Memento Mori

Memento Mori cover image

Latin for “remember death.”

The reminder that nothing is forever and everyone is born with the guillotine raised above their heads.

Currently, this Medieval Latin Christian Theory and practice of reflecting upon one’s morality has as much spotlight as Ray J.

Perriwinkle thought about getting a memento mori tattoo when he was a disgruntled teen but he didn’t have a fat enough Spencer’s gift card.

Currently, he was kneeling on the frigid concrete in front of the place he was trying to get to all day.

The Funeral Home.

He gazed at the sign as time continued to slither forward.

Eventually, the front door creaked open to reveal an elderly woman wearing a Hollywood Hogan bandana.

“Hello?” she asked in a gruff baritone.

Perriwinkle shuffled to his feet. “Hello m-madam. Sorry I was just-” he fumbled betwixt his lips.

The octogenarian Hulkamaniac flopped her arms to show an air of nonchalance.

“Get inside. We’ve been waiting for you,” she said to Perriwinkle.

He followed her inside and was shocked to discover that The Funeral Home was in fact a bar. Perriwinkle watched the patrons chat over their drinks and then something really odd happened.

The lights began to flicker as the people in the bar morphed into disgusting exhibits of flesh and tentacles.

Weird tentacle people

Once the flickering subsided, everyone in the bar returned to their normal form.

“Um, what was that about?” Perriwinkle asked the old lady.

“Nothing. Have a seat,” she instructed him.

He did as he was told while she walked behind the bar, filled a pint, and slammed it in front of him.

mug of beer

“Drink.”

Perriwinkle took a sip.

“So are you the one who’s been calling me?” he asked the weathered bartender.

“No…I…am,” said a mysterious voice to his left.

He turned to see an old woman with long white hair and black shades covering her square face.

old lady with sunglasses

“You said my mother was dead earlier today.” Perriwinkle was blunt.

“Do…y.ou..rem..ember..your mo…ther?”

Perriwinkle pondered the question.

“No. I actually can’t remember anything from my childhood. Why?”

“He…wish…es…it…so.”

“Who is he?” Perriwinkle leaned in closer.

faded doggledoo

The woman turned away her bar stool and stood up.

“Follow.”

He did as he was told.

While moving through the bar, he noticed everyone staring at him.

“He…sees…all,” the woman said while shuffling throughout the room.

She stopped in front of a door and reached into the brown purse slung over her shoulder.

“He…hear…ss….all.” She retrieved a key from the purse and opened the door like a sloth on horse tranquilizers.

drugged up sloth

They walked down another hallway until they reached the double red doors. The woman stared into his soul behind her sunglasses.

“He…..contr….olss….alll.”

Perriwinkle gulped flamboyantly.

“I don’t usually gulp like that, why did I do it just now?” he thought to himself.

He instantly forgot about that thought.

“See…what…I…mean?” the old lady smiled cunningly.

“What are you talking about?” Perriwinkle began feeling dizzy.

“Pre….cise….lee,” she chuckled to herself.

She pushed the double red doors and they moved into the next room.

It had some couches in it.

Couch

“Do you know where my mother is?” Perriwinkle asked.

“No,” she replied.

“But why would you say that to me on the phone?” Perriwinkle was getting frustrated.

“Only….way,” she managed to get out.

“What?!” he screeched.

“You’ll…under…stan…d..soon.”

She sat down on one of the many couches inside the room and pressed a button on the side of the arm rest.

An LG – 75″ Class – LED – UK6190 Series – 2160p – Smart – 4K UHD TV with HDR rose from the floor between them.

Promo Code for Lg TV

The TV’s screen flashed on to display white noise.

“Watch,” the lady instructed him.

Perriwinkle looked at the screen and stupidly watched the white noise flicker across the screen. He continued to stand and intensely watch the screen for a few minutes.

white noise man

He then turned to the old lady.

“Do…you….get….it?” she asked him.

“I think I do,” he replied grimly.

Perriwinkle left The Funeral Home and returned to his home.

Later that night he died.

END………

Tripping

Tripping cover photo

It was a lovely spring day.

The birds were chirping, the flowers blooming, and somewhere in the far distance, a man was peeing on the faces of a Mother and Father who were taking a break from their daily tasks of parenthood for an erotic and romantic weekend at their local Super 8 Motel.

