks. We put on our InvisoShield and gun for the let us say more exotic part of Lower Mutoid City.

We land at a certain black market landing strip I know, and get out of the pod. Soon we’re in Lower Mutoid City.

Teeming with life, from all star systems, dcadent and sleazy Lower Mutoid City is where you go when you want to escape Starbucks.

We know they’re looking for us but in this teeming mess of life it could take a little while to find us.

Something explodes behind my ear, close! “Do not move, you are wanted by the Cheney Corpz Blackwater Police Force TM. Halt!”

Suddenly a hot young babe comes out of nowhere. Quick, she says, follow me. My eyes lock on that lovely rear and we’re moving.

She takes us into a back alley, then underground and through some secret airlocks. Where are we?

You’re safe, she says as we enter a secret bedroom. Lights dim on command.

What’s your name? I ask.

My name is not important, she says, as she takes off her clothes. Soon she’s just clad in her white bra, panties and thigh high GoGo boots.

Come closer, she says, there is something I must tell you. And then she rolled playfully onto her belly.

Don’t have to tell me twice. LOL! Let me guess you’re going to tell me that my life …

Is in danger, two voices say behind me. I wheel around. It’s my attorney Greenglass and Jack, both pointing pistols at me. WTF?

It’s a setup! Then I turn around and look at the girl, who’s also pointing a gun at me. Then she speaks, and her voice changes. Mona!

That’s right Adam, she says, Mona. And she steps out of her SkinSoot TM, while keeping the gun trained on me.

But I don’t get it! I said, why? Jack, you’re my clone. Mona, I agreed to let you have the dog! And Greenglass, I paid you 200 Dukakis ducats an hour!

Oh Adam, you’re such a child, Mona says. We’ve all always hated you. And we're bringing you in.

But why? I’m a good person!

Don’t fool yourself, said a voice from behind me. It was Jack, sounding amazingly smart and … British? WTF?

Adam, you must be joking. Tonight your big plan was to date rape someone! That’s why I slipped you the roofie.

Now Mona spoke. And you hosted “Captain’s Log Cuties” while we were married! Even worse I wasn’t edited all that well in it, either.

Mona, that wasn’t my fault! And what about you Greenglass?

No reason, he said, other than you’re a date rapist and a murderer!

WTF? But there was a conspiracy, and a mystery and Cheneyz Army, and we were on the run …

Yeah, Mona said, on the run for something you did.

Jack spoke. The roofie kicked in and you went crazy, slicing up that poor girl, who only wanted to be on your reality show.

But why did she tell me my life was in danger?

Greenglass spoke. Because, dumbass, you smoke.

With that I turned and charged Mona, but before I could move two metric feet Jack and Greenglass had filled me full of holes.

As my life oozed out of me I kept on Tweeting even as I lit my last remaining cigarette. 2 legit 2 quit. L