I was really bored last night, so I wrote a story. Enjoy...or don't. Whatever.
Unexpected Twists
by Steve Jacobs
"Life is full of unexpected twists," he thinks, as he fills his eighty-nine cent cup of hot chocolate at the gas station. Hours earlier, he could not have even imagined himself where he was right now: getting premium gas in a stolen car.
Earlier, he thought the same thing as he drove home from the tattoo parlor. That wasn't the unexpected twist; he worked at the tattoo parlor. He'd worked his way up from a simple office clerk to a full-time partner in the tattoo firm and, eventually, a place as one of the most respected rose artists in the eastern United States. People came from as far as six towns over to have him decorate their inner thighs with floral arrangements.
No, what was unexpected was the stranger on the side of the road. The stranger wearing nothing but an apron. The stranger he immediately recognized as the groundbreaking chef from his favorite theme restaurant. The stranger whose wild idea it was to decorate an eatery in the subtle style of the Yukon during the Gold Rush. The stranger no more. This was no stranger. This was Bernard.
Bernard, with no more than a simple box knot preventing his genitalia from highway exposure, was sitting on an old saucepan, attempting to hitch a ride. How could he pass up the opportunity? Could he say no to destiny, who had delivered him wisdom in the form of a doddering old chef with an extended thumb? The obvious answer was not coming to him, so "no" would have to suffice. He pulled over. Bernard simply nodded and flopped in.
No one talked. He figured that somehow, some way, just being in Bernard's presence made him smarter, more business savvy. He didn't care where they were going, or how long they would drive. All he cared about was being right there, right then. Suffice it to say, the ride was uneventful. Well, that is a lie. The ride was very eventful to a small housefly.
It had been born on a bright June day. Actually, it was that bright June day, about two hours earlier. Somehow, in that time, it had done what many flies before it had failed to do: find an open window. Through that open window it went, happier than it had ever been before in its exactly eighteen minutes of life. Outside was so free! So open! There was nothing to stop him from getting to that fresh, clean air that he'd heard so much about for the first half of his life. In reality, however, there was one thing that could stop him from receiving that fresh, clean air. And it did. And it left a disgusting smear.
The smear and loud "thwok" noise that accompanied it shook him out of his reverie. This was getting ridiculous. He was learning nothing, and was becoming quite bitter. How dare Bernard, who obviously has so much to give, stop up the tributaries that should be flowing from his knowledge pool? It was enough to make him want to scream in frustration. In fact, it did, and he did. And the scream fell on deaf ears. Bernard's deaf ears. These complemented Bernard's blind eyes and unscented nostrils. Bernard had died, peacefully, in his sleep. About forty-five minutes ago. Before he had even gotten in the car. Before he had even sat on the old saucepan. In fact, he had not even sat on the saucepan, but had been propped on it by a group of teenagers who were protesting the end of the Weekend at Bernie's movies.
The first thought in his head was that yeah, those movies should still be made. The plot lines might not have been well developed, but that's never stopped George Lucas before. Then, he remembered the utter seriousness of the dead man in his car. Then, he laughed at a witty piece of McCarthy's dialogue in the second Weekend at Bernie's flick. Then, he got serious again. He pulled over. He kicked out the body. He suppressed a sob at the applecart of wisdom that had been upset by Bernard's untimely passing. He lamented dropping out of his four-week correspondence class on neurosurgery, now knowing that it would indeed have come in handy.
When the idea first hit him, he shrugged it off. It was too ridiculous to even consider. But as all the other ideas he had mostly involved tiddly winks and French onion soup, he gave it a shot.
The car was not hard to steal. After all, it was his own car, and he had left the keys in the ignition when he pulled to the side of the road to kick Bernard out. He got in and drove off, leaving the body where it lied. It was, after all, a body, and of no more use to him than that chocolate that is wrapped in gold to look like coins. Seriously, that stuff is worthless. The chocolate part isn't even good, and it is too thin to fully appreciate the texture anyway.
All this talk of chocolate made him thirsty. He was rapidly approaching a gas station, advertising low, LOW prices on both nickel-plated spark plugs and hot chocolate. As he needed both of the above, he pulled in. Since he was saving so much on his hot chocolate, he decided to splurge and buy some premium gas. After all, stolen cars deserve the best.
As he stands in line to pay for his hot chocolate, spark plugs, and premium gas, he hears the familiar strands of a Chubby Checker song in the background. He sips his hot chocolate and strolls away, delighted.