Miles away from that mess, Perriwinkle Funkhouser was walking along the sidewalk. He had just experienced the worst Ulpher driver he ever encountered and barely escaped with his life.

But at least he was still alive.

As he was making his way to The Funeral Home, he withdrew from his pocket the vial that he found in the demolished Ulpher ride.

The vial looked like a Smurf-sized travel shampoo bottle and contained a dark-green liquid inside its clear casing. Perriwinkle twisted off the teensy cap and gave the mysterious concoction a quick whiff.

Instantly, a rush of panic found its way into his body and down his spine. Also, he could have sworn he saw the visage of a deformed dog-like head after blinking his eyes a few times.

“Well that’ll put hair on your chest and get you a great 401 K,” he joked to himself.

Perriwinkle quickly stowed away the vial and continued walking to his destination. He almost forgot the entire reason for being outside after just one sniff of the robust elixir in his pocket.

Earlier that day, he received a phone call from an older woman telling him that his Mother had passed and that he needed to go to The Funeral Home as soon as possible.

When did that happen, though? Also, why can I hear a description of my day?” he thought to himself.

Just then, an ominous man wearing a green jacket bumped into him and walked away briskly. Perriwinkle instantly checked his pockets and noticed the vial was gone.

Still in his eyesight, Perriwinkle rushed to the man who pickpocketed him and began screaming.

“HEY! GET BACK HERE! YOU STOLE MY…”

He stopped himself short of announcing to everyone in his general vicinity that someone just stole his drugs right as the thief skrrrr’d away.

Perriwinkle sprinted towards the man in the green jacket to retrieve his precious vial.

“Why is it precious to me?”

The green jacket man ran through a couple holding hands and rounded a corner into an alleyway. Perriwinkle dodged the flustered couple with yellow sweat on their faces and darted into the alleyway in close pursuit.

The green jacket man hopped on a nearby dumpster and attempted to climb a fire escape.

Yet he wasn’t quick enough to get away from good ol’ Perriwinkle, who jumped up to clasp the shoe of the thief with one hand while yanking his jacket down with the other.

Both men rudely fell on top of the dumpster and rolled off it, with Perriwinkle still holding on to the green jacket.

When he gathered enough strength to raise himself up, he noticed the empty green jacket in his hand. He looked both ways down the alley to ensure it was not some sort of magic trick.

“Did he just disappear out of thin air?”

Perriwinkle gazed at the crumpled jacket folded over in his hand as he questioned every thought he ever had.

Once he returned from the realm of thought, he scoured the jacket for his vial.

After finding it in the left breast pocket, he chucked the jacket in the dumpster and centered his entire universe around the small glass bottle in his hand.

With just one sniff he was able to hear things he never could before, but what would happen if he drank any of it?

Throwing caution to the wind, he twisted it open, dabbed a few drops on his tongue, and submitted himself to the will of the vial’s bizarre nature.

It only took a matter of seconds before he could feel himself soaking into the pavement.

He looked around the alley and could see twisting gyroscopes of light emerging from the brick walls in a beautiful spectacle of color and grime.

“There it is again. Where is that voice coming from?”

Perriwinkle sloshed his way through the viscous concrete over to one of the balls of light. As he made his way, he looked down at the mysterious pair of hands in front of his stomach.

“I control these things, but have they always been just mine?”

A whirlwind of critical thoughts followed in this question’s wake but Perriwinkle didn’t have enough time to ponder on them since he was too enchanted by the moving wad of light hovering over his head.

Upon closer inspection, he could see tinier versions of multicolored gyroscopes rotating within the center of the larger one floating above him.

Perriwinkle felt like he was gazing into the code that structured all of existence. The longer he peered into the rotating patterns of light, the more he felt like everything in his entire life had been a lie.

He closed his eyes in an attempt to retain what he was seeing, but when he opened them again he could only see the same shadow of a creature with floppy ears and a deformed face.

It appeared to be the same lifeform that Perriwinkle had seen in his dreams from earlier that morning.

Then it finally hit him.

He dropped to his knees and looked up at the purple sky filled with green clouds as the explanation to his existence unraveled itself to him.

Everyone he had ever known or loved, including himself, were all part of a fictional universe created by this strange dog-like being that he kept seeing in his dreams.

When he saw the strange beast in his dream scribbling away at a desk, Perriwinkle was actually watching the formation of the world he currently lived in.

This revelation hit him like a sack of bricks, causing him to double over and plop his head on the sidewalk in front of him.

“This is all a lie. I’m not truly real and never was.”

He knew that in order to reclaim any sense of agency in his life he would need to find and confront the dog-like humanoid from his dreams.

“But how am I going to do that if it apparently controls my every move?”

When he lifted his head from the cold concrete, Perriwinkle was amazed at the sight before him.

He was kneeling in front of the entrance to The Funeral Home.

 

To be even more continued…

 

Subject #D8NK

Ulpher

Ulpher - post image

Roy was fucked up.

He assessed his situation after waking up in his car only to find that he was parked in front of a green light.

Oh.

Suddenly, as his foot was finding the gas pump, his phone pinged for a new Ulpher rider request.

It was someone close, he remarked to himself as he continually jabbed his foot towards the general area of the gas pedal.

Before eventually finding the pedal, Roy mashed his middle finger against the phone to accept the request.

Two demolished mailboxes later, he skidded to a halt in front of the pickup location.

The man walking up to the car appeared flustered, keeping one of his hands tightly pinched atop the bridge of his nose as he swung the rear passenger door open with the other hand.

“My apologies for the delay sire, I had to stop by the WC,” Roy said in a futile attempt to appear sober while also testing the waters of his new British accent.

“It’s okay. Please just take me to my location.” the man said curtly.

Roy acknowledged this by bobbing his head back and forth like someone who should never handle a motor vehicle or dual wield chainsaws.

“Your destination is my command,” he militantly stated to his passenger. He was so impressed with how far video game graphics had come as he stared blankly at the person in his virtual car.

The man riding Cobain didn’t care to notice that the driver had his head sloped against his right shoulder while driving. He didn’t care to notice pretty much anything around him as a baffling identity battle raged throughout his head.

“So, Perriwinkle, you got a name?” Roy slurred to the rider in his car.

“Um, you actually said my name when asking that question. Is everything okay, Roy?” Perriwinkle began to notice the gravity of his situation.

“Yeah man, we’ll get you to where we need to go in a jiffy,” Roy slurred to the worried man in his car. Time was slowing down as he spoke. Enter stage right, the edibles.

Roy knew it wasn’t in his best interest to eat half a batch of cosmic brownies just before driving for Ulpher, but he also knew it wasn’t in his best interest to sober up while away from his condo.

“Alright, screw this.” Just as Perriwinkle was unbuckling his seat belt, Roy’s head perked up in a crazed state and he began a peculiar ululation.

Seconds later, Perriwinkle’s head whipped back against the seat after Roy curb stomped his gas pedal.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOI-” he attempted to scream above the esoteric pattern of tongues that Roy was bellowing.

Roy knew the only way to get to King Buttondrop’s Crystal Palace was by going 40 over the speed limit in a suburban area while trying to drive as much as possible on the opposite side of traffic. He was glad the drugs weren’t affecting his driving abilities.

He noticed through his rear view mirror that the man in the backseat was jumping around like a madman. “Can you please calm down? We’re never going to get there if you keep disturbing me,” were the words that Roy’s brain told him to say.

Roy’s body, on the other hand, sputtered out a mess of words and letters that would have been acceptable only if Perriwinkle was in the mood for Alphabet soup vomited in a cup.

Soon after this, Roy turned around to stare at Perriwinkle and attempted a recreation of The Stare and Drive from 2 Fast 2 Furious.

Roy didn’t feel the pickup truck slam against his front bumper. He also never wore his seatbelt.

The momentum from the crash slammed Perriwinkle’s head against the back of the passenger seat.

When he lifted his head, he was horrified to see the bottom half of Roy’s body laying atop a quagmire of glass and blood.

Perriwinkle could hear people shouting in his direction to see if he was okay as he silently remained in a catatonic state of shock. Then he heard something fall out of Roy’s pants and roll under the driver seat only to land on the floor next to him.

It was a clear vial that held a mysterious iridescent liquid.

He couldn’t pinpoint the reason, but once his eyes met with the vial an alien feeling arrested his entire thought process.

He remained transfixed on it until he heard someone knock on his car door and ask him if he was okay.