Unexpected Twists
by Steve Jacobs
"Life is full of unexpected twists," he thinks, as he fills his eighty-nine cent cup of hot chocolate at the gas station. Hours earlier, he could not have even imagined himself where he was right now: getting premium gas in a stolen car.
Earlier, he thought the same thing as he drove home from the tattoo parlor. That wasn't the unexpected twist; he worked at the tattoo parlor. He'd worked his way up from a simple office clerk to a full-time partner in the tattoo firm and, eventually, a place as one of the most respected rose artists in the eastern United States. People came from as far as six towns over to have him decorate their inner thighs with floral arrangements.
No, what was unexpected was the stranger on the side of the road. The stranger wearing nothing but an apron. The stranger he immediately recognized as the groundbreaking chef from his favorite theme restaurant. The stranger whose wild idea it was to decorate an eatery in the subtle style of the Yukon during the Gold Rush. The stranger no more. This was no stranger. This was Bernard.
Bernard, with no more than a simple box knot preventing his genitalia from highway exposure, was sitting on an old saucepan, attempting to hitch a ride. How could he pass up the opportunity? Could he say no to destiny, who had delivered him wisdom in the form of a doddering old chef with an extended thumb? The obvious answer was not coming to him, so "no" would have to suffice. He pulled over. Bernard simply nodded and flopped in.
No one talked. He figured that somehow, some way, just being in Bernard's presence made him smarter, more business savvy. He didn't care where they were going, or how long they would drive. All he cared about was being right there, right then. Suffice it to say, the ride was uneventful. Well, that is a lie. The ride was very eventful to a small housefly.
It had been born on a bright June day. Actually, it was that bright June day, about two hours earlier. Somehow, in that time, it had done what many flies before it had failed to do: find an open window. Through that open window it went, happier than it had ever been before in its exactly eighteen minutes of life. Outside was so free! So open! There was nothing to stop him from getting to that fresh, clean air that he'd heard so much about for the first half of his life. In reality, however, there was one thing that could stop him from receiving that fresh, clean air. And it did. And it left a disgusting smear.
The smear and loud "thwok" noise that accompanied it shook him out of his reverie. This was getting ridiculous. He was learning nothing, and was becoming quite bitter. How dare Bernard, who obviously has so much to give, stop up the tributaries that should be flowing from his knowledge pool? It was enough to make him want to scream in frustration. In fact, it did, and he did. And the scream fell on deaf ears. Bernard's deaf ears. These complemented Bernard's blind eyes and unscented nostrils. Bernard had died, peacefully, in his sleep. About forty-five minutes ago. Before he had even gotten in the car. Before he had even sat on the old saucepan. In fact, he had not even sat on the saucepan, but had been propped on it by a group of teenagers who were protesting the end of the Weekend at Bernie's movies.
The first thought in his head was that yeah, those movies should still be made. The plot lines might not have been well developed, but that's never stopped George Lucas before. Then, he remembered the utter seriousness of the dead man in his car. Then, he laughed at a witty piece of McCarthy's dialogue in the second Weekend at Bernie's flick. Then, he got serious again. He pulled over. He kicked out the body. He suppressed a sob at the applecart of wisdom that had been upset by Bernard's untimely passing. He lamented dropping out of his four-week correspondence class on neurosurgery, now knowing that it would indeed have come in handy.
When the idea first hit him, he shrugged it off. It was too ridiculous to even consider. But as all the other ideas he had mostly involved tiddly winks and French onion soup, he gave it a shot.
The car was not hard to steal. After all, it was his own car, and he had left the keys in the ignition when he pulled to the side of the road to kick Bernard out. He got in and drove off, leaving the body where it lied. It was, after all, a body, and of no more use to him than that chocolate that is wrapped in gold to look like coins. Seriously, that stuff is worthless. The chocolate part isn't even good, and it is too thin to fully appreciate the texture anyway.
All this talk of chocolate made him thirsty. He was rapidly approaching a gas station, advertising low, LOW prices on both nickel-plated spark plugs and hot chocolate. As he needed both of the above, he pulled in. Since he was saving so much on his hot chocolate, he decided to splurge and buy some premium gas. After all, stolen cars deserve the best.
As he stands in line to pay for his hot chocolate, spark plugs, and premium gas, he hears the familiar strands of a Chubby Checker song in the background. He sips his hot chocolate and strolls away, delighted.
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