Perriwinkle closed his eyes, imagining himself picking up the vial and stuffing it in his pocket, and then let the Good Samaritan know that he was fine and able to get out on his own.

After getting assessed and cleared by paramedics, Perriwinkle checked his phone to see how far he was from The Funeral home.

5 blocks to go. He could walk.

As he was crossing the street to another block, his phone rang.

“Are y…..ou…com….ing or not?” whispered the old lady he had talked to earlier that day.

“I am. I will be there soon,” said Perriwinkle matter-of-factly. “Also, how did you get this number?”

But before the old lady could answer, the call abruptly ended.

More questions for a later time.

He needed to get to The Funeral Home.

 

To be more continued…

 

Subject #SHR3KI5L0V3

Pseudonym

One winter morning, Perriwinkle Funkhouser woke up to find himself lying atop a mound of his own sweat while bearing a massive headache.

He stared up at the ceiling thinking about the cosmic storm raging all around him through every drastic second as he laid rigidly in his bed.

Chaos,” he thought to himself.

Perriwinkle lifted his head from the moist pillow and reached under it to grab a blue notebook. After sliding his pen out from the binder, he thumbed through countless pages saturated with black ink until he reached his empty blue-striped canvas.

As he began jotting down the strange juxtaposition of symbols and memories that he had experienced from the night before, he began to feel sweat trickle down his forehead.

Perriwinkle had countless nightmares throughout his life, but none quite like what he had experienced the night prior. There was bone-chilling surrealism to what he saw, causing him to question all of the actions he had ever taken throughout his life.

In his lucid projection, Perriwinkle saw the image of an unfamiliar human-animal chimera hunched over a desk and writing in a notebook of its own. It looked as if it were some demented amalgam of a dog, rabbit, and human.

As the creature scribbled away, a peculiar ray of light began to emit from the pen it was holding. Undeniably intrigued, Perriwinkle took a step closer towards the busy organism to get a better look at the expanding cloud forming above the desk.

While the cloud continued to swell, the moving image of an oddly familiar man appeared within it. The man was staring transfixed at his computer, trying to make a decision but unable to resolve his conundrum.

As the scene progressed within the cloud, the man was eventually carted off to a mental health facility in a truck along with all the other local loonies.

Shortly after that scene dissipated, a new one emerged through the rippled cloud. The new moving images displayed a terribly disturbed woman shooting her boyfriend and his group of friends because he had watched the last episode of their favorite TV show without her.

Removing himself from a dumbfounded state, Perriwinkle began stepping closer to the mysterious figure hunched over its desk. While stepping closer, he began to feel an icy cold sensation slither down his spine.

Once he got within an arm’s reach of the manically writing being, it instantaneously dropped its pen and put its head down.

In a defensive response to this, Perriwinkle took a slight step backward and shielded himself like a boxer. For all he knew, the thing that sat in front of him could have had some form of rabies.

Or worse, it could have been unvaccinated.

As Perriwinkle sat in his bed and further digested his warped dream, he reflected on the disconnect he felt from his thoughts of trepidation and his movement towards the ominous being. It was almost as if his body was under the control of an external force.

He was drilling into this momentary loss of control when he heard his phone buzzing on the nightstand next to his bed. It was one of his buddies from work asking where he was.

How could I forget I had work?

Perriwinkle jumped out of bed and hastily dressed in a clean pair of black sweatpants and an argyle V-neck. Business leisure dress code.

Right, now where do I work again? Also, who was that friend of mine? And how did I know the dress code but not the location of my work?

Regardless of his discombobulated state, Perriwinkle made it into work with limited time to spare. Even though he wasn’t aware of it, his shift started 30 minutes from the time he woke up that morning. He made it in the parking spot at the 28th minute.

After hurriedly bursting through the front door to his office, Perriwinkle was immediately signaled over by someone sitting at their desk.

“Hey, Tom, over here!” the man said as he simultaneously called Perriwinkle to his desk and guided the apparent airplane coming in from the other end of the room with his persistently flailing arms.

Wait how did I get here? Did he just call me Tom?

Nonetheless, Perriwinkle made his way over to the desk despite his legitimate fear of the man potentially turning out to be a wacky waving inflatable tube guy.

“Hey Dan, how are we doing today?” asked Perriwinkle as he approached the thriving ecosystem of paper and office supplies that Dan called a desk.

Why did I just say that? How did I know his name? Why did I ask him how ‘we’ are we doing if I already know how I’m doing?!

“Tom, you’ve got to see this! It’s a video compilation of cats meowing but the sound of their meows is replaced by fart noises! Here, let me show you,” he said as he pulled out his phone and tapped the screen to play it.

For 5 minutes and 35 seconds, Perriwinkle and Dan watched a video compilation of cats meowing with the sound of their meows being replaced by fart noises (plus 2 minutes of a [RENT THIS SPOT FOR $25 A DAY, CONTACT DOGGLEDOO2334@GMAIL.COM FOR MORE INFO] advertisement in between the video).

That is actually pretty funny. Although, I’m not sure about the advertising choice in the middle of it. Pretty sure those guys were involved with the tragic death of that adorable baby panda from last week. Shame. Wait, why did I just have that thought?

Nearly bursting tears of laughter, Perriwinkle gasped his response to the video. “That’s incredible,” he managed to get out between chokes of air.

Do I ask him about my name?

Perriwinkle took another glance at Dan’s desk and then noticed a small patch of mushrooms sprouting out next to his garbage can.

Nah, he seems to be living in his own world.

As he tried to escape the desk, Dan brought him back into the conversation. “I know! It’s videos like these that make it soooo hard to finish my work. I mean how are pivot tables ever going to compete with cats farting from their mouths? Riddle me that Tom!”

Say a blanketed statement and walk away.

“Only in America, am I right?” Perriwinkle chuckled while beginning to walk away from the desk.

“Wait, Tom, where are you going? Your desk is over here.” Dan pointed at the desk lying perpendicular to his right.

Prominently displayed in bold letters, the nametag atop the desk read “TOM”. Sensing a horrifying identity crisis looming, Perriwinkle gravitated towards the desk chair to avoid collapsing.

As he desperately rubbed his eyes together like they were some ruby slippers, a thought came to him.

Check your wallet you putz.

He checked both pockets in his sweatpants with no luck, yet his hand still came up wielding a wallet after checking his empty left pocket.

He tried to keep himself composed while the blood in his ears rapidly throbbed against his eardrums. When he opened the wallet and saw his driver’s license, Perriwinkle jumped up from his chair and covered his mouth to muffle his child-like shriek.

“How could it say Tom? Why does it only say Tom?”

“Tommmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm-”

“Mmm, can you come to my office please?” asked his manager.

Perriwinkle found himself walking towards his manager’s office across the room.

I’ve about had it with this ‘Tom’ business. I know my name is Perriwinkle. But wait, how do I know that…?

When he entered the room, Perriwinkle’s finger instinctually initiated Angry-Finger-Pointing Phase 1®. Before Perriwinkle began shouting, the manager placed a phone in front of Perriwinkle’s face.

“Phone call, not sure who it is.” He kept his eyes fixated on his computer while he spoke and was persistently snapping bubbles of gum in his mouth.

Perriwinkle lowered his cocked finger and grabbed the telephone.

This day has not been fun.

“Hello?” Perriwinkle asked in lieu of addressing himself as either of the two names swirling around in his head.

The voice on the other end of the line, choppy and crackled as it were, came from what seemed to be an old woman.

“Is..this…Perriwinkle Funk..houser?” she asked in a weathered tone.

Perriwinkle’s eyes stretched outwards in shock. He took a deep breath and then looked over to his boss, who was still glued to his computer.

“Yes,” he trembled.

“Your mo..ther has pass…ed. Come to…The Funer..al..Home. Now.”

 

 

To be continued…

 

Subject #C7iffhanger

Successland

As Rick was cruising along the interstate, he utilized the practical driving habits he learned from school.

He checked his rearview mirror, both his side mirrors, and then emailed his boss an analysis of his driving efficiency from the month prior.

The road was brightly lit with neon billboards looming over both sides, helping guide Rick down the path he was always destined for. Each billboard had an arrow pointing in the same direction with luminous words of encouragement emboldened beneath them.

While Rick was passing under a billboard that displayed “FORM FOLLOWS FUNCTION” beneath its green arrow, he decided to pull out his map and take another gander at the paradise that was his intended destination, the glorious Successland.

Rick had always known he wanted to get to Successland, but he never knew exactly why.

Growing up, he heard tales from his older relatives and mentors that he was bound to be in Successland, so long as he stayed away from the frivolous distractions commonly found in art and the despicable practice of free will.

There was a moment as a child where Rick became interested in recreating what he saw in the form of drawings, but, fortunately for him and his chances of reaching Successland, this moment passed when his father replaced the pencil in his hand with an abacus.

While thinking about all the wonderful things he would do in Successland, Rick started to feel a slight pain arise in his chest. The pain began to increase while also spreading to other parts of his body, forcing Rick to turn on autopilot so he could take his hands off the wheel and remedy his condition.

Before he could grab the necessary pills to heal himself, the pain in his chest evolved into a spasm of extreme pain. Rick ended up slouching over in his car seat as he clutched his chest and stared out at the road ahead of him.

As he drew his final breaths, the car passed under another billboard that Rick was unable to see due to his health episode.

The saying under this particular billboard proudly stated, “WELCOME TO SUCCESSLAND!”

Subject #808&Heartbreak

Writer’s Block

Writer's Block Cover Photo

He didn’t even want to write, that much was clear.

The blank page on his laptop stared back at him menacingly as he attempted to source the first few words for his latest project.

Nothing.

There were times he couldn’t keep his fingers off the keyboard, and then there were times like these. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t find it in himself to finish the task he set out to conquer.

He stepped away from the desk and put his head in a book to try capturing some inspiration, but he couldn’t help feeling like all the words were extending an inky finger out from their pages in order to mock him and his creative infertility.

He threw the book off his balcony to teach the terrorizing little words a lesson, and to share his love of literature with the world below.

He would often spiral into a fit of existential anxiety whenever he couldn’t find it in himself to transfer his thoughts into sets of well-orchestrated sentences.

These were the same philosophical bouts that raged within him as he asked himself the questions that truly kept him up at night.

Questions such as; “Why was Justice League released in national theaters?” or “How did a room full of people approve of the script to Justice League?” and lastly “How did none of the actors in Justice League perform an act of Seppuku at the premiere?”

Eventually, the man went back to his desk to try tackling the creative spirit that had been eluding him all day.
After rubbing the temple of his head for three hours straight, he finally figured out the solution to his problem.

He would try again tomorrow.

Subject #I’llthinkofsomethinglater

Health Is Wealth

The pallid four walls were closing in on him.

As the pendulum of time swayed to and fro, materialized in the plastic tail of the cat clock bouncing from side to side, he thought about the severity of his situation.

He was in one of the examination rooms of Dr. Peckle, a place he had been in countless times before.

Yet, this time was completely different.

Though he understood the concept of never being able to dip your toes in the exact same piece of a river, the difference he felt from being in the room this time petrified him.

He took a step out of his body and walked up to the plaques covering the wall. The framed pieces of paper told observers that Dr. Peckle was highly skilled in his profession and they didn’t need to worry.

But he was worried. He worried about the sickness in him that had spread to every fiber of his being and caused his writing hand to go bad.

He blamed everyone else for his dire ailment. With their judgmental hacking coughs and patriarchal sprays of mucus, he was surprised anybody was healthy.

The people in his phone didn’t help either, causing him to compare all of his actions and putting his mind in disarray.

Just then, he was snapped back into his body as the man resting on the exam table next to him grabbed his attention. “Hey Doc, you gonna clean these pearly whites or what?”

Dr. Peckle apologized for his reverie before scraping the plaque from the man’s mouth and continuing on with the complacent laziness that now defined his life.

Subject #TI-84

Mind Cultural

Mind Cultural short story cover image

Walter was dying.

As he sat through the insufferable presentation from his new employer, he could feel every single molecule that was slowly dissolving within his cyclical body.

While the corporate automaton continued its spiel about employee benefits and their enthusiastic office culture, Walter glanced over at a poster on the wall.

The framed image was that of a cheetah stalking its prey behind some tall grass with the word “AMBITION” printed in bold white font above it.

Walter despised the putrid virtues of hunger and savagery commonly found in the corporate wasteland. It was the reason he quit his last job as an accountant for the local zoo.

He was also disgusted with the fact that most of these ideals were being forced upon by a small group of people in a large empty room.

Walter had never been one to fully conform. He would occasionally go out of his way to have a terrible day filled with misery and regret if enough people told him to have a good one.

He especially made that happen if those empty wishes of fortune came from anyone that he worked with. Walter swore he could see remnants of flesh stuck inside their toothy smiles.

To sum it up, Walter was a cynic who was completely against anything that had to do with synthetic culture, including the fabricated la-la-land filled with dual-monitor screens and a twisted affection for weather patterns.

He was under the assumption that the “office space play” was like a form of mind control, informing you of the most efficient ways to interact with others and how to properly digest information.

After he was dismissed for the day, Walter hurriedly trotted back to his car while some of the more sociable animals stayed back to mingle and pinpoint everyone else’s weaknesses.

As he was driving in his car, he eventually realized what day it was.

It was Friday.

Fridays were Slama-Dama-Ding-Dong-Dollar-Shots at Texas Roadhouse and his favorite radio station DJ Art Butterknife, of “101.8 The VCR”, would be handing out free t-shirts all night to everyone in the bar area, and asking those same people to donate to his radio station.

Walter turned on 101.8 just in time to hear the beginning of Art Butterknifes’ “Wacko Stories of The Day”, where Art would tear down people for the stupid things they did that landed them in the news.

At the end of each story, Art would play a classic soundbite of himself screaming “What a louse!” which helped catapult the segment into a timeless tradition of publicly shaming others for their human error.

When Walter arrived home, he quickly threw his employee manual on the kitchen table and ran to his bedroom to change for Slamma-Damma-Ding-Dong-Dollar-Shots at Texas Roadhouse with Art Butterknife.

With his “101.8 The VCR” rugby jersey adorned, Walter ran out of his house so he could be one of the first ones to get a t-shirt.

Walter absolutely loved Slamma-Damma-Ding-Dong-Dollar-Shots at Texas Roadhouse with Art Butterknife because of how many similar interests the two had.

Walter loved music and so did Slamma-Damma-Ding-Dong-Dollar-Shots at Texas Roadhouse with Art Butterknife.

Walter loved getting heavily intoxicated and Slamma-Damma-Ding-Dong-Dollar-Shots at Texas Roadhouse with Art Butterknife enjoyed encouraging him to do so.

Walter was not a fan of using a third example to prove a point about something and neither did Slamma-Damma-Ding-Dong-Dollar-Shots at Texas Roadhouse with Art Butterknife.

As he was driving into the parking lot, Walter could hear the jubilant energy of everyone inside screaming, “What a louse!”

When he finally made it to the packed bar area, Walter let out a long sigh of relief to be in a comfortable environment once again.

At that moment, Art Butterknife began to throw away his first batch of free t-shirts and Walter managed to grab one tossed high in the air.

When he turned over the white shirt to inspect it further, Walter noticed it had the word “HUSTLE” printed in bold white font above the image of a cheetah stalking its prey behind some tall grass.

He loved it.

Walter wore the shirt for the rest of the night as he partied on with Art Butterknife and the rest of the Texas Roadhouse crew, thinking about all the good ideals and virtues they brought into his life.

Walter was living.

Subject #Q-457

Excitable Girl

Excitable girl story image

As Raury drove away in his yellow polka-dotted PT cruiser, Ellie nearly disintegrated his rear view mirror with her heated stare. “He better not,” she thought to herself intensely.

She moved back inside the house and decided to eat a bushel of hot dogs to calm her nerves. Hot dogs always made her stomach grumble, but luckily for her women neither passed gas nor farted.

The only drawback to this blissful gift was that each morning all of her waste from the day prior was somehow magically transplanted into her bed and underwear.

It was the closest she ever came to having a waterbed.

Ellie stared down at her phone as she thought about the last few words exchanged with Raury. She then looked at the blank TV in the living room with a formidable gaze.

“He wouldn’t dare,” she gritted through her teeth.

When Ellie was finished devouring her food, she moved into the living room, curled up on the couch, and evaporated behind her phone screen as the TV could do nothing more but watch on like the cuckold it was.

After somewhere between minutes and hours, Ellie came across a peculiar social media post from one of Raury’s friends.

At first glance, the picture in the post seemed like any normal photo, with Raury and his friends drinking from goblets of blood as the shell of their sacrifice lied on the table behind them.

But with a closer glance, like a fourth or fifth glance, Ellie noticed something in the corner of the photo that caused her to whip her phone down to the floor.

The visceral rage brewing throughout her entire body was palpable. She knew what her next course of action would need to be.

Ellie jumped in her jalopy and punched it to Raurys’ friend’s house. As she made her way there, she decided to turn on the radio and landed on a national news broadcast.

There were only five reported mass shootings that night, with the daily average slightly improving to 4 per day.

Ellie knew it was a deplorable situation, but at least they weren’t getting bombed like those savages across the ocean.

Not to mention the drab ideals that they were getting bombed for, completely lacking in substance and pumpkin spiced lattes.

When Ellie made it to the house, she waited in her car for a few minutes to confirm with herself that it was the right thing to do.

Upon giving herself a thumbs up, Ellie walked into the house with her M60 and shot everyone inside, saving Raury for last.

“We agreed. Why did you do it?” Ellie asked as she pointed the barrel of her gun at his whimpering face.

“It was just too damn good. I’m so sorry sugarbearhoneydoowop,” Raury said as he pleaded for his life.

And with that, Ellie shot him in the face with an excessive amount of bullets and turned to leave the house.

But before she walked out the front door she went into the living room. As she turned the corner to see the screen of the TV hanging from the wall, she saw the reason for her justice.

That fucker had finished BoJack Horseman without her.

Subject #F23-064

Fine Print

It was probably a hot summer day when Macklin finally decided to do it.

He would create his very own website specifically tailored towards left-handed people. It was simple, put everything on the left side of the screen so lefties could easily hover their fingers over the words as they read.

Or so he thought.

When he cracked open his laptop, Macklin saw all the possibilities of his intended website as the loading bar remained stagnant before his very eyes.

The following morning, he awoke to his computer “turnt up and ready to function,” as you all would say.

After doing some light dusting around the mansion with it, Macklin popped his laptop atop his chest and started researching how to create a website.

He came across various sites that would help him, but one website, in particular, caught his attention because its homepage featured a yellow lab sitting in a cubicle while wearing a phone headset.

Now it should go without saying, Macklin…

That being unsaid, Macklin setup an account with the yellow lab website and bought his domain name, “Southpawisanothernameforlefthandedpeople.thewebsite.com.”

With his website name bought, Macklin started looking into the options of how he would build his website. As he read through the yellow lab’s customer support page, he realized that he needed to make another purchase in order to bring his horrendous foresight to the digital world.

Calling the butler for his card, Macklin ordered another package from the yellow lab to fulfill his digital dreams. But as he was about to press the button which had him agreeing to give away his social security card, he had to use the restroom.

Before he knew it, Macklin’s member was spitting incessantly all over the bathroom floor and shelf of the toilet. Once Macklin was finished, he returned back to his seat and proceeded with his purchase.

After skimming over the contract that detailed the rest of his life, Macklin clicked the button for the other package. Feeling accomplished for the night, he decided to reward himself with a nice meal he ended up grabbing from the nearby Chow House.

Stuffed from all of the roast beef in both his stomach and shoes, Macklin squished his way back over to the mansion.

Unable to control his excitement, Macklin decided to sit back down in front of his computer and begin laying out how his website would look. After debating with himself whether or not he wanted to consider yellow as one of the potential colors for his background, he passed out for the night.

Once he awoke, raising his head in front of the still open laptop, he figured that he needed a light mimosa to calm his head. All of the business with choosing prospective colors to paint his website’s background was causing him to lose his nerve.

Eventually, he decided he would take a break for a few years and give it a go when he was older and not as sharp. He figured at least when that time arose he wouldn’t be worried about what prospective colors he selected for his potential background.

After a week of sitting in a chair and then not sitting in a chair, Macklin received a knock at the door. When he went to the main entrance, the butler was already there addressing two suited men.

The men greeted themselves as members of the yellow lab company and said someone within the mansion had agreed to let go of all their planetary possessions in exchange for their website to be poorly managed through their company.

As Macklin glumly sat on the ground while the two men took away all of his things, he stared blankly at his laptop. When one of the men approached him for a signature to accept the relinquishment of his internal organs, Macklin pulled out a 4-color ballpoint pen and signed it with his right hand.

After submitting himself to the two men from the yellow lab company, Macklin was stowed away in the back of a truck with all of his things and his butler. While the truck drove down the road it ended up passing by the dumbfounded Chow family, unaware of who stole their dinner for the night.

Subject #J987-001